+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER ONE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb (NMCS025@MAINE)
Well, here is issue number one of FSFnet, and I hope
you all enjoy it. Since the first mailing, I have had
a great deal of positive response, and about half a
dozen submissions. In this issue you will find a
scattering of reviews, an amusing story I whipped off,
and something I'd like to continue in future issues, a
featured author. I would like to thank those who have
contributed, and Lord Hagen for designing the header.
A reminder to those who did not respond to the first
mailing: this is the last issue you will receive unless
I hear from you that you wish to remain on the mailing
list. Also, people whose ids have changed over the
semester break, please notify me. A reminder, FSFnet
will come out as often as I have enough material for
it. This means I need submissions and ideas and
feedback to make this zine what it ought to be. Please
try to submit something, and try to spread the word
about FSFnet to people you think might be interested.
Anyone interested in a game of Diplomacy over
Bitnet, please contact me. I will be running a game
which will begin rather soon. Maps and rules will be
sent out.
Well, enough of the editorial, on to the real stuff.
Read on!
+ Orny +
Have you ever heard of the micro-games Wizard and
Melee? If so, then you may know about the way they do
ready-made modules.
I am working on a labyrinth for FSFnet, but am
limited by disk space at the present time. I have
requested additional space, and if I get it, I will be
able to send the dungeon by electronic mail.
It would be geared to people making choices, but
not to dice rolls. In any case, as soon as it is
finished, I will be willing to send it to anyone who
sends me a self-addressed, stamped envelope.
Lord Hagen Silverskull (VM00D4 @ WVNVM)
DUNE
(This review is directed at people who have read and
liked the book)
The movie Dune opened last Friday and I saw it
over the weekend, I never believed that Frank
Herbert's novel could be faithfully reproduced in a
two hour movie, and I was glad to see I was right about
something this year.
There were some minor flaws in the movie such as
the 'Weirding devices' that House Atreides had
developed that were used as the secret weapon by the
Atreides instead of the Fremen, in the book Duke Leto
is planning even before leaveing Caladan to use the
Fremen against the Imperial Sardaukar.
When they decided to make the movie they could
have decided to be true to the book or to really cut
the book to make the screenplay work but they tried
to do both and the result is a mediocre movie from a
great book that would have made an excellent mini-
series.
The most drastic change from the book was they
didn't take the time and give us the history of
the feud between the Atreides and the Harkonnens,
but they still had to get the audience to hate them so
they made the Baron into a diseased sadist, instead of
just leaving him as a mean, ruthless, power hungry,
aristocrat.
For all the Police fans out there Sting played
Feyd-Rautha almost exactly as i pictured him in the
book however he should have had more dialogue with his
uncle the Baron.
Mike Foley (ACPS1060 @ RYERSON)
Ornathor's Saga
Once upon a time there lived an errant knight, and
his daring life of gallantry and chivalry had won him a
considerable reputation among those realms he had
journeyed in. He was tall and dark, with deep,
piercing eyes, keen as the sword which hung on his
baldric. His armor and weapons were all of silver, and
his huge stallion was a tarnished grey. On his shield
was his coat: suspended in a black night sky, a
constellation of five stars in a rough diamond shape.
It was the most prominent group of stars in the sky -
the Southern Cross.
The name of the realm was Bukharim; it was a
pleasing and comfortable kingdom of green, rolling
hills and cool evergreen forests. The silver knight
was on an errand to Kulac, the central keep and city of
Bukharim. The world was strangely quiet as he
approached the city on the plains. As he passed the
iron gates, he saw a guard poised to strike a wench
with the back of his mailed fist. The knight yelled
out, a strange sound in the quiet of the city; neither
figure moved. He examined them, and saw that they
stood as still as if time itself had stopped for them.
He led his horse along the street, and he saw many
frozen figures. A guillotine hung impossibly, having
travelled halfway down its lethal course. An irate-
looking peasant woman held a young urchin by the hair.
A man and a woman were climbing the stairs to the
second story of a brothel. Three veterans toasted one
another. Perhaps they were recently reunited, and
surprised to see one another still alive. Perhaps on
the morning they were to be off to the next battle.
None could ever read their faces.
He came to the keep, and entered. The great
reception hall was a scene from some warped painter's
fantasies; the lord of Bukharim pointed an accusing
finger at a figure who seemingly was no longer there.
On a stone platform lay a woman, the most beautiful
woman the knight had ever seen. She was, without
doubt, the lord's daughter, no less than a princess.
As the knight approached his vision, he heard a
sound... this woman was not captured in timelessness,
but merely sleeping. He could not help but feast upon
the sight of her, her beautiful golden hair, her fair
skin, her perfect lips. His body longed to hold her
and his mind reeled with the desire to kiss her. He
fell to his knees, knowing that a single kiss could
restore normality to this ghost realm, that he would
marry the princess, and, in time, become lord of
Bukharim. He recalled the guard, poised to strike the
wench, the guillotine about to fall, the woman berating
the urchin, the man and the whore, the battle-weary
veterans. He silently cried as he lay down beside the
princess and was overcome by sleep, never to be seen
again beyond the dream-gates of Ilek-vad, upon which he
had stumbled in conscious dream.
Orny (NMCS025 @ MAINE)
Brisingamen, by Diana Paxson
This book came out recently in a mass-market
paperback. The cover says: "The magic is back. But can
California handle it?".
The heroine, Karen Ingold, is a grad student in
comparative literature. The book begins with her lover
of two years, Roger, leaving to go back to his wife,
and telling her in the morning as he leaves, claiming
he didn't want to spoil their last night together.
Karen goes in to her job in the comp lit office. A
package arrives from Sweden for her boss, Walter. It
proves to contain a wedding chest and pieces of a
necklace, which we know (from a prologue) goes back to
the old Norse religion and had to be hidden away from
the Christians. The book depicts Karen's gradually
learning to deal with the fact that the necklace does
have power, enabling her to invoke the Goddess Freyja
(whether she wants to or not), while putting her
personal life and career back together.
The people in it are real, as is the magic. There
are references to the Neopagan community, in particular
a (presumably invented) group that works in the Norse
tradition, and Paxson seems to be deriving her theories
of magic from that source as much as from the old
myths. She is conscious of how much we don't know about
Norse religion, and uses that instead of trying to hide
it.
Vicki (ROSVICL @ YALEVMX)
Featured Author: M.A.R. BARKER
Muhammad Abd-al-Rahman Barker, creator of the world
of Tekumel and author of the Man of Gold, is currently
a full professor in the Department of South and
Southwestern Asian Studies at the University of
Minnesota Minneapolis/St. Paul. He is best known for
his work with Tekumel, particularly the roleplaying
game the Empire of the Petal Throne. Recently revived
interest in the wonder of Tekumel has spurred a new
roleplaying game, Swords and Glory, and the full-length
novel the Man of Gold, with more novels to follow.
Tekumel first was introduced to the general public
in the form of the Empire of the Petal Throne
roleplaying game, published by TSR in 1974. It was
expensive for it's time, and was considered the
'Cadillac' of RPGs during its time. It was heavily
influenced by the developing Dungeons and Dragons RPG.
Today EPT is a collectors item.
Swords and Glory/EPT is a brand new roleplaying
game, also by Barker, also set in Tekumel, an alien
world of magic and wonder. Published by Gamescience,
the S&G/EPT will contain three volumes, each costing
about $25; the first two volumes are already in print
and available. Tekumel Games, Inc. (1278 Selby Ave,
St. Paul, MN 55104) also publishes several Tekumel-
related products, including an official ongoing history
of the world.
However, the great amount of attention the games
have received obscures the real reason for Tekumel's
existance. Says Barker: 'The idea of Tekumel came
first, plus a desire to write fistion about it. EPT
was secondary.' The Man of Gold, published by DAW, is
an excellent look into the violent nature of life in
Tekumel's fantastically alien environment, and an
excellent book. It is the tale of a young man who
suddenly finds himself confronted with being the focus
of the attention of the powers of the Tsolyani Empire.
The book is very interesting and well-written and
enjoyable, although the conclusion is very weak and
leaves one wondering exactly what has gone on.
Barker is continuing his writing. A second Tekumel
novel, Flamesong, is already in DAW's hands, and a
further work has been begun. An excellent interview
with Barker, discussing the games, his books, and
himself can be found in the Space Gamer number 71.
Tekumel is a place that once visited, cannot be
forgotten. It's compelling alienness intrigues and
captivates us, and I am looking forward to the
publication of further Tekumel-related novels.
Orny (NMCS025 @ MAINE)
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER TWO
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb (NMCS025@MAINE)
CONTENTS
Editorial Propaganda... in the Air!
1984-Orwellian Reflections A poem by T.P. Milley
Letters by Victor and Guy...
Featured Author: Larry Niven Orny's still at it!
Close Encounter... Story by Alex Williams
EDITORIAL
Well, folks, hello, and welcome to issue two of FSFnet! Just
two or three little things to mention for now...
First of all, FSFnet NEEDS SUBMISSIONS!!! This zine can only
survive if YOU contribute. I have had a number of people say that
they were interested in contributing, but very few have come
through. I realize it is difficult and time-consuming, but I am
sure you all would like to continue receiving FSFnet. Well, I need
your help. I can't do it all myself, although sometimes I have to
try...
I would also like to welcome all our new members. The mailing
list is currently running about 70 to 75. Please continue to
spread the word, and get more people to subscribe! At least it's
no strain on the wallet!
For those people who are interested in a game of Diplomacy over
the Net, I have already begun game 1, and, if sufficient people are
interested, I will run a second game. Contact me if you are
interested.
Well, enough of the propaganda. I hope you enjoy this issue,
although it is perhaps not as good as the last (since I have had
only one submission since issue 1 came out). Next issue will
feature my discussion of the works of the fantasy author Tanith
Lee, and whatever else anyone sends me. Please submit articles!
Until soon...
-Orny (NMCS025 @ MAINE)
The Naive worry that the world will end in Fire,
a nuclear holocaust.
--How lost we are!
I do not worry, because I already know
that it will end in Ice.
Many times I've felt
death's unmistakeable chill
glissando up my spine.
--How fortunate are we
to be the children of a new era!
The Electronic Age, conceived
through the toil of unremembered men;
who sacrificed their lives for us
for this.
This!
(let us end this talk of discontent;
there is no time for emotion,
We must hurry on!)
II
'The Church'
We are at war again.
"With whom?" you ask.
"The Communists, of course." he replies.
But where are they, these "Communists?"
So, "They live in Russia." you say.
I think not.
Have you ever seen one?
"No." you say.
Then how do you know that they are worse: more evil,
than you or I?
Think there.
There, they are at war with "the Americans."
Think that they have ever seen one?
Again, I think not.
We have as little to fear them for
as they have for fearing us.
So, why do we fear them?
Are they not men?
You say we fear them because they
will take the land we love by force,
with all their missiles, planes and bombs.
Open your eyes.
They won't take this land by force,
for they have taken it already.
Who are "they" anyway?
Look in the mirror, comrade.
They are we.
Let's change the flag tomorrow.
I think red with a golden reaper
would look sharp.
III
'The Craftsman'
(How wonderful it must have been,
to live in the age of patient craftsmen.
Men took pride in the work of their hands,
and women, wanting their place,
stood close behind their men.)
How sluggish they make me feel as they rush by.
I am a craftsman born late--
they leave me behind
in a cloud of hydrocarbon.
Orny, Was quite pleased to receive first edition of FSFNET
today. I enjoyed the stories, and am interested in seeing how this
piece of electronic imagination fares. I hope with this, you will
start a "Readers' Responses" section.
First a commendation: I am most impressed with the level of
literacy in FSFNET. Having been a bitnet user for some time, I
have seen some of the worst molestations committed on the English
language by computer users. I am relieved to see that there is
someone out there who CAN spell. Next, please tell us what format
you would like items submitted in. Allow me to suggest that you
extend you line length a bit to, say 65 or 70 characters to
conserve file and spool area.
I am looking forward to reading and contributing to future
issues. On the whole, I'd say it's a brilliant idea!
-Victor
Orny,
got V1N1 of FSFnet. Thanks. I like the idea. send more. How
about a play-by-net Traveller game? If asked nicely, I could find
the time to referee it (sometime during the weekends). If any
Inspirations hit me, I'll send them to you.
PPS - a LOC (what's a zine without LOC's?) on Mike Foley's Dune
review:
I only have 2 comments to add to Mike's excellent review of
Dune:
1) While the movie is a reasonably good adaptation of the book,
it really falls apart in a couple of places. One is when Paul and
Jessica first meet the Fremen. The scene in the cave bears no
resemblance to what happened in the book.
2) Probably due to the restricted time available in a
screenplay, a major amount of the intrigue so central to the book
was lost. Although the first half of the movie is provide this
feeling of "plots within plots within plots", I felt that it
failed. Due to the small amount of time available, not enough
background could be presented for a viewer who hadn't read the
book, and by taking time to present background, even more of the
intrigue is lost for the person who has read the book.
Unfortunately, the movie found that unhappy medium where the
beginner is lost, and the omissions become obvious to the
knowledgeable viewer.
Other than those two gripes, I think that the film was
enjoyable, and a good (but not perfect) adaptation of the book.
-Guy Garnett (GG822C @ GWUVM)
Featured Author: LARRY NIVEN
Most famous for his Known Space series, Larry Niven is a
classical science fiction author who sometimes dabbles in the arena
of fantasy fiction. Some of his best works are from his earlier
Known Space volumes, which include Neutron Star, Protector, the
Long ARM of Gil Hamilton, and many more, culminating in perhaps his
best known works, Ringworld, and the Ringworld Engineers. These
books began as unrelated science fiction stories, but later came to
represent different tales within the same sphere of space.
Ringworld is a major work of science fiction, and represents
Niven's break from traditional science fiction to modern writing.
The Ringworld Engineers attempts to solve a number of questions
left unresolved in the first book. These are all excellent science
fiction works, and well worth the effort to read.
Niven has also written some books which are not directly
connected with Known Space. In conjunction with Jerry Pournelle,
Niven has written Lucifer's Hammer, a tale set in the near future,
and the Mote in Gods Eye, which I consider his best work to date.
It is a fascinating tale of man's first contact with aliens, and is
an engrossing and captivating work. Niven has also written works
of pure fantasy, namely his 'Magic' series, which, as examples of
fantasy literature, are neither outstanding nor unworthy. His most
recent work, the Integral Trees, has just come out in paperback, as
has another new book, Limits.
Also of interest to Niven fans might be the Ringworld
roleplaying game, which was released recently by the Chaosium game
company. As a sourcebook for the Ringworld, it is excellent,
although it requires a very strong gamemaster, since the rules are
a little sketchy. The Ringworld Companion, a supplement to this
game, has also been put on the market.
-Orny (NMCS025 @ MAINE)
Close Encounter
"I think we should be heading back to the station now," grumbled
Seargent White,"it's getting mighty cold now." He slapped his
ungloved hands against his chest, trying vainly to keep them warm
in this sub zero night. His exhaled breath turned into a thick
white cloud and drifted away, as if to underline his statement.
"Yea. It's almost eleven now, anyway.", replied Officer Bennet.
He opened the door to the squad car and climbed into the drivers
seat. The other door opened as John White climbed in beside him.
With a reluctant grumble the engine turned over and the old car
started to move down the dark road.
After driving past several miles of uneventful pine forest, John
White cried "Stop! Stop the car!". With squeal of rubber against
tar the car slowed to a halt. "What the hell is that up there, by
the side of the road?" asked John.
Peering through the gloom Sam saw what appeared to be a man, on
the tall side standing by the side of the road about twenty yards
along the road staring at the woods in back of him. The strangest
thing it was he seemed to be naked.
"Either that guy is drunk, crazy, or an eskimo!" said Sam.
"All the same, we should bring him in to the station, at least
to get him warm."
"You stay here in the car, and I'll go get him."
"Maybe we should both get him, he could get rowdy." said John
"Come on."
The doors to the squad car creaked open, as Sam and John stepped
out of the car. The walked slowly toward the figure in the road.
When they were eight feet away from the man, they stopped. The
shadowy figure turned and silently faced them.
"Easy now, we don't want to panic him." whispered Sam.
John slowly took the flashlight from his belt and shone it at
the figure. The bright circle of light landed on the figures neck
and face, revealing a human head. Around the neck was a small black
box, with two small lights on it, silently winking.
"Greetings. I am Varrk, emissary from the planet Davron, of the
star Sirus 5" said the figure in slow measured tones.
"He's fucking dunk!" hissed Sam
"I have been sent here to establish peaceful relations between
our two cultures." said Varrk.
"Yea. You just come with us, we have a nice warm cell for you to
get all sobered up. Now come along." said Sam
"No I must let the mother ship know of my contact." replied
Varrk
"We'll let you do that later. Now come with us."
"No, I must message my mother ship."
"You'll not do that 'till tomorrow" said Sam.
Then he and John grabbed each of Varrk's arms and tried to drag
him towards the waiting squad car. With a surprising display of
strength, Varrk throws both John and Sam into the dirt along the
side of the road. He then swiftly walks toward the dark reaches of
the forest.
"Wing him in the leg, Sam!! He'll get away!" yelled John
With a quick explosion of fire Sam's gun spits a bullet strait
towards Varrk's right leg. There is no reaction and Varrk
disappears into the woods.
"You idiot! You missed him, at point blank, and he got away!"
screamed John.
"I could've sworn I hit him. I could've sworn I hit him in the
leg" Sam quietly said.
"We might as well go back to the car and report him, somebody's
bound to find him sooner or later." said John.
They both got up off of the cold ground and headed back toward
the squad car. About halfway there, John stopped.
"What was that?" asked John
"What was what?" said Sam
"That sound, a low humming."
"Probably a bullfrog, lets get back to the car, it's damn cold
out here"
"No, it isn't a frog, its getting louder. Do you hear it now?"
asked John.
Before Sam could reply a light bathed the top of the pine trees
to there north, and as slowly as a balloon, a long silver cylinder
rose above the tree tops. It hovered there for a moment and
streaked into the sky to the north with a loud whining. Within
several seconds a warm blew past John and Sam, standing stunned at
the side of the road.
"What in God's good name was that?" whispered Sam.
"I have no idea, but maybe Varrk was telling the truth."
-Alex Williams
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb (NMCS025@MAINE)
Well, folks, welcome to issue three of FSFnet! After last issue's slump,
we have got some real treats for you with some excellent fiction. I must
thank Jim Owens (J1O @ PSUVM) for most of this issue - his loyalty and
productiveness... well... if only all readers were so avid and so
talented...
I must again remind you that FSFnet is a fanzine, and that I must have
submissions for it to continue. I know that many of you have commented
about sending things in, but haven't found the time. Please do... FSFnet
needs your support to continue.
Also, it has come to my attention that many people are having problems
reading FSFnet onto their disks. VAX users want DISK DUMP CLASS N, IBM
users want SENDFILE, and so forth. I would like to hear from people as to
which format they consider most desirable. And thank you for putting up
with any inconvenience due to this problem, past or future.
One more thing before I send you off into space... Issue four will be a
special tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, famous author of horror, particularly the
Cthulhu mythos. If you have anything that might be acceptable, please send
it in! As always, letters are welcome, as is almost anything I can get my
hands on!
But I grow long-winded, and I would not presume to detract from the two
wonderful pieces of fiction in this issue, so READ ON!
Orny
The asteroid flashed past, turning slowly. He could feel the power in the
twin-spool behind him. He knew, however, that there were more powerful
engines in the warship behind him.
"Easy run." Elein had said as she pulled him to the booth. "Just lure the
ships out to the Belt and they pay our way back!"
The Paixites needed ships, he knew. But they needed the men even more.
The Paixites were not wimps. They held more power than the rest of space
combined. They just weren't takers. They were more likely to give you a
planet than to try to take yours. They had a fantastic, outgoing way about
them, an attitude unmatched for niceness. Without that, mankind would have
been in trouble. Some, however, saw niceness as weakness. Ever since they
had appeared in human space they had been the target of many a siege, and
were under one now by a group whose sole interest in life was the acqusition
of other people's goods. The pay was good, however, and the the assignment
easy. Besides, he had wanted to fly the VAS Butterfly for many months now.
Ever since it came out all he had heard was how fast and maneuverable it
was. And here was the chance. So he signed up, took off within the hour, and
now here they were.
"Greg, you got ..."
The transmission was cut off as he reacted, swinging around and heading
for a nearby point of light he knew to be a large asteroid. As he did, he
caught sight of the capture ship swinging around in a larger arc in an
attempt to keep up with him. The men flying it had one concern: the
electronics in the tail of his little ship. If they could get his ship in
range of their tractor field...
Even as he watched, he saw one of the large vessels slide up behind
Elein's ship. Even as he yelled for her to evade, she hit her emergency
boosters. They pushed her forward - just far enough for the nose of the
Butterfly to escape. But the rest of the ship was still in the capture jaws,
which slammed shut, neatly severing the cockpit from the rest of the craft.
The life compartment, with Elein in it, drifted off to one side, like the
head of a fish out of a shark's mouth.
He had little time to reflect on how long Elein could survive on the
little bit of emergency air provided in the cockpit, because even as he dove
around the asteroid it's surface came alive with sparks and flashes of
light. It only took a moment to realize that he was being fired upon.
Apparently the pirates had caught all of the other nine craft, and had
decided that this last one wasn't worth the effort, and that now all they
had to do was eliminate it. He felt like screaming. Instead he hit the
emergency thrusters and rounded the asteroid marginally ahead of the
pursuit.
He flashed past a pinnacle, and then straightened out his flight, hoping
to loose his followers. Then, to his surprise, he saw, just ahead, th
Paixian transport ship, it's landing bay wide open, it's landing field
activated and waiting. All he had to do was reach it, as fast as possible,
and he was safe. No weapon could reach him, they would cancel his immense
velocity, they would protect him. A little further...
500 meters out the plasma bolt from the pirate ship caught him in the
engine. It vaporized it's way through the composite hull, and slammed into
the ship's skeleton. Even as it ignited the fuel, the shock wave reached the
cockpit and split the canopy. Milliseconds before the heat from the
exploding engines could reach him, Greg was blasted out into vacuum by the
exploding ejection seat bolts.
"Greg..."
He opened his eyes. The light was bright. Heaven?
"Greg..."
He turned his head. If this was heaven they sure had modern landing bays.
He was hanging upside down in what could only be a Paixian landing field,
staring at a pair of feet that could only belong to one person.
"Elein, why aren't I dead?"
"You blew it right in front of the landing field. You passed out on the
last 100 meters through the void before you hit the field."
Greg rolled to his feet. Standing behind Elein at a respectable distance
was the Paixian who had hired them.
"Congratulations Greg. You survived the longest. In fact, you are the
first person in history ever to bring any part of his ship to the delivery
point."
Greg followed the pointed finger. There lay the assembled wreckage of his
ship.
"Am I to take it you can salvage that?"
"No, of course not. Why would we want to? It's you we really wanted after
all, someone who would fulfill his contract without turning back, regardless
of what gauntlet they had to run."
"And I did it, eh?" There was little left of the ship but shards.
"Yes. After all, it's the attitude we want, not merely the product."
Jim Owens
Tanith Lee is one of the prolific female FSF authors of this age. The
London librarian's books are in the vanguard of todays literature. Although
she has a devoted following of readers, her books are not the kind often
found on neighborhood bookstore shelves.
Her style is very unique and mature, and, if I may venture a subjective
opinion, among the best writings I have ever read. Lee deals effectively
with fantasy, love, horror, ethics, and mystery as well as any author. Her
twisting the expected and the traditional can be seen in many of her works.
Her Flat Earth series, including "Death's Master," "Delusion's Master,"
"Night's Master,"and, soon to be released, "Delirium's Mistress" are
excellent works of wonder and mystery. Her Birthgrave series, "the
Birthgrave," "Vazkor, Son of Vazkor," and "Quest for the White Witch" are
masterworks of science fiction, combining sexual sophistication, literary
maturity, and unique insights into morality.
"Sung in Shadow" retells a famous Shakespearean tale, with Lee's
typically atypical twists of plot, as "Red as Blood" retells many well-known
childrens yarns. But these works are not for the young at all! Perhaps
Lee's master work, "Cyrion," is an enthralling, captivating work, following
episodes in the life of a wandering legend. Her tales are never entirely
what is expected, and they provide fresh, mature, perceptive insights into
the realm of wonder.
Although most of Lee's works are published by David Wollheim's DAW Books,
Lee has also written two books for the new Tempo MagicQuest series, "the
Dragon Hoard" and "East of Midnight." The former is a wondrous tale of
fantasy, more simplistic than her other works. The latter is typical Lee,
full of unexpected twists and deep thought.
The future seems to hold many new developments for Tanith Lee. Scheduled
for publication by DAW are: "Delirium's Mistress" and "the Gods are
Thirsty," and recently published are "East of Midnight" and "the Gorgon."
For those who are interested, there is an excellent interview with the
author in Heavy Metal magazine (Nov 84-v8n8).
Orny
It was a night just like any other night on Amrif, nothing at all out of
the ordinary. The sky was dark white, and the stars were all glimmering
bright black. High pressure systems over this solitary ocean were the norm
for this desert world. Since the desert wasn't conducive to normal life
forms, the people of this third planet in the Narret System lived in giant
floating cities, and satellite suburbias connected by an intricate system of
channelways.
Samo Ht was skimming along in his Hydrocar, thinking about the lecture he
was going to give to his class, when Cyri, a familiar cons tellation caught
his eye. "Oh Cyri, when woulds't thou lower thy head. When woulds't thou
drop thy weary DASER, and end thy warring ways." He quoted the famous line
from Steadywound the ancient poet. Whatever did Bill Steadywound see in a
constellation as old as Cyri? He asked himself True, there was something
romantic about the old asterism, but the legend about how Cyri had cut down
400 desert creatures with a single charge fro m his Dark Amplification by
Stimulated Emission of Radiation gun gave him shudders. "How disgustingly
advanced" Samo thought to himself. "Oh, well, that's what the future's
about, as for now: Backward and downward."
Samo Ht glanced out the window of his Hydrocar again. This time
something else caught his eye. "Ah ha, the Dusty Lane!" Samo exclaimed "My,
it's exceptionally clear tonight. Humh, I guess I'll have to close the
observatory before class tonight..."
"...so class we have an entire system here: the nucleons, which consist
of the neuterons and the negatrons and orbiting shells of particles called
positrons. Remember that the atom in its resting state is always balanced
in charge, and the total number of positrons always equals the number of
negatrons. Any questions? Yes, Lexia?"
"Dr. Ht, what happens to the atom if it gets excited? Will the positrons
go flying off and leave the atom negatively charged?"
"That's exactly right Lexia. The resulting charged atom is called an
ion. You'll learn more about ions in the next lower course."
Just then the green light on the Vidcom came on.
"Well class it looks like your luck ran out again. Class dismissed."
Samo knew that when the green light came on, it could mean only one of
two things, and both of them spelled trouble. The light meant that there
was an incoming wave transmission, and the transmissions always came from
one of two sources. Either it was some stupid-ass general, a clerk who
messed up and shattered an important document, (since this was a desert
world, all records were kept on diamond etched glass plates) usually some of
his inreproducible research, or it was a lower ranking private ordering him
on an important mission. Fortunately the former didn't happen too often,
and something told him that this time it would definitely be the latter.
It was only a matter of millicentons before his suspicions were
confirmed, and the image of the planet's commanding officer, Private Stark,
formed from a solitary centered dot, to a horizontal line, to a circle, and
finally a tubular hologram on the Vidcom. Samo saluted.
"No time for formalities, Sgt. Ht." the commander bluntly began. "There's
an inter-planetary crisis, involving all nine planets of The Narret System.
It deals with Trivia-Antitrivia reactions,and we need you to be one of our
foremost experts on the subject. There's an emergency
conference being held on the Planet Sunaru in one On. We're calling in
our lowest minds on this one. Your orders are to report to the Central Sea
on Sunaru in exactly 95 centons. Any questions?"
"Yes, does this at all concern our counter-planet sir?"
"Unfortunately, yes it does. They're playing God again. And you know as
well as I do what that could mean. If that's all, you better get going' you
now have 94.5 centons."
"Yes, that's all. Thank you sir."
"Thank ME? Bad luck to YOU, Sergeant. Stark out."
"Well, no time to close the observatory now. Got to get going."
Mari A. Paulson
From WHITEJL%DUVM.BITNET@PUCC.PRINCETON.EDU Thu May 13 14:59:59 1993
Received: from pucc.Princeton.EDU by eff.org with SMTP id AA10483
(5.65c/IDA-1.4.4/pen-ident for ); Thu, 13 May 1993 14:59:56 -0400
Message-Id: <199305131859.AA10483@eff.org>
Received: from PUCC.PRINCETON.EDU by pucc.Princeton.EDU (IBM VM SMTP V2R2)
with BSMTP id 6317; Thu, 13 May 93 14:58:47 EDT
Received: from DUVM.OCS.DREXEL.EDU (NJE origin MAILER@DUVM) by PUCC.PRINCETON.EDU (LMail V1.1d/1.7f) with BSMTP id 0160; Thu, 13 May 1993 14:58:47 -0400
Received: from DUVM (WHITEJL) by DUVM.OCS.DREXEL.EDU (Mailer R2.08 ptf039) with
BSMTP id 7028; Thu, 13 May 93 14:59:38 EDT
Date: Thu, 13 May 93 14:59:32 EDT
From: SilentElf
Subject: FSFNet Vol01N3
To: RITA@EFF.ORG
Status: OR
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb (NMCS025@MAINE)
Well, folks, welcome to issue three of FSFnet! After last issue's slump,
we have got some real treats for you with some excellent fiction. I must
thank Jim Owens (J1O @ PSUVM) for most of this issue - his loyalty and
productiveness... well... if only all readers were so avid and so
talented...
I must again remind you that FSFnet is a fanzine, and that I must have
submissions for it to continue. I know that many of you have commented
about sending things in, but haven't found the time. Please do... FSFnet
needs your support to continue.
Also, it has come to my attention that many people are having problems
reading FSFnet onto their disks. VAX users want DISK DUMP CLASS N, IBM
users want SENDFILE, and so forth. I would like to hear from people as to
which format they consider most desirable. And thank you for putting up
with any inconvenience due to this problem, past or future.
One more thing before I send you off into space... Issue four will be a
special tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, famous author of horror, particularly the
Cthulhu mythos. If you have anything that might be acceptable, please send
it in! As always, letters are welcome, as is almost anything I can get my
hands on!
But I grow long-winded, and I would not presume to detract from the two
wonderful pieces of fiction in this issue, so READ ON!
Orny
The asteroid flashed past, turning slowly. He could feel the power in the
twin-spool behind him. He knew, however, that there were more powerful
engines in the warship behind him.
"Easy run." Elein had said as she pulled him to the booth. "Just lure the
ships out to the Belt and they pay our way back!"
The Paixites needed ships, he knew. But they needed the men even more.
The Paixites were not wimps. They held more power than the rest of space
combined. They just weren't takers. They were more likely to give you a
planet than to try to take yours. They had a fantastic, outgoing way about
them, an attitude unmatched for niceness. Without that, mankind would have
been in trouble. Some, however, saw niceness as weakness. Ever since they
had appeared in human space they had been the target of many a siege, and
were under one now by a group whose sole interest in life was the acqusition
of other people's goods. The pay was good, however, and the the assignment
easy. Besides, he had wanted to fly the VAS Butterfly for many months now.
Ever since it came out all he had heard was how fast and maneuverable it
was. And here was the chance. So he signed up, took off within the hour, and
now here they were.
"Greg, you got ..."
The transmission was cut off as he reacted, swinging around and heading
for a nearby point of light he knew to be a large asteroid. As he did, he
caught sight of the capture ship swinging around in a larger arc in an
attempt to keep up with him. The men flying it had one concern: the
electronics in the tail of his little ship. If they could get his ship in
range of their tractor field...
Even as he watched, he saw one of the large vessels slide up behind
Elein's ship. Even as he yelled for her to evade, she hit her emergency
boosters. They pushed her forward - just far enough for the nose of the
Butterfly to escape. But the rest of the ship was still in the capture jaws,
which slammed shut, neatly severing the cockpit from the rest of the craft.
The life compartment, with Elein in it, drifted off to one side, like the
head of a fish out of a shark's mouth.
He had little time to reflect on how long Elein could survive on the
little bit of emergency air provided in the cockpit, because even as he dove
around the asteroid it's surface came alive with sparks and flashes of
light. It only took a moment to realize that he was being fired upon.
Apparently the pirates had caught all of the other nine craft, and had
decided that this last one wasn't worth the effort, and that now all they
had to do was eliminate it. He felt like screaming. Instead he hit the
emergency thrusters and rounded the asteroid marginally ahead of the
pursuit.
He flashed past a pinnacle, and then straightened out his flight, hoping
to loose his followers. Then, to his surprise, he saw, just ahead, th
Paixian transport ship, it's landing bay wide open, it's landing field
activated and waiting. All he had to do was reach it, as fast as possible,
and he was safe. No weapon could reach him, they would cancel his immense
velocity, they would protect him. A little further...
500 meters out the plasma bolt from the pirate ship caught him in the
engine. It vaporized it's way through the composite hull, and slammed into
the ship's skeleton. Even as it ignited the fuel, the shock wave reached the
cockpit and split the canopy. Milliseconds before the heat from the
exploding engines could reach him, Greg was blasted out into vacuum by the
exploding ejection seat bolts.
"Greg..."
He opened his eyes. The light was bright. Heaven?
"Greg..."
He turned his head. If this was heaven they sure had modern landing bays.
He was hanging upside down in what could only be a Paixian landing field,
staring at a pair of feet that could only belong to one person.
"Elein, why aren't I dead?"
"You blew it right in front of the landing field. You passed out on the
last 100 meters through the void before you hit the field."
Greg rolled to his feet. Standing behind Elein at a respectable distance
was the Paixian who had hired them.
"Congratulations Greg. You survived the longest. In fact, you are the
first person in history ever to bring any part of his ship to the delivery
point."
Greg followed the pointed finger. There lay the assembled wreckage of his
ship.
"Am I to take it you can salvage that?"
"No, of course not. Why would we want to? It's you we really wanted after
all, someone who would fulfill his contract without turning back, regardless
of what gauntlet they had to run."
"And I did it, eh?" There was little left of the ship but shards.
"Yes. After all, it's the attitude we want, not merely the product."
Jim Owens
Tanith Lee is one of the prolific female FSF authors of this age. The
London librarian's books are in the vanguard of todays literature. Although
she has a devoted following of readers, her books are not the kind often
found on neighborhood bookstore shelves.
Her style is very unique and mature, and, if I may venture a subjective
opinion, among the best writings I have ever read. Lee deals effectively
with fantasy, love, horror, ethics, and mystery as well as any author. Her
twisting the expected and the traditional can be seen in many of her works.
Her Flat Earth series, including "Death's Master," "Delusion's Master,"
"Night's Master,"and, soon to be released, "Delirium's Mistress" are
excellent works of wonder and mystery. Her Birthgrave series, "the
Birthgrave," "Vazkor, Son of Vazkor," and "Quest for the White Witch" are
masterworks of science fiction, combining sexual sophistication, literary
maturity, and unique insights into morality.
"Sung in Shadow" retells a famous Shakespearean tale, with Lee's
typically atypical twists of plot, as "Red as Blood" retells many well-known
childrens yarns. But these works are not for the young at all! Perhaps
Lee's master work, "Cyrion," is an enthralling, captivating work, following
episodes in the life of a wandering legend. Her tales are never entirely
what is expected, and they provide fresh, mature, perceptive insights into
the realm of wonder.
Although most of Lee's works are published by David Wollheim's DAW Books,
Lee has also written two books for the new Tempo MagicQuest series, "the
Dragon Hoard" and "East of Midnight." The former is a wondrous tale of
fantasy, more simplistic than her other works. The latter is typical Lee,
full of unexpected twists and deep thought.
The future seems to hold many new developments for Tanith Lee. Scheduled
for publication by DAW are: "Delirium's Mistress" and "the Gods are
Thirsty," and recently published are "East of Midnight" and "the Gorgon."
For those who are interested, there is an excellent interview with the
author in Heavy Metal magazine (Nov 84-v8n8).
Orny
It was a night just like any other night on Amrif, nothing at all out of
the ordinary. The sky was dark white, and the stars were all glimmering
bright black. High pressure systems over this solitary ocean were the norm
for this desert world. Since the desert wasn't conducive to normal life
forms, the people of this third planet in the Narret System lived in giant
floating cities, and satellite suburbias connected by an intricate system of
channelways.
Samo Ht was skimming along in his Hydrocar, thinking about the lecture he
was going to give to his class, when Cyri, a familiar cons tellation caught
his eye. "Oh Cyri, when woulds't thou lower thy head. When woulds't thou
drop thy weary DASER, and end thy warring ways." He quoted the famous line
from Steadywound the ancient poet. Whatever did Bill Steadywound see in a
constellation as old as Cyri? He asked himself True, there was something
romantic about the old asterism, but the legend about how Cyri had cut down
400 desert creatures with a single charge fro m his Dark Amplification by
Stimulated Emission of Radiation gun gave him shudders. "How disgustingly
advanced" Samo thought to himself. "Oh, well, that's what the future's
about, as for now: Backward and downward."
Samo Ht glanced out the window of his Hydrocar again. This time
something else caught his eye. "Ah ha, the Dusty Lane!" Samo exclaimed "My,
it's exceptionally clear tonight. Humh, I guess I'll have to close the
observatory before class tonight..."
"...so class we have an entire system here: the nucleons, which consist
of the neuterons and the negatrons and orbiting shells of particles called
positrons. Remember that the atom in its resting state is always balanced
in charge, and the total number of positrons always equals the number of
negatrons. Any questions? Yes, Lexia?"
"Dr. Ht, what happens to the atom if it gets excited? Will the positrons
go flying off and leave the atom negatively charged?"
"That's exactly right Lexia. The resulting charged atom is called an
ion. You'll learn more about ions in the next lower course."
Just then the green light on the Vidcom came on.
"Well class it looks like your luck ran out again. Class dismissed."
Samo knew that when the green light came on, it could mean only one of
two things, and both of them spelled trouble. The light meant that there
was an incoming wave transmission, and the transmissions always came from
one of two sources. Either it was some stupid-ass general, a clerk who
messed up and shattered an important document, (since this was a desert
world, all records were kept on diamond etched glass plates) usually some of
his inreproducible research, or it was a lower ranking private ordering him
on an important mission. Fortunately the former didn't happen too often,
and something told him that this time it would definitely be the latter.
It was only a matter of millicentons before his suspicions were
confirmed, and the image of the planet's commanding officer, Private Stark,
formed from a solitary centered dot, to a horizontal line, to a circle, and
finally a tubular hologram on the Vidcom. Samo saluted.
"No time for formalities, Sgt. Ht." the commander bluntly began. "There's
an inter-planetary crisis, involving all nine planets of The Narret System.
It deals with Trivia-Antitrivia reactions,and we need you to be one of our
foremost experts on the subject. There's an emergency
conference being held on the Planet Sunaru in one On. We're calling in
our lowest minds on this one. Your orders are to report to the Central Sea
on Sunaru in exactly 95 centons. Any questions?"
"Yes, does this at all concern our counter-planet sir?"
"Unfortunately, yes it does. They're playing God again. And you know as
well as I do what that could mean. If that's all, you better get going' you
now have 94.5 centons."
"Yes, that's all. Thank you sir."
"Thank ME? Bad luck to YOU, Sergeant. Stark out."
"Well, no time to close the observatory now. Got to get going."
Mari A. Paulson
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER FOUR
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb (NMCS025@MAINE)
CONTENTS
Editorinomican Mad Orny al-Hazred
Featured Author: H.P. LOVECRAFT Orny
Call of Cthulhu Game Review Mike H.
The Book HPL
The Cthulhu Mythos Merlin
Editorial
Greetings, and welcome to the Howard Phillips Lovecraft special issue
of FSFnet. I must apologize for the lateness of this issue, but, as
many of you know already, I am in the middle of spending three weeks in
wonderful (?) New York City. I hope that you will find the issue worth
the wait. Future issues should be forthcoming within a few weeks,
depending on how things go here.
Submissions and other response can be sent to my Maine account, and
will receive proper attention, usually within one to five days. If you
have something that you would like to bring to my attention, I will be
using TIGQC489 @ CUNYVM during my stay in NYC, which should last until
the 20th of March.
I would like to thank the contributors for their help, and I would
like to apologize to Eric (@ UCONN) for having to ask him to withdraw a
fine submission, due to length. Merlin's overview of the Mythos is an
excellent article, and Mike's CoC game review is lucid. I hope that
Lovecraft fans enjoy this issue, although there is not enough room to do
his work justice, and I hope that those of you who have not been
introduced to HPL find this issue enjoyable and interesting.
Issue five should be following this issue rather rapidly, and will
definitely appear in your reader queues before the end of the month. It
will contain sequels to stories that appeared in issue three, and, of
course, another featured author... I really ought to start thinking
about who...
Well, you know how it is. Enjoy, and spread the word!
Orny
Featured Author: HOWARD PHILLIPS LOVECRAFT
H.P. Lovecraft has become one of the most well-known of the early
writers in the pulp science fiction/horror field. His life was very
controversial, and there has been passionate debate over how much of
Lovecraft's work was influenced by his early experiences. However, his
writings remain popular works of horror, and HPL has had many followers
and imitators.
Lovecraft was born and lived all his life in Providence, Rhode
Island. His father was placed in a mental home when HPL was three, and
died of paresis when Howard was 8. His mother, from all accounts, was
psychoneurotic, eventually being institutionalized as well. HPL was
brought up in a very Victorian household, and therefore his emotions and
imagination were suppressed. He was taught to read early, and his
childhood was filled with writing experiments. However, Howard was a
sickly child, and was not exposed to the world outside his home. He was
made very aware of his own shortcomings, with possible psychological
implications.
HPL carried on a number of active correspondances with younger
authors once he had broken into the pulp market, and many people feel
that if he had spent less time on his letters he might have been more
productive; however, for Lovecraft, these epistles were necessary to
help him cope with his incredibly low self-image, to help him deal with
his loneliness, and to gather news and ideas from the vast world outside
his experience.
Lovecraft's style was heavily influenced by Poe, Arthur Machen, and
Lord Dunsany, although HPL also filtered his ideas through his life-
experience. For example, Lovecraft used very little dialogue, for he
did not have a great deal of experience in conversation. Most of his
tales are located in New England, a fact which adds believability to his
tales, but also becomes redundant. HPL distinctly avoided sex in his
stories, and any women who appear are as nonfeminine as his mother.
One of Lovecraft's favorite writing mechanisms is the use of an
ancient, forbidden tome, usually the Necronomicon, a book originally of
his invention, though several hoaxes have been perpetrated. This may
have been borrowed from Poe's "ancient sources" or Robert W. Chambers'
"King in Yellow", but no fantastic book has ever been portrayed as
effectively as Lovecraft's. More recent authors have copied the tactic
with marginal success: Robert E. Howard's "Unaussprechlichen Kulten"
and Robert Bloch's "De Vermis Mysteriis" being examples.
Lovecraft's works are many and varied, beginning with his earlier
tales, to be found in Del Rey's recent reprints "The Tomb" and "The Doom
that Came to Sarnath" and culminating in his popular Cthulhu Mythos
cycle. Most of his work is in the form of short stories, although he
also wrote poetry which is generally considered marginal. In his own
eyes, his best work was the story "Colour out of Space", followed by
"The Music of Eric Zann". I tend to agree with Lovecraft on this, but
would also suggest "The Tomb", "The Doom that Came to Sarnath", "The
Call of Cthulhu", and the Charles Dexter Ward novella. The Del Rey
reprints are all excellent collections, and many other works are
available, if, like some of HPL's characters, one enjoys delving for
arcane and wond'rous tomes of ancient lore.
H.P. Lovecraft is a classic horror author and a must for horror fans;
however, it must be remembered that he wrote his works for pulp
magazines who were not interested in master works of style. He wrote to
earn his living, which was, at best, meagre, and his unique psychology
and situation left many gaps in his writing style. However, he was also
a master at certain techniques that budding authors should note, and
that horror fans would appreciate.
Orny
Call of Cthulhu GAME REVIEW
Fans of H.P Lovecraft's infamous 'Cthulhu mythos' stories and general
horror buffs now have a role playing game designed just for them:
Chaosium's fantasy role playing game 'Call of Cthulhu'. If you are
bored by standard role playing games, tired of the old 'kill monster,
take its treasure, go on to next monster...' limbo inherent in many
fantasy games, or if you just want to try something different, Call of
Cthulhu may be worth looking into. Based entirely on the world of H.P.
Lovecraft, where mankind is beset by immortal elder gods of
mindshattering power and insane human sorcerers bent on the enslavement
of humanity, this game offers adventurers a different approach to
gaming; Horror based role playing. In this world, players fight
sorcerers and evil humans, lose sanity, and run from monsters a lot.
The enjoyment of it is derived not from successfully killing the enemy,
but from successfully running away before it eats your face off. Combat
plays a small part in this game, which instead centers around detective
work coupled with a general atmosphere of Gothic horror and impending
doom.
The gaming system is remarkably simple, and anyone familiar with
Chaosium's gaming system will find Call to be similar to other Chaosium
games, such as Elfquest, Stormbringer, and Elric. Hit points are
computed in a simple (some might say primitive) way by averaging size
and con. Sanity is a statistic unique to this game, and is used more
often than hit points, with a character being shocked into madness by
'unspeakably blasphemous horrors', as H.P.L. might have put it. The
overall game system is more logic oriented than most others, with a list
of abilities and areas of knowledge somewhat similar to Top Secret, only
more diverse and lengthy. Combat is simple, with parries, critical
hits, and a percentage chance to hit any given target. (Those who value
greater realism in a gaming system may wish to use a system of
'difficulty factors' like that used in the James Bond role playing
game. Assigning a constant chance to hit any target at any range with a
given weapon is not exactly realistic.) However, a clever gamemaster can
make up for any deficiencies in the game system and find a right blend
of realism and simplicity.
Modules for Call are not easy to find, being less numerous than those
of many other games. Most modules published by Chaosium are in the form
of long campaigns, with six or more modules usually linked by a central
theme, and flowing nicely from one to the other. These modules cost
approximately ten dollars, and are well worth it since they provide many
hours of game time. The modules state that they will last for sixty
hours, but a gamemaster well versed in Lovecraft's literature can
stretch it out to at least a hundred hours. That comes to a dime an
hour, a much better deal than most other games can offer. Some titles
to look for are: Shadows of Yog Sothoth, Masks of Nyarlathotep, The
Asylum, The Fungi from Yuggoth, Death in Dunwich and others.
The game itself may prove difficult to find; almost as difficult as
locating books by H.P.L. The easiest way to get a copy of the game if no
local store has it is to order it direct from Chaosium; there are
advertisements in Dragon magazine with the address. Modules will
probably be similar to track down, but an order form is enclosed with
the game, so that is no big problem.
(Note: try to get the second edition of the game. The first is flawed
in several ways, which are corrected in the second edition. Corrections
for the first edition were published as part some modules, including
'Shadows of Yog Sothoth'.)
Mike H.
THE BOOK
My memories are very confused. There is even much doubt as to where
they begin; for at times I feel appalling vistas of years stretching
behind me, while at other times it seems as if the present moment were
an isolated point in a grey, formless infinity. I am not even certain
how I am communicating this message. While I know I am speaking, I have
a vague impression that some strange and perhaps terrible mediation will
be needed to bear what I say to the points where I wish to be heard. My
identity, too, is bewilderingly cloudy. I seem to have suffered a great
shock - perhaps from some utterly monstrous outgrowth of my cycles of
unique, incredible experience.
These cycles of experience, of course, all stem from that worm-
riddled book. I remember when I found it - in a dimly lighted place
near the black, oily river where the mists always swirl. That place was
very old, and the ceiling-high shelves full of rotting volumes reached
back endlessly through windowless inner rooms and alcoves. There were,
besides, great formless heaps of books on the floor and in crude bins;
and it was in one of these heaps that I found the thing. I never
learned its title, for the early pages were missing; but it fell open
toward the end and gave me a glimpse of something which sent my senses
reeling.
There was a formula - a sort of list of things to say and do - which
I recognized as something black and forbidden; something which I had
read of before in furtive paragraphs of mixed abhorrence and fascination
penned by those strange ancient delvers into the universe's guarded
secrets whose decaying texts I loved to absorb. It was a key - a guide
- to certain gateways and transitions of which mystics have dreamed and
whispered since the race was young, and which lead to freedoms and
discoveries beyond the three dimensions and realms of life and matter
that we know. Not for centuries had any man recalled its vital
substance or known where to find it, but this book was very old indeed.
No printing-press, but the hand of some half-crazed monk, had traced
these ominous Latin phrases in unicals of awesome antiquity.
I remember how the old man leered and tittered, and made a curious
sign with his hand when I bore it away. He had refused to take pay for
it, and only long afterward did I guess why. As I hurried home through
those narrow, winding, mist-cloaked waterfront streets I had a frightful
impression of being stealthily followed by softly padding feet. The
centuried, tottering houses on both sides seemed alive with a fresh and
morbid malignity - as if some hitherto closed channel of evil
understanding had abruptly been opened. I felt that those walls and
overhanging gables of mildewed brick and fungoid plaster and timber -
with eye-like, diamond-paned windows that leered - could hardly desist
from advancing and crushing me... yet I had read only the least fragment
of that blasphemous rune before closing the book and bringing it away.
I remember how I read the book at last - white-faced, and locked in
the attic room that I had long devoted to strange searchings. The great
house was very still, for I had not gone up till after midnight. I
think I had a family then - though the details are very uncertain - and
I know there were many servants. Just what the year was, I cannot say;
for since then I have known many ages and dimensions, and have had all
my notions of time dissolved and refashioned. It was by the light of
candles that I read - I recall the relentless dripping of the wax - and
there were chimes that came every now and then from distant belfries. I
seemed to keep track of those chimes with a peculiar intentness, as if I
feared to hear some very remote, intruding note among them.
Then came the first scratching and fumbling at the dormer window that
looked out high above the other roofs of the city. It came as I droned
aloud the ninth verse of that primal lay, and I knew amidst my shudders
what it meant. For he who passes the gateways always wins a shadow, and
never again can he be alone. I had evoked - and the book was indeed all
I had suspected. That night I passed the gateway to a vortex of twisted
time and vision, and when morning found me in the attic room I saw in
the walls and shelves fittings that which I had never seen before.
Nor could I ever see the world as I had known it. Mixed with the
present scene was always a little of the past and a little of the
future, and every once-familiar object loomed alien in the new
perspective brought by my widened sight. From then on I walked in a
fantastic dream of unknown and half-known shapes; and with each new
gateway crossed, the less plainly could I recognize the things of the
narrow sphere to which I had so long been bound. What I saw about me,
none else saw; and I grew doubly silent and aloof lest I be thought mad.
Dogs had a fear of me, for they felt the outside shadow which never left
my side. But still I read more - in hidden, forgotten books and scrolls
to which my new vision led me - and pushed through fresh gateways of
space and being and life-patterns toward the core of the unknown cosmos.
I remember the night I made the five concentric circles of fire on
the floor, and stood in the innermost one chanting that monstrous litany
the messenger from Tartary had brought. The walls melted away, and I
was swept by a black wind through gulfs of fathomless grey with the
needle-like pinnacle of unknown mountains miles below me. After a while
there was utter blackness, and then the light of myriad stars forming
strange, alien constellations. Finally I saw a green-litten plain far
below me, and discerned on it the twisted towers of a city built in no
fashion I had ever known or read of or dreamed of. As I floated closer
to that city I saw a great square building of stone in an open space,
and felt a hideous fear clutching at me. I screamed and struggled, and
after a blankness was again in my attic room sprawled flat over the five
concentric circles on the floor. In that night's wandering there was no
more of strangeness than in many a former night's wandering; but there
was more of terror because I knew I was closer to those outside gulfs
and worlds than I had ever been before. Thereafter I was more cautious
with my incantations, for I had no wish to be cut off from my body and
from the earth in unknown abysses whence I could never return...
Howard Phillips Lovecraft
THE CTHULHU MYTHOS
The Cthulhu mythos developed from Howard Phillips Lovecraft's
experimentation in the media of modern horror in the magazine Weird
Tales in the 1920's and 30's. The Mythos embodies a pantheon of evil
beings from other space-time continua, many of whom possess divine
powers. A fictitious history of the interactions of these beings and
their alien worshipers on this world and other distant planets comprises
the core of the Lovecraft mythology. The underlying theme of these
stories lies in the attempts of these beings to achieve physical
manifestation on Earth and the methods that foolish mortals utilize in
this goal.
Because the idea of a common mythos of places, races, and deities
appears only gradually in HPL's work, no real attempt was made to make
the cycle logically coherent until 1926 with the publication of "The
Call of Cthulhu". Further, HPL encouraged other authors, particularly
Clark Ashton Smith, Robert Bloch, August Derleth, Robert E. Howard, and
Frank Belknap Long, to enlarge upon the Mythos in their own fiction.
Following HPL's death in 1937 a host of other writers have made notable
contributions to the Cthulhu cycle. Thus, stories throughout the mythos
are often contradictory or overlapping, making a glossary of the
elements of the cycle difficult. For reasons of simplicity and space,
only those places, races, and deities which were mentioned in at least
two of HPL's own stories are included.
DEITIES:
The Elder Gods - Elsewhere referred to as the "Great Ones" and the
"Other Gods". They are a group of semi-benevolent deities which
struggle against the "Old Ones". HPL left this group greatly
undeveloped and unexplored with the exception of the deity Nodens, "Lord
of the Abyss", who aids the protagonist of "The Dream-Quest of Unknown
Kadath".
The Old Ones - The group of evil deities whose intrigues are the
subject of most of the cycle's stories. These deities often have both
incorporal and corporal forms. The primary goal of these beings was to
extend their influence into the modern world. All of the following gods
are considered "Old Ones":
Yog-Sothoth - The "All-in-One and the One-in-All of limitless being
and self - the last, utter sweep which has no confines and which
outreaches fancy and mathematics alike", Yog-Sothoth resembles an evil
Brahma, the Hindu god of the unification of all existence. He co-rules
the pantheon of Old Ones with Azathoth. In spite of his seemingly
indescribable form, we are told in "The Dunwich Horror" that he
resembles "an octopus, centipede, spider kind o' thing" which is capable
of physical manifestation on earth.
Azathoth - "The blind idiot god who sprawls at the center of ultimate
chaos", "circled by his flopping horde of mindless amorphous dancers,
and lulled by the thin monotonous piping of a demonic flute held in
nameless paws." He, "the Lord of all Things", and his antithesis Yog-
Sothoth the "One-in-All", comprise a dialectical universe. Though he
never visits our dimension, he is seen by many astral voyagers in the
Mythos.
Other Gods - Often confused with the Elder Ones because of their
name, these are the direct servants of Azathoth: the dancers and
players. They often visit the highest peaks of the world as in "The
Other Gods".
Shub-Niggurath - "The Goat with a Thousand Young". Direct servant to
both Yog-Sothoth and Azathoth, he is the Pan-like fertility god.
Nyarlathotep - "Soul and messenger" of the Other Gods, Nyarlathotep
is represented in two forms: As "crawling Chaos" and as "The Black
Man". In the later form he is instrumental in organizing the ceremonies
of witchcraft which allow the aliens to visit this dimension.
Cthulhu - A semi-divine being who is referred to as a priest of the
gods. He leads an aquatic race called the Deep Ones who descended to
earth from the stars. He has been imprisoned in R'lyeh by the Elder
Gods.
RACES:
The Deep Ones - A species of aquatic humanoids which inhabit the deep
ocean trenches of the earth. Most attend their god Cthulhu who is
imprisoned on the island of R'lyeh, though some have chosen to settle
near coastal fishing villages as demonstrated in "The Shadow Over
Innsmouth". They seem to be governed by Dagon who is the immediate
subordinate of Cthulhu.
The Old Ones of Leng - Ancient race of aliens who inhabited
magnificent cities near the southern pole. They made a treaty with the
Deep Ones to insure that each remains in their respective realms. They
are said to tentacled, barrel-shaped beings with starfish-like heads and
membranous wings.
The Shoggoths - A race of giant, amorphous creatures developed by the
Old Ones of Leng to be used as manual laborers. They eventually
rebelled and destroyed their masters' civilization.
Mi-Go - A race of crab-like beings which were identified with the
Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas by HPL.
PLACES:
R'lyeh - The sunken island of Cthulhu which periodically rises from
the depths at different points in the oceans of the world. It is the
city of the Deep Ones and prison of their god.
The Plateau of Leng - The home of the Old Ones located in Antartica.
"At the Mountain of Madness" gives the best description of this place.
Kadath - The home of the Elder Gods which lies in the "frozen waste"
beyond Leng. It is the goal of all who seek truth and enlightenment.
Arkham, Massachusetts - A fictitious town which was the setting of
many of HPL's stories. It is patterned after Salem and is the site of
the Miskatonic University, whose library contains one of the forbidden
copies of Abdul Alhazred's Necronomicon.
Innsmouth, Massachusetts - Another fictitious village created by HPL.
This town is located near the site of an off-shore settlement of Deep
Ones, with whom the town has forbidden commerce. The town is modeled
after Newburyport, Massachusetts.
Per Adonai Eloim, Adenali Jehova, Adonai Sabaoth Metraton....
Joseph (Merlin) Curwen
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER FIVE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
Editorial
Well, here at last is issue 5 of FSFnet. As the summer approaches, a
number of userids will be changing, and many numbers which are sent FSFnet
will be eliminated. I would ask people who will not be around to remember to
cancel their subscription by sending me a mail file or message. FSFnet will
continue to be printed throughout the summer, and I would like those people
who will be staying throughout the summer to spread the word to others who
might be interested in the zine, as many of our subscribers and contributors
will be leaving for summer break.
Both subscriptions and submissions have slowed to a trickle. I must remind
you that FSFnet is more your venture than mine, and that it must receive
submissions to continue to work. Please spread the word and encourage others
to join the membership list, and try to get something written. I know that
many of you are writers of quality...
The CSNEWS server at MAINE now supports a bulletin board service which many
users might be interested in investigating. For general information on CSNEWS
send it a message HELP. For info on the bulletin board service, say SENDME
CSBB HELPNET. Files you might wish to request can be requested by sending
SENDME COMICS CSNOTICE, SENDME STARTREK CSNOTICE, and/or SENDME SCIFI
CSNOTICE. Maine users, of course, can get these files by sharing CSNEWS' 192
disk.
Well, enjoy, and spread the word. And remember, contributions are needed!
Orny
The Narret Chronicles
Book The Tenth
"With all undue disrespect to His Recruitship, what in the heavens are we
all doing here?"
"Yes, Yes, what ARE we all doing here?"
"Rudemen, rudemen please, come to chaos will you." The voice of the
commander of the Narret System's Interplanetary Society boomed over the
loudspeakers. "You've all been called here out of an emergency situation
which has occured on our counter-planet in the Terran System. But after I get
to that, it is unimportant that you remain ignorant of the other Scientists
here. Most of them you already won't know, as their infamity follows them .
Some of them may be familiar, so allow me to introduce them to you now. To my
far right is Cpl. Dr. Zark, an ignorant on counter-universal structure and
geography; to my right Cpl. Stado, an ignorant on daytime observation of
white-holes; to my far left Sgt. Dr. Guilp, an ignorant on the construction
of darktron-wave warp engines and their incorporation into spacecraft; and
finally my left hand man on matters of this kind, Sgt. Dr. Samo Ht, the
system's foremost ignorant on Trivia-Antitrivia reactions. Sergeant Dr. Ht
comes to us from the Institute for Regressive Presearch on Amrif."
"Fine, now that we're all ignorant of one another, lets get up to the
matter at hand." Said Dr. Zark, wishing to get the blue tape over with.
"Alright, rudemen, may I detract your attention to the Vidscreen you see
before you. What you are seeing is the product of a bottom secret trans-
counter-universal communications presearch project that NSIS has been working
on for the last several Losar Cycles. The images which you see are
computational composite images of the most probable counter-universal sources
for white-body radiation in our universe. Note specifically the chronograph
in the lower left corner of the Vidscreen. The sources change from one low
energy body to another, and the fluctuation between bodies has an upper limit
of no longer than one On. Now note the following: For the last ten Ons, the
source has remained constant. An image of it should come up right about..."
"Oh no." blurted Zark
"Just beautiful!" exclaimed Ht
"Sorry rudemen, but the image has been confirmed and I assure you there has
been no mistake. The white-body radiation increase in our universe over the
last ten Ons has been caused by none other than the build-up and launch
readying of enough nuclear weapons on Planet Earth to blow the whole Terran
System to the sixth physical dimension."
"(Screens down) That's why you men are here. Clearly something must be
done to make them realize that if they succeed in blowing themselves off the
dimension scan, they will also be blowing us off it with them. Somehow,
someway, before this conference is adjourned we must devise a method for
letting the Earthlings know that they are not alone."
"Yes but how?" Queried Guilp "The humans can't receive darktron wave
communications any more than we can receive their photon laser
communications."
"Yes, and if they could, it would take trillions of Losar Cycles just to
get there," added Stado.
"Actually, it would take quintillions, 4.57289 quintillions to be a little
less exact." said Samo. "I was afraid it would come to this, but then again,
it always does."
"What in the heavens are you talking about Ht?" asked Zark. "You sound as
if you've been there before."
"Commander with your permission I would like to raise the security
clearance of this meeting to the bottom-most level."
"What is he talking about Commander Valtrep? I thought that an Omega Class
security clearance WAS the bottom-most class." said Stado.
"It is, for Sunaru. But not for NSIS. There are several lower classes in
NSIS." The commander explained. "In anticipation of your request, I took the
liberty of having that level security check done, merely a formality, of
course, and you all passed. Here are your Class Omega-Alpha:Alpha-Omega
security passes. Dr. Ht would you please be mean enough to explain the future
of these security level passes?"
"Sure," said Ht. "This is not the first time the Humans have tried to do
away with themselves..."
Mari A. Paulson
Featured Author: JAMES KAHN
James Kahn is neither prolific nor well-known in the vast fantasy market.
He has written a mystery novel named "Diagnosis: Murder", and has contributed
to other works as well. His works of fantasy are limited to a series known as
the "New World Trilogy". The first volume is entitled "World Enough, and
Time" and is a unique and provocative work set in a more-than-half mythical
future California. It is an excellent tale, and Kahn has succeeded in
bringing a refreshing newness to old mythical creatures and the typical post-
cataclysm Earth stories.
The second book of the trilogy, "Time's Dark Laughter", is a much more
mature book, with more ominous plots and more involved implications. However,
the main characters remain the same, and their honesty and goodness do not
change. In "World Enough", the characters are interested only in saving
themselves, while in "Laughter" they are forced into action to stop a threat
to the entire area. The third book, to the best of my knowledge, has not been
released as yet, but, believe me, I'm looking!
Kahn's style is very good. The books are excellent for readers who enjoy
light (but far from mindless or dull) reading. The books are exceptional in
style, as the author brings a new richness to old beasts and situations. Kahn
is an excellent fantasist, and these books are well worth the effort to find.
Which brings up a point. They may very well prove hard to find. Published
by Del Rey in 1980 and 1982, respectively, there are few copies left on
bookstore shelves, and Kahn's relative anonymity has hampered volume sales.
The books are, nonetheless, excellent works, and are well worth the effort to
find. Perhaps when the third volume is issued there will be a renewed
interest, and old volumes will again be stocked.
Orny
Backing
Greg looked out on the massed faces. The road was rough, and the sheet
metal cart he was in bounced and boomed over the potholes. He was often thrown
against the sides of the cart, scraping his hands. He would have sat down, but
then he wouldn't have been able to avoid the occasional thrown rock. The scene
looked so much like the old movies he had seen of the French Revolution that
had he not been the one in the tumbrel, he would have laughed.
He felt little anxiety over his impending execution. He had been expecting
it for some time. In fact, it was almost a relief, after the days of running
and hiding, constantly fearing that someone would turn him in. He felt more
sorrow for his young companions in the cart. They stood back to back, their
arms tied together. They were close friends in life, and their captors had
decided that they would be close friends in death. One of them turned to him.
"You'd think they were angry with us or something." He had to raise his
voice to be heard over the angry sound of the mob.
"Yeah, like we'd been trying to change their whole way of life or
something."
Greg's reply rang true. Even as he said it, Greg thought back to that day
when he had first set eyes on this planet.
"What!?" He couldn't believe his ears. "I'm going to tell them what!?"
"You must tell them that they had better straighten up their act, because
the new world order is coming, and it won't tolerate the way they are
presently living."
"You can't be serious. What is this new world order business? And who's
going to be running it?"
"We are."
Greg couldn't believe his ears. He had been sent to the planet by the
Paixians, a group that had suddenly appeared on the galactic scene only five
years previously, with technology and power that put everything else in space
to shame. Yet they had consistently used their power only to help other
planets, to build the new, to repair the old, to help where help was needed.
True, they weren't a real major force in the economic market, nor did they
enter into any alliances, but they were always on the minds of the major
policy makers, as an unknown and possibly influential factor. But in no way
did they fit the description of empire builders.
Yet, here was one of them,telling him in all seriousness that he had to
tell the people of this planet,of all planets, that they were about to become
someone else's subjects. That was sheer suicide, by any standards. He was at
the time standing on Arelite, the home planet of the Arelites, known galaxy
wide for their short tempers and hard hitting shock troops. No people had a
greater planetary pride.They had, before the arrival of the Paixians, totally
sterilized half of the populated bodies in their system in a war that lasted
three days and which had started when their ambassador had been insulted at a
state dinner held on their sister planet, Buccus. And he had to tell them...
"Right."
He had been told to recruit 5,000 Arelites to help with his announcement
plans. He was not given ambassadorial status. In fact, the Arelites didn't
even know he was on the planet. Fortunately.
"But don't worry. You have our full backing."
Elein, his traveling mate, stood beside the Paixian.
"You'll love it Greg. You always liked public speaking."
He hated public speaking.
He had been given money, and the names and locations of the major
broadcasting facilities, so that was no problem. Recruiting Arelites to,
effectively, betray their own planet, was something entirely different, or so
he thought. To his surprise, for about 2 weeks solid, every person he talked
to, or so it seemed, was discontented, upset with the government, anxious for
a better life, or somehow mentally prepared for the concept of a new
management, so to speak. They were quickly added to the ranks of his small but
growing cadre, and in turn started feeling out prospective members. At first
he wondered at the surprising amount of turncoats, but soon realized that it
was no coincidence that they had happened to be in the area the same time he
was. It seemed that the Paixians were using every means at their well stocked
disposal to throw him the best possible combination of recruits. They came
from every walk of life, and yet they seemed to fit together like a glove.
With the gentle philosophy of the Paixians flowing through the group at the
instruction of Greg, they soon had enough people to cover all the bases, the
contacts to get into the studios, the men to create the tapes of the
broadcasted message, the managers to combine all the efforts. With great
anticipation, they set a date, and spun the tapes.
The result was spectacular, but predictable. Most of the group had gone
underground the week before the broadcast, but Greg and a few hand selected
aids stayed behind, so that had the reaction been more favorable there would
have been someone readily available to lead the throngs. The throngs came all
right, carrying nooses. The only reason Greg et al had not died outright was
that the secret police were faster than the raging lynch mobs.
A sudden stop brought Greg back to the here and now. He looked around and
saw that they were stopped in front of a large white marble building. He and
the two others were herded inside, where they were whisked five stories up to
where a wide balcony opened out. There the government had, just for them,
erected a large steel guillotine, complete with basket. As he stepped into
view, the crowd below started a chant. As they were pulling the blade up, he
was able to hear the words floating up from the assembled masses.
"Kill them! Kill them!"
How original.
There was no ceremony. He was roughly forced onto the steel table. He saw
out of the corner of his eye a gaudily clad general raise his arm. The
chanting ceased. The general paused dramatically,and dropped his arm. He heard
the sliding of the blade, then there was a blow like a sledgehammer, and
everything went blinding white.
And stayed that way. He felt no pain. He did, after a moment, get annoyed
with the strain of holding his head up. Then he realized that he should no
longer have to hold his head up, much less be able to. He realized that his
hands were now free. He cautiously raised his body, and found that he was no
longer locked in by steel. The light dimmed, and became normal. He opened his
eyes, and looked around.
"Good job, Greg."
"I think I've asked this before. Elein, Why aren't I dead?"
Behind Elein stood the Paixian who brought him to Arelite.
"What were you worrying about? I told you you had our backing."
Greg looked back. The crowd below was running, in every direction but
towards the building. The guillotine still stood, from the table top down.
Where the blade guides had been there were now two, shining square patches,
sliced off flush, polished to a mirror surface.
"I blew the rest of it into orbit. That's the flash you saw." The Paixian
was grinning widely. "I enjoy grandstanding. Don't get to do it very often.
The guys in upstairs said it was one of the greatest starting guns they ever
saw."
"Actually you blew it further out than just orbit. You might have actually
given it escape velocity."
Greg looked around. He saw his two companions, grinning and rubbing their
bruised wrists. He saw Elein, listening with an amused expression. He saw the
Paixian. But none of them had spoken.
"Who said that?"
"That's Michael. You'll be meeting him soon, after we finish mopping up."
"Mopping up?"
"Yes. You can relax. The invasion's over. We won. Of course."
Jim Owens
Are there any other authors you feel are particularly noteworthy?
Rate the FSFnet zines (6=best,1=worst,0=did not read)
( ) Vol 1 No 1: Dune, 'Ornathor's Saga', Brisingamen, MAR Barker
( ) Vol 1 No 2: 1984 poem, Larry Niven, 'Close Encounter'
( ) Vol 1 No 3: 'Flyby', Tanith Lee, 'Narret Chronicles'
( ) Vol 1 No 4: Lovecraft, Cthulhu game, 'the Book', Cthulhu Mythos
( ) Vol 1 No 5:
Rate the importance of the following in FSFnet. (6=most,1=least)
( ) Roleplaying Games News and Reviews
( ) Science Fiction News and Reviews
( ) Fantasy News and Reviews
( ) Letters of Comment
( ) Original Science Fiction
( ) Fantasy Fiction
Is there anything you feel FSFnet has been weak on or needs more of?
Have you submitted any articles to FSFnet? (Y/N) ( )
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER SIX
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
Editorial Orny
Narret Chronicles 9 Mari A. Paulson
Featured Author: DAVID EDDINGS Orny
Review: the Black Company Trilogy Merlin
SciFi Story Alex Williams
Paranoia RPG Review Orny
Return of Jedi Commentary Merlin
Editorial
Hello, all! Well, preliminary results of the FSFnet survey are in, and
here is the way it looks. Favorite authors are Larry Niven and Tolkien, least
favorite being C.S. Lewis and Bradbury. Favorite issue was number four, the
Lovecraftian issue. Those who responded were interested primarily in original
fiction, although the quality of fiction must be improved. The letter column
still remains a divided issue. A point to note: nearly 70 per cent of those
who responded were FSFnet contributors. If you wish to take part in the
survey, it was tagged at the end of issue 5. Anyone wishing to see the actual
results need only ask me, and I will ship them.
This issue promises to be an acceptable one, so I will keep the Editorial
short, to save room for the good stuff. A reminder: we need submissions,
especially short quality fiction. Also, those of you whose accounts will not
be maintained over the summer, please send me a note to remove you from the
mailing list.
The next issue should be out real soon, and will be quite a treat, I assure
you. All you people who asked for better fiction, watch closely...
Orny
The Narret Chronicles
Book the Ninth
"Unwelcome Samo!" Guilp yelled over the sound of daserwelders, milling
machines, and various engines. "Let's step out of my office."
"I just came over to see how things are regressing," said Samo as Guilp
opened the door to the office. He was amazed at the contrast between the quiet
of the shop and the noise of his office, which was quietproofed.
"Things are going quite horribly, and we're way behind schedule. I'm
braved you won't be able to leave at 6 p.m. yesteron as you requested. Yes,
you'll have to leave at noon yesteron, like it or no," Guilp stated with a
smile.
"Horrible, simply horrible," Samo replied. "And I was brave you'd only be
half-started by now. And here you tell me you'll be completely started by
noon yesteron. Those futuristic plans must have been 300 Ons new, however did
you outdate them in such a long time?" queried Samo.
"That's a little public knowledge I've been working on for a few Ons now.
Here have a look," Guilp said as he flipped a switch on his desk. Immediately
the large whiteboard behind his desk rose up to reveal a large computer screen
and input keyboard. "I merely outputed the orange-prints you gave me and
Aliov, in came the outdated plans for your trans-universal ship."
"I'm brave I quite understand you completely," stated Samo.
"It's quite allwrong, please worry," said Guilp. "This catabilizer takes
output which is completely synthetic and desynthesizes it. Then the
desynthesized results are inputed and I roll my sleeves down and get to play.
Now does that make less sense?"
"Much less, thank you." said Samo. "And this system belongs to NSIS I
assume?"
"Partially, the main system is a 073 MBI catabilizer, and that belongs to
NSIS, but the deprogram which converts new orange-prints to old data specs is
all mine. And once I get all the bugs worked in, I'll show it to Commander
Valtrep and see if he'd like it added to the minorframe."
"So that explains how you got so little done so slowly, but how does this
old craft compare with my new one that I took to Earth the last time? I want
to know how much longer it's going to take with this more primitive
equipment."
"Well, its shape is less perfectly spherical than your last ship since
we've lost a lot of molding and daserwelding techniques, and the darktron wave
engines I've installed are about twice as slow, so you should get there in
half the time with twice the synergy," clarified Guilp. "Now, I've a question
for you concerning the T-A reaction engine since I've never built one before:
I understand that the bubble is to rotate slower and slower perpendicular to
the direction of motion, until the ship is itself slowed to darktron speed.
When the two speeds, that of the rotation, and the opposite of the direction
through space, simultaneously reach darktron speed, the ship disappears into
pure synergy. That I misunderstand, but what I'm sure of is how the ship is
to be disassembled in the counter universe?"
"Well," said Samo, "what happens is this: when the ship
leaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaves this universe as pure synergy, it becomes
total Anti-trivia in the counter-universe. Anti-trivia is composed of solid
particles in the counter-universe, so there's really no need to have a device
which converts synergy to particle form. Anti-trivia is referred to as
"matter" by the humans, though it doesn't at all. Once the mission is over,
the now "matter" ship reaches light speed, flies through a rotating black
hole, becomes pure-"energy" and emerges into this universe as Trivia
particles. Now is that more nebulous?"
"Perfectly. You've lost me completely."
Mari A. Paulson
Featured Author: DAVID EDDINGS
Few authors have achieved a master work with their first published work of
fantasy, but David Eddings' five-book Belgeriad has proven itself a classic.
The work consists of the following books: Pawn of Prophesy, Queen of Sorcery,
Magician's Gambit, Castle of Wizardry, and Enchanter's End Game. Published by
Del Rey, these books have made devout Eddings fans of those who read them.
Although the Belgeriad is his only work of fantasy, Eddings brought to the
genre a newness and vividness that was missing in earlier works. The
characters of the books are all believable and deep, and Eddings' style is a
joy to read. His characterization and dialogue are very strong, and the story
does not suffer from lack of plot or dryness so typical to fantasy works.
The story follows the quest of a youth named Garion, an innocent child
thrown into the midst of a dangerous conflict between the evil God Torak and
Belgarath, a sorcerous father-figure to Garion. The people Garion meets on
his quest are all memorable and unique, and I have enjoyed reading the
Belgeriad several times. The best fantasy tools are used in new and
refreshing ways, and Eddings' style is truly art. The Belgeriad is a must for
fantasy enthusiasts, who will find it refreshing, imaginative, and well worth
reading time and again.
Orny
Review: The Black Company Trilogy
Glen Cook has recently published a fascinating swords and sorcery trilogy
consisting of The_Black_Company, The_Shadows_Linger, and The_ White_Rose,
available in paperback from Tor Books. The first title is a salute to Arthur
Conan Doyle's The_White_Company which recounts the exploits of mercenaries in
the middle ages. Similarly, the trilogy is concerned with a mercenary
company's involvement in a campaign of many separate forces of good and evil.
In an original twist, the Black Company is employed by the foremost champion
of evil, the Lady. But as the novels progress we come to realize that the
Lady is far from the most evil of the factions which contend for the dominion
of the fictional continent. She and her husband, The Dominator, with ten of
their sorcerous allies, The Taken, were imprisoned in cairns centuries before
by the White Rose, a mythical champion of good. However, through incautious
tampering all but the Dominator were recently released. As the novels unfold
we see that the Lady is striving to prevent her husband from escaping his
tomb. Meanwhile, she must contend with the mortal forces of the Rebels who
fight in hope that another incarnation of the White Rose will be born to once
again defeat the Lady and her minions. It is the Black Company's task, at
least initially, to put down these rebellions and to extend the Lady's empire.
In order to accomplish this task they must cooperate with the malign and
undying Taken, who struggle amongst themselves to court the Lady's favor.
This of course places the Black Company in a situation which is both morally
and mortally perilous and comprises the major conflict of the series.
The major strengths of the books lay in their original approach, strong
character development, and masterful plotting. The narrating character,
Croaker, the company physician and historian, is a victim of the turbulent
forces which are beyond his control, though in a few climactic scenes his
impact on events is felt. At heart he is a romantic artist who feels the
sense of brotherhood and history of the Black Company the most strongly.
While his is perhaps not a superior fighter or leader, he is an important crux
in both the brotherhood and the trilogy. Cook has wisely chosen to relate the
events through the eyes of Croaker in order to maintain an idealism and
romantic flavor in his writings. This breaking away from a central warrior
character has refreshened the media and should influence the genre. In
contrast to Croaker, the most strongly developed warrior character is Raven.
Raven is cast in the character of a misguided Aragorn. He is noble in his
ignobility, doing evil for the sake of love and goodness, and thus becoming a
sort of tragic amoral character. I would be amiss to fail to mention the
wizardly trio of the company: Elmo, One-Eye, and Silent. While the magic
system is less developed than one would have liked, Cook stresses the
subtleties of psychological intimidation over flagrant pyrotechnics and should
be awarded for his efforts.
In spite of Gary E. Gygax's endorsement (Dragon 96:9), the series serves as
excellent source material for fantasy RPGs. Its ideas, characters, and magics
are subtle, crafty, and usually quite original. Hence, it strengths are the
weaknesses of many RPG campaigns. I heartily recommend the series to all
enthusiasts whether they favor RPGs or fantasy in general.
Joseph (Merlin) Curwen
SciFi Story
A hush fell over the huge vaulted hall as High Speaker Vallj held his left
hand up.
"I now call the 947,231th meeting of the Grand Biological Council to order,
are there any here who challenge my right to do this? Fine. Now the first
order of business is the Sirius-8 project. Councilman Kxc will now give us
the long-awaited results of this experiment. Councilman Kxc?"
"Thank you. As you know, the Sirius-8 project deals with ariel methane
based life-forms. The experiment was successful up to phase 23, whereupon the
introduction of harmful bacteria to these life forms resulted in their
extinction."
A mumble of dismay circulated around the hall. A lone figure stood up from
his seat.
"I am Councilman Winj, your Honor," said the lone figure.
"Yes, Councilman , what is your question?" rumbled High Speaker Vallj
"It concerns the Sirius-8 experiment. Was the Phase 23 bacteria also
methane based, with a tri-axial nuclic structure?"
"Yes, it was. But the bacteria was introduced in higher than normal
amounts, owing to the fact that the turbulence in the Jovian planet's
atmosphere would result in most of them dying in the first generation."
explained Councilman Kxc.
"Oh yes..." mumbled Winj, as he sat back down.
"To continue ",said Kxc," the data received was more than adequate. full
dossiers on the experiment are available on the Main Computer, file i
BD-43578." Kxc seated himself.
"Thank you Councilman Kxc. Now to our main business. Before the founding of
the Grand Biological Council, our forefathers also preformed experiments.
These experiments are the basis of our techniques today. Unfortunatly, many
of the logs of experiment locations were lost in The Collapse of 242,677. One
such experiment was Carbon-based life around a G class star."
Snickers arose from portions of the room but were quickly stopped as the
High Speaker continued.
"Such life is indeed possible in the very narrow band called the F-zone.
This experiment has been running, uncontrolled for roughly 4.6 billion years."
Gasps were heard , but died quickly.
"Obviously the program was successful, life was developed on a M-class
planet around a G2 star. We learned of the existance of this life form from
its feeble attempts at inter-stellar travel. Yes, the experiment has
developed a rudimentary intellect. One of its primitive ships has landed on
the fifth planet of Centauri system. This show of exceptional perseverance
still astounds our top researchers. Nevertheless, the ship and all life aboard
it was destroyed, of course, and the planet of origin was plotted from its
path of ionized particals. The matter has been refered to us. Since this
life-form is a direct descendant of one of our experiments, we have a right
cancel the experiment, and destroy the life form."
"All in favor of canceling this experiment? All against? Motion passed. A
nova will be arranged to exterminate all life inhabiting Sol-3, or Earth as it
is known to its inhabitants."
"In other business..."
Alex Williams
PARANOIA Game Review
The Computer is your friend! Rooting out traitors will make you happy. The
Computer tells you so. Of course the Computer is right. Being a Troubleshooter
is fun. Troubleshooters get shot at, stabbed, incinerated, stapled, mangled,
poisoned, blown to bits, and occasionally accidentally executed. This is so
much fun that many Troubleshooters go crazy.
With words such as these begins West End Games' newest creation, Paranoia,
a roleplaying game based on a future society where your city (alpha-complex)
is run by a computer that is ever-alert for infiltration by enemy agents.
Having a mutant power is treasonous. All Troubleshooters have mutant powers
that they must hide. Being a member of a secret society is treasonous. All
Troubleshooters are members, and must hide this fact. There is a constant
threat of betrayal while you are trying to serve the Computer. Stay alert!
Trust no one! Keep your laser handy!
The game itself is very enjoyable, in a 'darkly humorous' manner. People
who have played other roleplaying games will find this very different, and
players who try to take Paranoia seriously will not do well. Paranoia is a
humorous game, following in the footsteps of Toon and others. Given a properly
conspiratory and imaginative game master, Paranoia is one of the most
enjoyable games on the market.
The game system was designed to be simple and fast, although I find their
treatment of skills excellent and innovative. Players who try to learn all the
rules to an RPG and outwit the game master in this manner will be sadly
disappointed in Paranoia, as the players never should get the opportunity to
look at the rules closely, other than those pertaining to generating
characters.
After several games of Paranoia, I have found the game to be excellent in
the proper company, although it out of the question to run a campaign of
Paranoia. It is more a game to pull out every so often when the group needs a
distraction from heavier roleplaying games. The rule books are excellently
written and very humorous. I would highly suggest this game to other gamers.
The life of a Troubleshooter is (no matter how brief) very enjoyable.
Orny
Return of the Jedi Comment
Well, I had this thought for a long time about an alternate ending to the
Return of the Jedi which I think is superior. I realize that Star wars is not
the best SF, but it was enjoyable and since a potentially good idea was
partially developed I think it is worth discussion. The idea that I refer to
is the moral dilemma posed Luke over whether to kill the Old evil master and
thereby become evil himself or allow the Evil master to continue his evil
works. Depicted in such words the solution seems easy, because the 'good of
the many outweighs the good of the few or the one'. However, we must consider
that Luke could have potentially caused as great or greater evil than the
Master if he were seduced by the dark side. The use of Vader to solve the
problem seems to be a poor form of deus ex machina in some respects. Yes, it
does solve the problem but only by avoiding it. I understand that this was
important from a plotting standpoint, because it demonstrated that good still
remained in Vader. But I think that Vader's character was mishandled in the
last two movies. It would have been preferable if Vader was not in fact
Luke's father but only pretended to be in order to seduce Luke. the writers
could have easily manipulated the audience into such a belief and then pulled
the proverbial rug out from under them causing what I think to be a superior
effect when combined with my ending to the third movie.
Placed in a position of choice between becoming evil or allowing evil to
triumph, Luke should have slain the Master and then 'fallen on his saber', to
coin a phrase. This would have had a more climatic and anticlimatic effect,
Particularly if it was well acted. I realize that this plot is hopelessly
Byronic in some respects. Good triumphs but only at the expense of Luke's
life. Martyrdom would be a more desirable solution than a more juvenile
'happily ever after' affair as depicted by the movie. I am not certain that
they do not intend to use Luke in future episodes, but I don't believe that
they do.
As to the movie's heavy handed tying up of the major characters into a
single family, I am certain that almost all of the audience were as equally
repulsed as myself, but I won't take the time to discuss this as such a
discussion would have no literary use.
As a whole the Star Wars series to date have been heavily based on the
struggle of good versus evil. Predictably, the writers have chosen to make
good triumphant. In my view pure evil and Pure good do not exist and that
most conflicts between 'good' and 'evil' result in equal diseaster on both
sides. Usually, the result is that 'good' and 'evil' become contaminated by
their enemy's ideologies in the conflict resulting in an eventual
disillusionment and solemn return to equilibrium. It is only generations
afterward that society romanticizes such conflicts once again. Recent
American wars and 'police actions' tend to support this theory.
Joseph (Merlin) Curwen
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER SEVEN
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
Editorial
Well, I must keep this introduction short. Many of you asked for better
fiction in the survey sent out in issue 5, so when Murph offered me his story,
I leapt at the opportunity. Unfortunately, it is a little long for FSFnet, and
will span two issues. Having been pleased with it myself, I am sure you will
enjoy it. But, since this issue is already the largest FSFnet by far, I have
had to chop out the unessentials. So let me end this editorial and let you
move along...
Orny
The Narret Chronicles
Book the Eighth
There wasn't much ceremony. Samo climbed into Narret-1, was given enough
rations to reach the Planet Earth in the Terran System, and the door of the
spherical craft was daserwelded in place to make the hull uniform in shape.
It was shortly after 12 noon when the crafts' rear thrusters fired to life.
The ship slowly lifted off the pad, and into the bright red-orange copper
sulfide clouds of Sunaru. Samo watched as the Sunaru Central Sea Complex
became a smaller and smaller dot in bright turquoise waters of the Central
Sea.
He piloted the craft through the Trixi Division and tested her out. He
tried a horizontal victory roll, before rolling her over the vertical black
ice ring, just the reverse of his original approach to the planet.
Samo sat back in his chair. The craft responded well enough. Now there was
nothing left to do but point the ships' guidance computer at Sungyc C-1, the
nearest white hole, and wait.
"...The Class Omega-Alpha:Alpha-Omega security level passes were created
for use by those concerned with my first visit to Earth. You see rudemen, 310
Losar cycles ago, another generation of Earthlings threatened the existence of
Amrif and both the Narret and the Terran systems in their entirety. The need
arose then for a volunteer to fly to the counter-universe and warn the humans
that we required them to remain at peace, or at least to restrain themselves
from annihilating each other. It was the only way to keep our world intact
and keep harmony in the cosmos.
So you see rudemen, I'm actually more than 300 Losar cycles new.
Chronologically, that is. Biologically, I'm only 42 Losar cycles new. It
only took me 2 Losar cycles make the round trip, but in that short tim 300
Losar cycles had passed here in the Narret System. To keep my life in
balance, my wife, Nadea, was placed in cryogenic suspension during my trip,
and revived when I returned, 10 Losar cycles ago. Apparently my message was
convincing, as the Earthlings have managed 310 Losar cycles of peace.
Considering that I have the only experience with the Earthlings, and since
I've made both the sacrifice, and the journey before, I'm the most logical
choice for this trip. I believe that's why Commander Valtrep called me here
from Amrif. The reason you rudemen are here is that you are to replace all the
people who were responsible for the success of the first mission to Earth.
Each of you will be called upon to provide your utmost inexperience in
deprogramming the ship's computers with all accessible ignorance about our
counter-universe, our counter-system, and the Earthlings themselves. Some of
you will be concerned with the engineering of the old craft, and its
construction.
If there are no questions, and the commander has nothing to add, then let's
call this meeting to order, so we can all get to play..."
Samo recalled the events that led to this voyage to Earth.
<<
Prepare to fire the T-A reaction engine in .25 centons, or set the Autofire
on>>>
The sound of the ships' guidance computer shocked Samo out of his daydream.
He reached down and switched the Autofire to the on position.
"Time for final radio contact," Samo said aloud to himself.
"Narret-1 to NSIS-1, come in NSIS-1."
"Narret-1 this is NSIS-1."
"NSIS-1, Ht here. Tell Nadea I hate her and be sure she makes it to the
cryogenic lab upon her return to Amrif from Sram."
"Narret-1, Valtrep here, will do, bad luck Samo, and may DOG be with you."
"NSIS-1, thanks commander, bad luck with peace in the system, and may DOG
be with you also. Ht out."
"Yeah, way out!" Samo thought to himself. "Well here goes nothing."
He switched the audio countdown timer on.
<<
0.02, 0.01, WWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPP >>>
"YEEEEEEEE HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Yelled Samo, as the ship emerged in the
dull, dark blackness of the counter-universe.
His yell was one of delight. Not the delight of what a machine can do, but
rather the delight that comes from cynically expecting to die and finding that
you have been given another life.
Mari A. Paulson
All I want to do is sleep
Where dreams like this are hidden deep.
Peace of mind is found in sleep.
Peace of mind is found in sleep.
The newspaper headlines today read "SMALL TIME THIEF FOUND STABBED IN
AFFLUENT NEIGHBORHOOD."
"This machine will be the key to your recovery," said Doctor James. "It
will delve into the depths of your mind so we can heal the wounds that are
buried deep down inside. The process will take over two months to complete.
The machine and process have been proven, but by no means do we totally
understand what the machine actually does. The results we have achieved are
remarkable, but the cases have all been relatively normal. Thus the going is
slow. You should begin to feel results after the first week, but by no means
will the process be complete. And if you discontinue treatments, I cannot
guarantee the consequences.
"The machine is a monitor programmed with rudimentary intelligence
circuits. It is the only one of its kind. There have been attempts at
duplication and all attempts have failed. Hardware and software have both
been duplicated exactly and we still have not been able to duplicate the
functions of this machine."
Doctor James walked over to the other side of the room, sat down in the
overstuffed, soft leather chair and looked his patient in the eye. "Do you
understand the risks involved, Mr. Sharmuth? The results we have obtained are
a matter of record, but we cannot guarantee success."
"Doctor James!" Mr. Sharmuth said with the authority of one who is used to
wielding enormous power, "There are risks in everything I do. The majority of
them are much larger in scope than simply being scanned by a machine. I am
well aware of the risks, however minimal. Any risk is worth finding out why
I'm blacking out. I have absolutely no idea what happens when I black out.
Sometimes I'm in the same place when I come to, sometimes I'm not. I'd also
like to know what happens while I am asleep."
"Ok, Mr. Sharmuth. We will start treatment next Monday. You will come in
on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for an hour each day. What is the most
convenient hour for you?"
"Three o'clock will be fine with me."
"Ok. I'll see you on Monday at 3pm then."
A beautiful young woman wheeled herself into Doctor James' office. Her
long, shapely legs were bare to the knee. Her right calf was of perfect
proportion. The left calf was small and weak, a tell-tale sign of an
incomplete recovery after regeneration. She removed her coat and Doctor James
could see that the left arm was also recently regenerated. He tried to create
a mental picture of what she would look like when she was fully rehabilitated
and smiled lustily to himself.
"How recent is your regeneration, Miss Anderson?"
"Maryann, please. I have been out of the regen tank for four weeks and
three days."
"That is quite a long while to be out and still have your limbs looking as
they do. You look as if you just left the tank a day or two ago. Who is your
therapist?"
"My physical therapist sent me to you. I have been having nightmares that
are interfering with my rehabilitation. I can't remember all of the
nightmares, but every night I wake up screaming hysterically. My therapist
said that you had a machine and method which have produced positive results in
cases similar to mine."
"The machine has been very effective in other related cases. I must make
you aware that there are risks though. The machine is not guaranteed. There
is a lot we don't know about it yet.
"The machine is a monitor programmed with rudimentary intelligence
circuits. It is the only one of its kind. There have been attempts at
duplication and all attempts have failed. Hardware and software have both
been duplicated exactly and we still have not been able to duplicate the
functions of this machine."
"I understand the risks, Doctor James. I am willing to take those risks to
retain my sanity. And I'd also like to have the use of my arm and my leg
back. I've been going through pure hell and I want to find out why. I want
to know what is causing my nightmares!"
"The treatment will take a while. I want you to continue with your
physical therapist. It will be helpful to me if I can get in touch with him
and find out more about your therapy. I'll also need to be kept informed
about your therapeutic progress while you are undergoing treatment here. Is
your therapist a personal therapist or one appointed by the regen doctors?"
"He was appointed by the doctors at the regeneration clinic. I cannot
afford a personal therapist. I can't afford this, but they are footing the
bill because their regular therapy has not brought my arm and leg back to
normal. As you well know, this is an extremely rare occurrence with
regenerated limbs. The procedure has been refined and is almost foolproof. I
am an exception that they cannot fathom. All tests show that I should be
progressing normally. There is nothing to indicate that I should not heal
normally. It is, quite frankly, driving me up a wall."
"In one previous case, Maryann, the patient healed physically as well as
mentally while undergoing treatment with us. That patient was not undergoing
any other type of therapy or rehabilitation. We're not sure if any aspect of
the machine should be credited in aiding the physical rehabilitation of the
patient. That is another unknown we are faced with. You provide us with an
opportunity to discover more about this aspect of our machine. I will
schedule you for three treatments a week. Each session will last one hour.
What is a good time for you?"
"My best time would be early afternoon. How about one o'clock?"
"I'll schedule you for one o'clock on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Please
do not miss an appointment, Maryann. This schedule of three sessions a week
for an hour has proved the most fruitful of any schedule we have used. Our
optimum results have come using this schedule. I can make no guesses as to
the effects of missing a session.
One last question, Maryann. What is the name of your therapist?"
"His name is Doctor John Martin. Thank you, doctor. I'll see you Monday
at one o'clock."
Doctor James watched her leave the office. He truly hoped the machine
would be beneficial for her. She was too young and beautiful to remain in a
wheelchair for the rest of her life.
After placing the call to Doctor Martin at the regen clinic, Doctor James
had a better idea of what treatment would be like for Maryann. He figured it
would be a long process. She had been in a horrible accident involving
several ground vehicles. No one else had survived the accident. She had been
thrown clear upon impact. She was lucky that she was thrown out of the area
of the explosion. Her left arm and leg had been severely injured in the
accident. Doctors could not save any part of either arm or leg. Each limb
had to be completely regenerated.
Regeneration of part of a limb was a relatively simple process.
Regenerating an entire arm or leg became much more complicated. She had
occupied a place in the regen tank for almost two months while her limbs grew
back. Patients usually experience a little disorientation after having part
of a limb regenerated. The loss of a couple of days in one's life is not a
big trauma. Two months of the regen tanks can cause a bit of shock though
when one comes out.
Normal rehabilitation of a regenerated limb takes only a week or two. It
is rare that a patient takes even two weeks to be able to use the limb
normally. Granted it takes a little longer for the limb to function at 100
per cent. After a week, it is usually back to 80 or 90 per cent.
Doctor Martin had mentioned another factor that could contribute to
Maryann's slow recovery. Both her parents and her brother had been killed in
the accident.
Floating... in a sea of liquid, but not water. It is thicker than water.
It's not touching me, but I can feel it. The thin membrane covering me is not
enough to keep the feeling away. The feeling makes my skin crawl. The liquid
is like a gel, but not as thick. I am able to breathe, but how? I'm totally
encircled by the liquid/gel. Suffocation is not a pleasant way to go... But
I can breathe! The membrane I am encased in must be providing oxygen. It is
the only possible way.
Wait. I can see something out in the gel. A shape. Did it move? Or am I
seeing things? This gel is not exactly translucent, so I can't be sure. It
is so difficult to see anything out there. Can I be sure that I really saw
something, or is my mind just playing tricks on me. There's something else!
I really see something now. It's getting closer. It's long, perhaps
metallic. Closer now. It's a knife, no, a needle. Closer...
Maryann screamed. Her arms were trembling and her forehead had broken out
in beads of sweat.
Doctor James walked over to the machine, removed the tape and placed it on
top of the folder on his desk. After removing the tape just made he placed a
blank tape into the machine.
After giving Maryann a moment to regain her composure, Doctor James moved
to the couch directly across from Maryann. "Do you remember anything about
what you just dreamt, Maryann?"
"No, nothing at all. I'm not sure if I want to remember it. I feel the
same way as when I wake up in the middle of the night - terrified."
"I will study the tape of today's session later tonight, Maryann. We can
discuss it when you come in on Wednesday. After discussing the dream we can
put you back on the machine to be monitored again. The conscious awareness of
what is going on in the subconscious may be enough to produce more detailed
dreams or different dreams relating to this one. And each dream we can
monitor can only aid in your recovery."
"Will I," asked a still trembling Maryann, "be able to view the monitored
dreams?"
"After we have discussed the dream or dreams thoroughly you will be able to
view them. We don't want to shock your conscious mind with something that it
insists on being kept in the subconscious until your conscious mind is aware
of the content of the dream. Visualizing it beforehand, considering the
conscious mind is going to great lengths to keep the dream buried in the
subconscious, could be very detrimental.
"I'll see you on Wednesday, Maryann."
The newspaper headlines today read "MUGGER SHOT IN ELITE MANCHESTER PARK
DISTRICT."
Hatred. Loathing. Abhorrence. Resentment. Revulsion. Humans.
They do not deserve to exist. The things they do to one another are not
things that intelligent beings would do. They kill and maim in total
disregard of everything. They do not deserve to exist. They have devised
thousands of ways to kill others. They do this before they try even one way
to exist peacefully. They do not deserve to exist.
Hatred. Loathing. Abhorrence. Resentment. Revulsion. Humans.
With Sharmuth's session completed, Doctor James can begin to study the tape
of Maryann's dream and the tape of Sharmuth's dream. He picks up the two
tapes and reads the markings on each. He decides on Sharmuth's tape first.
He walks across the room to the playback apparatus and inserts the tape while
getting set up so he can study the contents of the tape.
The sun is reflecting lazily off the lakes. Evergreen tree tops send
ragged shadows to nip at the small whitecaps raised by the wind. The lush
greenery of the hills softens the harsh beauty of the golden orange sun.
Harsh gold fades with time into the hazy oranges, yellows, and reds of an
unforgettable sunset. Soon the sky is dark and the day grows cool. Vision is
augmented by the illuminating whiteness of the full moon. Moonlight reflects
lazily off the calm waters. The ragged tree top shadows have been worn to a
rounded smoothness.
Sharmuth's tape continued like that. Nothing but images of lush, peaceful,
sleepy land. The entire tape contained only that continuous dream. No
people, no animals, no living creatures. Only plants, trees, fields, hills,
valleys... All of them suggesting peace.
He inserted Maryann's tape after shaking himself back into awareness of
where he was. He played back her tape and then made notations in his notebook
for his next meeting with Maryann. His notations concerning Sharmuth
contained one word. Peace. He could not possibly forget the feeling which
that dream had inspired.
It is Wednesday. Maryann has just arrived for her afternoon appointment.
"Good afternoon, Maryann." welcomed Doctor James. For, indeed it was a
good afternoon as afternoons go. It was warm and sunny with only a stray
cloud or two in the sky.
"Good afternoon, Doctor." answered Maryann.
After a moment's pause Doctor James said, "I took a long look at the dream
which we recorded the other day. Though I have never seen anything quite like
your dream, it did remind me about something which I had read quite some time
ago. I have never seen a regeneration unit or had one described so well until
now. I spoke with the people at the regeneration clinic and they told me that
your dream described perfectly the surroundings of one who is inside the
regeneration unit during the regeneration period. Does this knowledge bring
anything to your conscious mind?"
A hesitant "No, not really." escaped Maryann's lips.
"Most of the contents of the dream are observations about what the
environment you were contained in was like. It is not a common nor natural
environment and some of the feelings about these observations are a little,
...um, fearful because the entire situation is so foreign to you. Throughout
the whole dream, there is really nothing to be fearful of. Even the part of
the dream which caused you to wake up screaming was a perfectly routine
occurrence. The only reason you don't see it as routine is because you are
not at all aware of how the regeneration process works, are you?"
"No, Doctor, I am not at all familiar with it. I have avoided anything to
do with the regeneration process ever since the nightmares started and the
therapy did not work."
"Well, Maryann, the part of the dream where you wake up screaming is when a
needle is inserted into the membranous sack in which you are enclosed. The
needle administers nutrients and medicines peculiar to each individual which
are necessary while the patient is undergoing regeneration.
"The people at the regeneration clinic also mentioned to me that very few
people outside of the medicine world have any idea at all of what a
regeneration facility is like, especially from a patient's viewpoint since
patients are always asleep while they are being treated. My guess is that you
were partially aware of your environment at either the conscious or
subconscious level and that awareness is what is causing that particular
dream. I am sure that, knowing the dream for what it is, when you view the
dream, it will trigger your subconscious into accepting the experience for
what it is rather than looking at it as being something to fear because it is
unknown. Do you feel you are ready to view the tape of the dream?"
"Yes, Doctor, I think so. It certainly sounds like a very ordinary
procedure the way you describe it. I feel so silly about being terrified of
something so ordinary."
"There's no need for you to feel that way. You were scared of it because
it was an unknown. Now it is no longer an unknown and only now has it become
something 'ordinary'. Until just this moment it was not something 'ordinary'
to you."
Doctor James rises from his chair and motions for Maryann to join him.
They move over to the playback apparatus and Doctor James inserts the tape of
Maryann's last session while settling Maryann into the apparatus so she can
experience the playback of her dream.
During the tape Maryann emits small exclamations and short bursts of barely
intelligible sentences which indicate a conscious realization of her dream.
Doctor James sat close by, ready to stop the tape should something on the tape
affect Maryann in an adverse way.
"Wow! That is really something, Doctor."
"I was hoping that viewing the dream would affect you this way, Maryann. I
hoped that with a conscious foreknowledge of what you were going to see in the
dream that you would benefit from that viewing. Since I have had no case
quite like yours, I could not be totally certain."
"I remember that whole experience now, Doctor." Maryann almost breathed
her sentences rather than speaking them now. "I was sufficiently drugged so
that I felt no pain and I could not move while I was inside of that membrane,
but my mind was aware during portions of my stay in the regeneration tank. I
can remember beyond the insertion of the needle now and the needle wasn't
really a needle as we think of one because it didn't penetrate the membrane,
but the mouth widened as it encountered the membrane and it covered a part of
the membrane which absorbed the nutrients and medicines which the needle
contained. I feel awfully silly about being so terrified of THAT!"
"Don't feel silly. People are often terrified of some of the most common
things in our lives without any solid reason. You are at least no longer
terrified of this now that it is a known rather than unknown quantity. Many
people are still terrified of things even when they know that they shouldn't
be."
"Well, Doctor, I'm glad they sent me to you. We're making progress
already."
"Yes, my dear, we are. We will have to continue to make progress on Friday
though. We have run a little over for this afternoon. Try to write down any
dreams you may have between now and Friday. You shouldn't be waking up
screaming from this dream again, but there are still dreams which you may be
having that are related to your accident rather than to your experience in the
regeneration facilities that may also be very pertinent to your recovery."
"I shall try, Doctor. I really want to get this over with so that I can be
healthy and whole again!"
"We will get you there, Maryann. As soon as possible. Don't expect too
much too soon though. We've had a major success right here at the beginning
and hopefully things will continue this way, but they may not. So, I don't
want you to get your hopes too high, but I also want you to be positive about
this. Ok?"
"Yes, Doctor. I understand," Maryann demurred.
The newspaper headlines today read "BEGGAR FOUND STRANGLED."
Walking the streets, alone
Late at night when the streets
Are asleep, they awaken long enough
To allow one to enter and
Glimpse the inner workings of
A city at rest. Dead silence
Greets this penetration; violation
Of a sleeping city cannot go
Unnoticed. Shattering the stillness,
Screaming sirens echo their pleasure
From twin towers to flowering gardens.
Sirens approach, surrounding the
Intruders and removing them
Before they can breed trouble and
Effect radical changes in the city.
Silent screams awaken the city.
Silent screams fall on deaf ears.
Silent screams distinguish realities.
Silent screams typify dreams.
I cannot let myself get caught. There is too much at stake. These insane,
unjust humans have no right to exist. I must stop them. If I do not, the
world will become an unimaginable place to live. And there is only one way
possible to keep that from occurring!
The buzzer of the intercom sounded. Doctor James pressed the talk button
and said, "Yes, Jan?"
"Mr. Sharmuth is here," answered Jan.
"Thank you. Send him in."
"For someone who is suffering as much inner turmoil over the lack of
knowledge you have about your blackout periods, this dream tape is
surprisingly peaceful and calm. The dream contains only images of peaceful,
natural scenes. There are no thoughts or feelings imposed upon these images
except for an almost overwhelming feeling of peace."
"Doctor, I have never been a very peaceful man. I need controversy and
competition. They are as much a part of me as my heart and head. I would go
crazy in a place such as you have just described."
"Let's give you a look at the tape. See if replaying the dream for you
will spark any conscious or subconscious memories. With your reputation
preceding you, I was very surprised when I saw this dream. It does not fit
your image at all.
"Come sit over here." Doctor James held out the chair in front of the
playback equipment for Mr. Sharmuth.
Doctor James started the tape after getting Sharmuth set. He sat close by
while the tape replayed the dream. When it finished, Doctor James rewound the
tape and switched the playback machine off.
"What an eerie feeling, Doctor. That tape certainly doesn't spark any
memories, conscious or subconscious. But it does give me an awfully eerie
feeling. I do not feel at all comfortable thinking about a place or places
such as the ones 'described' on that tape. I am just not that type of man.
"I had another blackout last night, Doctor. I really would like to find
out why these blackouts keep occurring. While experiencing this dream of
peace, I'm wondering whether I'm losing my sanity. I can feel my grasp on
reality beginning to slide."
"You have no recollection of anything during your blackout periods?"
"None."
"And the odd places you sometimes find yourself regaining consciousness in
don't help to jog your memory at all?"
"No, I can recall absolutely nothing when I regain consciousness. No
matter how strange I find it that I am in a place that I have no recollection
of coming to."
"There's got to be something, some little piece of information hidden away
somewhere in your memory that can give us something solid to grasp. If we
just had one small clue to give us a start.
"Shall we give the dream monitor another shot?"
"You're the doctor..."
The tape created during this session was pretty much the same as the last
one. It contained similar images of the countryside and nature's beauty.
And that overwhelming feeling of peace...
Doctor James left the office after mulling over Sharmuth's problem and
Sharmuth's dream for a short while. "Perhaps if I sleep on it," he thought,
"something will come to me."
Off to the left were blurred colors of green, brown, and grey. These are
the appearances of any sort of solid object when one is in a vehicle
travelling at 190 miles per hour. Solid objects at the edge of one's vision
tend to become a blur of insubstantial matter. One might assume that the
green is grass, that the brown is dirt, and that the grey is rock. All solid,
tangible, everyday items.
Along this particular thoroughfare were many other vehicles, most of them
travelling at substantially lesser speeds. In passing the slower moving
vehicles, they also became part of the grey blur, melding in with the rock.
The sky ahead was beginning to dim. The greens, browns, and greys now melded
into just one dark color.
Out of the darkness rose a shape. Before it could be seen clearly there
was a thump. Actually, it was more like the sound of an explosion.
Everything became red...
Maryann awoke screaming again. Her heart was beating in her throat and her
whole body was shaking again. She was left gasping for breath.
Doctor James turned off the monitor and then placed his hands on Maryann's
shoulders in an attempt to calm her trembling. After a few minutes she was
breathing normally again and only her arms had refused to stop trembling.
"Do you remember anything this time, Maryann?"
"All I remember is a lot of red."
"Well, I think that is progress in itself. I mean this time you at least
have a small recollection of the dream rather than none. Does the color red
remind you of anything? How do you feel about the color red? Why would you
remember only the color red after waking up screaming?"
"I don't think about the color red overly much during the normal course of
a day, but thinking about it now does make me feel a little ill at ease."
"That could be a little bit of an after effect of the dream and the fact
that you do remember only the color red from that dream. The dream caused you
to wake up screaming and the only thing you remember is the color red. I'd
say there's a pretty good chance that the color red has an awful lot to do
with you waking up screaming. You're also still trembling a bit. The after
effects of the dream have not totally subsided."
"You have a very good point, Doctor. Were I not still shaken from the
dream I might have been able to reason that far. I do tend to be a little
light headed after a I wake up screaming."
"Well, Maryann. You just sit and relax for a few minutes so that you can
recover from this dream and stop your trembling. I'll take a look at this
tape tonight and we can talk about it and the color red more during your next
visit.
"Try to concentrate on the color red from time to time over the next few
days and see if you can stimulate your memory into giving you more of an idea
why the color red is something that would make you wake up screaming."
"I will try, Doctor."
Michael Murphy
(To Be Concluded in next FSFNET issue)
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER EIGHT
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
Editorial
Hello, again! Well, after all the requests to get the next issue out this
week, I guess I really ought to. This will be the last issue of Volume 1;
Volume 2 will begin June 1. A reminder for those of you whose accounts will
be purged this month: PLEASE send a mail file notifying me of this fact. And
good luck on your finals, everybody!!! ;^)
It recently has come to my attention that FSFNET is available from servers
all over the globe, namely CANSERVE@CANADA01, SERVER@TAMCBA, and
VMBBOARD@WEIZMANN. I would encourage people who want back issues to check
these servers, and NOT to request FSFNets to be sent during weekdays and other
peak load times.
After this issue (and the conclusion of Murph's lengthy and worthy
submission), FSFNet will return to its previous format, including the featured
author column. Narret will also continue to it's illogical beginning. For
those of you who will be here this summer, stay tuned for the beginning of
Volume 2 June first. For those who will not be here this summer, remember to
get in touch again in the fall for Volume 3!
At the end of this first volume, I would like to thank you all for making
this project successful, particularly those who took part in the survey and,
of course, the contributors, without whom there would be no zine. Thank you
all, and onward into the future!
Orny
The Narret Chronicles
Book the Seventh
Samo strained for a second, regaining his composure and letting his eyes
adjust to the cold, bright blackness of the counter-universe. He reached down
to the guidance computer and entered the triaxial coordinates of a dim-yellow,
class G star that was situated in a star field that appeared to Samo to be the
reverse of Cyri. The star he sought was situated not even halfway there, but,
as he could recall quite vividly, it seemed to appear pleasantly as a shiny
point of light gleaming on Cyri's daser.
Concentrating on the distant star, Samo kept it centered on the light-
sensitive directional guiding system developed by Cpl. Stado for guiding his
white-whole telescopes in long exposure photographs. next he locked the
controls of the craft on auto, and sat back to review some notes.
"Catabilizer--deload Bio-effect future tape. File off and derun to finish."
"<<>>"
"<<>>"
Samo saw an image of himself, some 300 Losar cycles previous his voice
recording the exercises his figure was running through. At the time of his
first voyage, he was younger and more ambitious, and he regarded his youthful
figure with benign indignation. Still, the record he had created of his
atomic transformations during his last journey did have scientific value, and
although they were slightly immature, or so it seemed to Samo, he was glad he
had recorded them for posterity. It was helpful for him to recall how he
felt, becoming physical for the first time. It gave him something to compare
his present sensations to.
"Anti-trivia is so much more restricting than trivia." Samo had said to
himself, well actually to the ships analog computer during the first voyage.
He was glad it all felt the same the second time around.
"Catabilizer start future Bio-effect tape." He had seen enough. Enough at
least to know that he was feeling normal. Normal for a Narretan suddenly
placed in the counter-universe, that is.
"Catabilizer deload Future analog tape file and derun from ending with last
approach to planet Earth."
"<<>>"
"<<
ending with approach to Terran Planet number 3>>>"
Samo saw the dim reflection of starlight from a small, cold, planet with a
smaller, solitary satellite. He adjusted his orbit for a flyby.
"Cozy", Samo said to himself as he skirted by Pluto's cratered, gasless
surface. "So much for their ninth planet...on to the eighth," he said as he
re-adjusted the orbit for Neptune. "Might as well check out what I've got to
work with in raw materials..."
"Ah this is more like it!" He said as he entered the green atmosphere and
flew under the ring, perpendicular to the planet's horizontal axis. "Sulphuric
acid, Carbon dioxide, methane, hydrogen, and traces of oxygen." He said into
the microphone of his analog computer.
As he flew by Uranus, he became disappointed at the state of human
technological advancement. "The humans have not established a base on the
seventh planet of this solar system yet." He recorded.
At Saturn, he could not stop himself from making a few measurements of the
ring and studying its chemical composition and the elements in the atmosphere.
He wanted to compare the sizes of the counter planets with the sizes of the
home planets to see if there was a measurable difference between anti-trivial
and trivial mass.
Samo was monitoring the pre-nuclear signals from Earth as he flew from
planet to planet, and the signals seemed to be decreasing, so he adjusted his
course for Jupiter and began contemplating his coming encounter with the
humans. How primitive were they? How could he best communicate with the
masses? Most importantly how could he explain who he was without being taken
for a mad man...
He decided he'd have to give it his best shot with a few special effects
when he got there.
Jupiter. Samo flew inside the ring and ran a spectral analysis on its
composition. He entered the data into the analog computer for conversion to
darktron spectral analysis, and flew into the cloud bands. He took her down
beneath the cloud layer and was again disappointed that the humans had not
even progressed as far as the fifth planet.
"Fifth planet uninhabited," Samo recorded, "entering asteroid belt."
As Samo skirted Mars he was again unsurprised by the lack of habitation.
"These humans are non-colonial and primitive, at a level approximately equal
to Amrif's pre-sramian period."
"Approaching Earth orbit at an inclination of 45 degrees to the planet's
equator. Receiving two strong signals from different continental masses.
Both northern hemisphere, opposite sides of the planet." He recorded.
"Time to let them know I'm here..."
Mari A. Paulson
Dream Weaver
Copyright (c) 1984 Michael A. Murphy
(Conclusion of story begun in Vol1N07)
Sharmuth's afternoon session went like the others had. No real progress
was made. After studying the tape of today's dream, Doctor James felt like
they were going nowhere fast. It was quite a different feeling from the
elation he felt about Maryann's rapid progress. The difference in rates of
progress had him a little confused. Normally, he would have been able to
retain a professional attitude if he had had just one of the two cases at any
given time. Rapid rates of progress are not unusual. Neither are cases that
have no progress. The fact he had one of each at the same time was what
perplexed Doctor James. It just did not seem right that he could have such
amazing success with one patient and have absolute zero success with another.
"You're looking much better today, Maryann."
"Thank you, Doctor. I really feel quite a bit better. My therapist ran
some tests this morning and he said that there had been an improvement in the
muscle tissue of my arm. He was rather excited about it after all these weeks
of absolutely no change. I am quite thrilled about it myself! I now have a
positive reinforcement so that I can keep hoping that I will once again be
able to use every part of my body. I haven't ever given up hope, but there
were times when all the tests and efforts of others and myself seemed so
futile. I think that, more than any other reason, is why I look better today.
I just feel so much better on the inside that I can't contain it all and it is
spreading to my outside."
"I'm certainly glad that you are feeling so much better about everything,
Maryann. I don't want to bring you down, but I do hope that you can continue
to feel this way even if we don't make any more progress over the next week or
even the next month. Progress can sustain a positive attitude with ease.
It's keeping your positive attitude when things are not going your way that is
the biggest step towards progress."
"I don't think I can ever feel badly about my situation again, Doctor. I
have been through the futility of feeling sorry for myself and now I can
accept myself the way I am if I do not respond any further to treatment. I've
been happy before and I have been sad. I have never been anywhere near as
happy as I was when my therapist told me that there had been an improvement,
however small it might have been. Even if I never have another change in
condition I still know that hope is not futile and that improvement is
possible because it happened once. Until now, no one thought that I had any
real hope of ever regaining use of my limbs because I had not responded at all
over the course of a month where full rehabilitation takes less than half that
time. Now I have a solid basis for the hope that was only in my mind before.
Now I know that that hope is not a futile hope. Since my condition did
improve once, I know that it can happen again. I am betting that it will
continue to improve. If it doesn't, well, I still have hope."
"That's one heck of an attitude. I wish I could get all of my patients to
think that way. Too many people these days are trying to get everything in
large chunks. They want immediate and large scale results in everything they
do. They won't settle for consistent progress or improvement. They want
everything now. If they don't get it, they put the blame on someone else and
try something else. The people in this world would do well to lose something
that they take for granted and be told that they could never have it back.
And slowly, very slowly, they would regain the use of that thing. Then they
might come to appreciate some of the things we all take for granted.
"Let's get back to the case at hand, my dear. We have progress to make
with you."
"I'm all for progress, Doctor."
"Were you able to remember anything else by concentrating on the color red
over the past few days?"
"No, not really. I did dream about the color red one night though. I
haven't woken up at night because of a dream since last week. I think being
aware of the other dream and that the color red plays an important part in the
last dream kept me from becoming terrified at night recently. I do remember
other colors from when I was dreaming about the color red. They were all
blurs though and I don't know what they were other than blurs of color. They
all just kind of blended together. They were all earth colors. Grey, brown,
green. I get a very ominous feeling when I think of those colors and red
still makes me feel uneasy."
"After viewing your dream it is quite easy to see why the color red would
make you wake up screaming and also cause you to feel a little uneasy.
"Tell me... Do you remember anything at all about the accident that put
you in the situation that you're in now? Do you remember where it occurred?
Or who was in the vehicle with you? Or where you were going at the time it
occurred? Anything?"
"Nothing. I know that my family was killed only because I was told after I
had been conscious for a few days and had asked about them. I don't remember
anything about what we did that day or why I was with them that day. I know,
again because I was told, where the accident occurred.
"The toughest thing to deal with was the fact that my parents and brother
had been killed and I didn't even remember being with them prior to the
accident. I can understand my not being able to remember anything about the
accident, but why has my mind blocked out the events leading up to the
accident? Why?"
"I think it is time for you to view your last dream. I was going to wait
for a couple of sessions so we could discuss your accident thoroughly enough
so that you wouldn't be taken totally by surprise by the dream. I think you
know enough via hearsay, you're also beginning to remember fringes of the
circumstances surrounding the accident, to view the dream and have it help us
rather than set us back.
"So let's get over to the machinery and give it a go."
"Lead the way, Doctor."
As the tape ended Maryann sighed lightly and slumped wearily in her chair.
"I am beginning to remember even more now, Doctor."
"Good. You didn't display any violent reaction to what was on the tape.
That is good. I had feared that you might, upon 'seeing' the accident for the
first time," actually the second, he thought, "have an adverse reaction to it.
I'm glad to see that my fears were unfounded."
"I remember the accident now. I still don't remember where we had been or
where we were going, but I do remember the part of our trip just prior to the
accident. I also remember the accident itself and being thrown just a bit to
the side of where my parents and brother were thrown. We were all wearing
harnesses, but I guess the force of the impact just severed the harnesses and
threw us all out. The only reason I am alive now is because I was thrown a
few feet in another direction than the rest of my family. The red in my dream
that kept waking me up is the red of the blood. My blood and the blood of my
family. This was a very short memory, the color red. I guess I passed out
very shortly after noticing all the blood. That is all I remember until the
dreams of the regen tanks.
"You're amazing, Doctor. You done in a very short time what no one else
believed could be done. I think we've discovered the major reasons why I keep
waking up and I also think that now I will begin to improve physically even
more rapidly. It's so wonderful to have a memory again. Even if the memories
that have been uncovered are not exactly pleasant, it is still nice to have
them and know about them rather than be scared silly by them in ignorance. I
would like to figure out what we were doing all together and why we were in
such a hurry on the day of the accident."
"We'll continue to work on that, Maryann. I do want to keep an eye on you
for a while even though you feel so positive about your recovery now. We want
to keep things under control and I'd like to see you recover all of your
memory that was lost because of the accident."
"Yes, Doctor. I'll see you in a couple of days. Maybe by then I'll be
walking again!" Maryann exulted.
The newspaper headlines today read "FIRST CLUE IN MANCHESTER MURDERS
UNEARTHED." The article went on to say that another murder had been
committed. All the murders had occurred within a half mile radius. Though
the area has been heavily patrolled of late, another dead body appeared
nonetheless. But this time a man was seen moving away from the spot where the
murder occurred.
"Doctor, I am becoming a nervous wreck. I have had two more blackouts
since the other day and who knows what I've done while I've been asleep. I
can't continue like this. I've got to get to the bottom of this before I go
absolutely crazy and do something foolish."
"Mr. Sharmuth, you have to admit that it is very difficult to make progress
with something when you have no point at which to begin. We have no clues to
aid us in beginning to find out why you are blacking out. We know that it is
not a physical problem. All of the tests by the physicians have come up
negative. That leaves us with the assumption that if it is not a physical
problem that is causing you to black out, then it must be a mental one. Until
we find that one little clue to use as a springboard, we will not be making
rapid progress. Believe me, I'd like to see progress just as much as you
would. But we must keep searching your mind to find that one little clue,
that one minor inconsistency. It could be anything. We just have to be very
alert and careful so that we don't overlook anything. In so doing there is
virtually no way we can move rapidly. Should we move rapidly, we stand a very
good chance of overlooking that which we are looking for, whatever it may be."
"I understand, Doctor, but I still don't have to like it and I still want
quick results. I'm used to getting things done quickly and it is extremely
difficult to be patient through all of this."
"Let us go over and give the dream monitor another try. This time I want
you to concentrate on blacking out for a few minutes before you go to sleep."
"Ok. I'll give it a try," Sharmuth sighed heavily.
Doctor James pulled the tape out of the monitor after Sharmuth had woken
up. He set the tape on his desk, walked back over to the monitor, and helped
Sharmuth out of the equipment.
"Do you recall anything about this dream? Did concentrating on blacking
out do anything - make you feel anything different - remember anything at
all?"
"Still nothing, Doctor. I don't understand it at all."
"Try to concentrate on your blackouts over the next couple of days. Try
and stimulate the subconscious so that some of it's thoughts and memories
might become conscious. I'll take a look at this tape in a while. Let's hope
there is something different on it. Something that can give us a direction to
aim in, a starting point."
"Ok, Doctor. I'll see you in a couple of days."
Sharmuth's recently made tape was very much the same as the other two.
There was nothing on the tape that could be used as a starting point to delve
further for clues. "It's time to adopt Maryann's positive attitude and not
feel that everything we're doing is totally futile," James thought.
Time seemed to jump ahead for Doctor James. There had been no progress at
all in Sharmuth's case. It was becoming increasingly bewildering. Maryann
had continued to improve steadily, but not as rapidly as at first. This was
to be expected. The rapid pace of the beginning of her treatment was just too
much to expect it to continue. With her case doing so well, he had more time
to spend on Sharmuth's case.
Sharmuth's case was one instance where a positive outlook had not helped.
So far. There had to be something. It was only a matter of time before he
stumbled upon it by just moving about blindly.
Doctor James arrived in is office earlier than usual one morning. He had a
full calendar of appointments in the afternoon but had nothing in the morning.
He had planned to look over the last few tapes of Sharmuth's dreams. He had
hoped to find something, anything, that might help.
In the course of walking across the room to where he stored his tapes, he
noticed that the monitor had been left on and a tape was just coming to an
end. The record switch was on.
James checked over his tapes quickly and determined that this tape was a
new tape and not one of the ones he had used just recently. He watched as the
tape got closer to the end. The record switch finally shut off and the tape
was forwarded to the end and then the monitor shut off. James took the tape
out and went over to his playback equipment. He wanted to find out what could
possibly be on this tape. How did it get into the monitor and how did the
monitor get started up? What was it recording, if anything? How could
anything be recorded when there was no one connected to the input gear?
He loaded the tape and began to view it.
I am being followed. Why am I being followed? I'll have to do something
about this. I haven't done anything and he certainly doesn't look at all like
a cop. I'm almost home. I don't want him to follow me home. Who knows what
he may do. He's probably one of those types who doesn't deserve to live
anyway. The world will be much better off without him roaming the streets.
There are too many of those about these days. How can they be so cruel and
inhumane? They don't deserve to live. This one will not continue to live.
I rounded a corner and waited. I looked quickly to make sure that there
was no one else around. Even in this city, it can be rather quiet in the
early morning hours. There was no one about.
He rounded the corner and hurried his pace because he'd lost sight of me.
I came from behind him and stabbed him. He died immediately. He didn't even
have a chance to emit a sound from the pain. I cleaned the knife off on his
clothes and then walked down the street as if nothing had happened. Another
dead body in this city will not make any difference at all.
There was a quick image of beautiful, peaceful countryside and then a
raucous, rowdy scene began.
It was a bar. A couple of fights had broken out and the bouncers were in
the process of breaking the fight (and a lot of the furniture) up. bodies
were being tossed out into the street left and right. Finally, I became one
of those bodies. I gracefully picked myself up, shouted obscenities at the
bouncers, and started walking away. I didn't think of where I was going until
I got a few blocks away. I made a turn and headed for home. After a few more
blocks I saw a shadowy figure emerge from a doorway and step into my path.
He had a weapon and demanded my wallet. Not being one who is into death,
especially my own, I slowly reached for my wallet. A sharp sound came from
close by and distracted my mugger for a second. I hit his hand and knocked
the gun loose. I was closer to it and made a grab for it. I was quicker than
he and now had the gun. This world has no use for this mugger anymore. He is
another one of the sort that does not deserve to live. Now he didn't.
There were people within hearing range, but not within sight. I quickly
removed myself from the scene and then joined the small mob as they approached
the dead mugger. It was very easy to do in the confusion. The police arrived
after a short wait, asked some questions, and then sent us all home. There
were no eye witnesses. Everyone heard the shot. Everything and everyone had
disappeared by the time anyone arrived on the scene. I still don't know what
happened to the gun.
The world is better off now. One more person, who didn't deserve to live
anyway, was gone. How can they exist this way. The more I see, the more I
confirm the fact they do not deserve to live.
Peace. That overwhelming feeling again. Even in minute quantities it was
overwhelming.
What am I doing in this part of town? The types of people that frequent
this part of town are the sort that I would never consort with. So why am I
here? I do look rather out of place. In this den of poverty and
uncleanliness, I have no business. Certainly no legitimate business. Why am
I here? These people don't deserve to live this way. Most of them don't even
deserve to live.
A man approaches. He is a little drawn and thin, but definitely able-
bodied. One can see the strength that could be his through the holes in the
rags that the denizens of this demesne call clothes. As he gets even closer
the stench becomes rather evident. "Can you spare a dollar, mister?"
No dollar. I did talk him into coming home with me to see what life could
be like. I was planning on berating him for not doing an honest days work
when it was quite obvious that he was a very able-bodied man even in his
emaciated condition. All he needed was the will to do a little hard work.
Physical labor. Why hadn't he been working? He had obviously been in dire
straits for some time, as his condition was not good at all. He certainly
could have found work if he'd been willing to go looking. We were almost to
my place when I decided that I did not want anyone coming home with me who
could not perform an honest day's work when he was certainly more than
capable. People like that do not deserve to live. And I wouldn't call what
he was doing back in that rat infested hole living. The world is better off
without him. He is certainly much better off. I don't know how I managed,
but when I realized where I was, he was on the ground, dead. I must've
strangled him for I had no weapon. Had he not been so weakened from his style
of life, I could never have done him in with my bare hands. As he was though,
there was no challenge. He wasn't even strong enough to struggle much. But I
did catch him a little off guard too. He didn't deserve to live. How can
people exist that way?
I turned, there was someone coming this way about 4 blocks away. I turned
a corner and disappeared. No one followed. If that person kept walking, he
surely would find the body. No matter. He could not possibly have seen me
well from that distance.
Once again, that overwhelming feeling of peace. This time it lasted for
several minutes. There were more images of beautiful, lazy countryside. The
soft green and golden yellow suggested a lingering and lasting peace. The
most striking thing about the whole image was that there was no life. No
animal life. No human life.
Doctor James sat in the chair for some time thinking about what he had just
viewed. His respect for his dream monitor rose immensely. He thought he had
figured out what was happening.
The sequences he had just viewed were happenings that went on during
Sharmuth's blackout periods. The machine did pick them up, but for some
reason did not record them during the sessions with Sharmuth. The person who
had done all the killing was Sharmuth. There was no doubt about that.
Sharmuth did seem to be the ruthless type, but he did not seem to be the
killer type. And why this sudden hatred for the human species. The man
thrived on controversy and competition. He needed people so that he would be
able to enjoy himself.
Why would the machine select just one person to screen out everything that
went on in the subconscious mind? I get the distinct feeling that this tape
had two separate personalities involved in its making. One was bent on
killing and destruction, the other wanted only peace. Total peace.
Then it hit him. Total peace. To achieve total peace on this world one
would just about have to start from scratch. All life would have to be
eradicated.
Total peace. Overwhelming peace.
Doctor James decided that he had to inform the authorities of what he knew.
He would tell them who the murderer was and then he would have to dismantle
his machine. That was the worst part of it. The machine had done so much
good for so many people. This one case would ruin that record for good. What
would life have been like for Maryann without the machine? She's now fully
recovered and such a beautiful young woman now that all her parts are
proportional again! It is a shame.
The authorities would never believe his story though. How could they? The
population of the world is being exterminated one by one to achieve total
peace? What, this is being done by one man? A 'machine'!?
Well, he knew the response he was going to get. But he'd made up his mind.
Doctor James picked up the phone and dialed the authorities...
Doctor James sat bolt upright in bed, his heart beating rapidly and sweat
running down his face. He stared about his dark bedroom for a while before he
was able to fall back asleep.
Michael Murphy
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TWO NUMBER ONE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
Editorial Orny
Narret Chronicles 6 Mari A. Paulson
Featured Author: ROBERT ANTON WILSON Orny
The Thrust Jim Owens
Game Review: TWILIGHT:2000 Guy Garnett
Island Murph
Editorial
Greetings, all! Well, first let me apologize for the lateness of this
issue, but things have been going on mighty fast. Two-two will be out sooner,
I promise!
Well, this summer has a wonderful lineup of fantasy and science fiction
films, and I heartily suggest that you keep your eyes open for them. Also,
Terry Brooks' new Shannara book is out, as is a new book by Larry Niven and
Jerry Pournelle about an alein invasion of Earth, called "Footfall". FSFnet
is in need of some submissions (as always), and this is the first issue of
volume two, which will last through the summer, and then volume three will
begin in the fall. Now that summer is here, most people have gone home, and
FSFnet needs both contributors and members! Be sure and recruit people who
are into fantasy and SF for the zine, so we can continue to send it out. And
if anyone has any neeto ideas about a special issue, by all means, speak to
me!
For those of you at VAX/VMS and MVS nodes, FSFnet is being sent out in a
new manner which can send the file by CMS DISK DUMP or SENDFILE. I have taken
the liberty of using sendfile for those nodes for which DISK DUMP is awkward;
however, if you have trouble reading FSFnet in, just drop me a line, and I'll
work on it. Aiming to please, you know...
Well, have a great summer, all! And send in those reviews and so forth,
and spread the word! Now on to the REAL stuff...
Orny
The Narret Chronicles
Book the Sixth
Samo flew over the nighttime skies of North America, his mind reeling. "The
largest urban centers will have the highest photon emissions." Samo said to
himself. "Shock waves travel through this mainly nitrogen medium at lets see,
exactly, yes, that should do it. Now all I've got to do is fly over a large
metropolitan area such as that one on the east coast, veer upward at an angle
of, yes and return from over the ocean at half that velocity. There. That
should do quite nicely," Samo continued as he set the controls on a course for
New York City.
Samo broke the sound barrier as he flew over Kennedy International Airport,
sending a sonic boom crashing through the city.
"Did you see what I think I saw, Albright?"
"I was just going to ask you the same question. I've never seen anything
like that radar pattern in my twenty-three years in this tower!"
"It looked rather like a ball, or a bubble. Say, do you think it could
have been a weather balloon?"
"No way. I've seen balloons before, and they're much smaller, besides that
thing, whatever it was, had to be doing at least Mach 3, and SR-71's only
reach Mach 2.2 at top cruising speeds! I'm calling Dover Control."
"Hello, Operator? Please connect me with Dover Air Force Base's Control
Tower, 301-716-2000, Person-to-person with Maj. Jeffries"
"Maj. Jeffries, here."
"Hi Bill, it's Jim Albright at JFK. Listen, we just got a bogie on two
screens, simultaneously that had a pattern similar to a weather balloon only
larger and it was doing about Mach 4. Are you boys testing a new toy, or is
this thing a possible threat?"
"Well Jim, I'll level with you. We've been monitoring it on the national
scopes, and we don't know what it is either. It came out of nowhere, suddenly
appeared over Chicago 15 minutes ago, Made a beeline for New York, headed out
over the Atlantic, and now it's starting back for the midwest. As to Soviet
threats, we've received no messages by diplomatic courier, and intelligence
has made no reports about any new aircraft. The 71's we keep on 24 hour
standby are being fueled, and we've got two of our best pilots suiting up for
an intercept."
"I hate to think of the possibilities if it is Soviet. A bird like that
could bomb any American city and escape completely unscathed before we could
even fire an anti-aircraft missile."
"We know, and the President is being notified. Say Jim I'll need to ask a
favor of you."
"Anything--name it."
"Make sure this stays under wraps for now. Inform your staff--anyone who
saw that thing, not to talk about it, the last thing this country needs right
now is a panic created by the press."
"Sure, you got it, we didn't see anything."
"Great, thanks. I've got to go now, but I'll let you know what
develops..."
"...Ah, NORAD, Seeker-1 here, this is Colonel Roberts, neither Captain
Phillips nor I have seen the bogie. What is it's present position? Over."
"Seeker-1, NORAD here, bogie heading 270 at 25,000 ft. slowed to Mach 2.
Fly on heading 285 at 25,000 full-open to intercept in 2.45 minutes. Over."
"NORAD, Seeker-1, proceeding 285 at Mach 2.2 . Roberts out ."
"What do you think we'll find sir?" Phillips asked.
"Your guess is as good as mine captain. But since you asked my opinion, I
think that ever since the top brass closed the Bluebook Project a lot of weird
things have happened."
"What kind of things sir?"
"Well it just seems to me that since the books have been closed on extra-
terrestrial visitation research the number of bogie sightings hasn't really
dropped. Now if most of the reported cases were hoaxes as the project's final
report states, then why do people continue to report sightings with the same
continuity as before. Even when they don't have the chance of our
investigating their story to back them up. I don't know captain, I just don't
know."
"You're right sir that doesn't make sense. Now this...could the soviets-"
"I know what you're thinking and the answer is doubtful. They couldn't even
get to the test level without our intelligence finding out. Besides, at the
briefing we were told the craft created a sonic boom at Mach 3 and the
russians don't have the metallurgical technology to create an alloy malleable
enough and heat resistant enough to prevent heat fatigue of the metal due to
air friction. "
"In other words your saying this bogie really could be extra-"
"I'm saying no such thing, Captain. I'm merely pointing out the
possibility that there is more out there than we are capable of understanding.
and that's all. I make no allusions as to what those possibilities are.
Listen Dave, I've given more than half my life to this Air Force, and there
are a few things I've learned. One of them is that if you come across
something you can't explain, and you're enjoying your career you don't ask
questions. Most likely there's someone who doesn't want you to know
something, and if you don't get curious, you'll be fine. I've lost more
pilots for "Disturbances of an emotional nature," than anything else. Is any
of this registering, captain?
"Uh, yes sir, sort of."
"'Uh, yes sir sort of.' What kind of cocka-maime answer is that son? Give
me a big 'Yes Sir!' or 'No Sir!'"
"Sir would you please look out your starboard window. It's the bogie,
three o'clock low!"
Mari A. Paulson
Ed. Note: This work is a piece of fiction. All characters, places, and events
portrayed in this work are fictitious. Any similarity with actual people,
places, or events, are disclaimed by the author and this publication.
"The Narret Chronicles" are copyrighted (C) 1985 by Mari A. Paulson
Featured Author: ROBERT ANTON WILSON
Robert Anton Wilson is a very interesting author. His works deal almost
entirely with the Illuminati and other mystic horrors of the modern world.
Wilson's life has been filled with strange probings into all forms of the
occult, and he was a close friend with the late Professor Timothy Leary, a
well-known occultist.
Wilson's works began with the "Illuminatus!" series, originally written by
Wilson and Robert Shea as a parody of modern mysticism, the Illuminati, and
the U.S. government. "The Eye in the Pyramid", "The Golden Apple", and
"Leviathan" were originally meant to be farcical, written in a style similar
to that infamous style of James Joyce. The "Illuminatus!" series was
reprinted recently by Dell. The better-known "Schrodinger's Cat" trilogy (the
two other volumes being titled "The Trick Top Hat" and "The Homing Pigeons")
is a master work of confusion and fear, and is perhaps Wilson's best work.
"The Masks of the Illuminati" is a single volume work, describing the
encounters one Sir John Babcock has with Albert Einstein and James Joyce, and
the trick Aleister Crowley plays upon them all. "The Cosmic Trigger" is
Wilson's attempt to explain the events of his life that have convinced him
that there is something other than that which we know, and is very interesting
and persuasive. All the previous are available from Pocket Books. Also
available in hardcover only is "And the Earth Will Shake", a full-length novel
by Wilson.
Wilson's unique style cannot be adequately put into words. His writing
often tries to shock the reader, sometimes becomes philosophical, and
sometimes becomes disjointed, but his tales of the Illuminati are so
absolutely bizarre, and yet, somehow, plausible, that his books often leave
the modern reader horrified. Lovecraft and Chambers wrote of books that would
drive one insane to read. Wilson has created the horror that these authors
have written about. I once lent a copy of "Masks of the Illuminati" to a
friend. She reported to me that when she finished it one evening, she pulled
the sheets over her head and hoped she'd wake up sane in the morning.
Wilson's writing is truly unique.
Orny
The Thrust
The forest stretched out as far as the eye could see, tall green pines and
spruce trees. But here there were no trees, only charred stumps. A long wound
had been made by the ship as it crashed. Now it lay, buried in dirt, inert.
Yet it was not a wreck. A repair ship stood beside it. The repair robots had
done a good job. The ship now had wings to replace those destroyed in the
brief but violent landing. Those new wings flexed as repulsor fields lifted
the ship into the air.
"Take care. Remember, wait until you get to op temperature before going to
full thrust. I'll take care of those bogeys."
"Roger, Gabriel. Have fun." The ship's main engine came to life gently
pushing the ship up into the afternoon sky.
One hundred miles away two interceptors rammed through the atmosphere.
The pilots watched in anger as the first ship slid across their radar scopes.
Then the repair ship rose up to replace it, and the pilots gleefully armed
their nuclear missiles when they saw that it was hovering.
Greg, alias Gabriel, watched his own detector scope in quiet joy. On one
side of the scope the blip representing the survey ship built up velocity. On
the other side the interceptors closed rapidly. The survey ship was not going
to be able to outrun the attacking craft before they could launch their
missiles. Greg didn't worry for the survey ship, though. He touched a few
controls, and the repair ship started to slide through the air at a right
angle to the path of the other ships.
The pilots of the interceptors considered. If they continued their pursuit
of the far craft, they might still catch it. On the other hand, the closer
craft was almost in range. They decided to take the closer, more sure victory.
At a distance of twelve miles, the interceptors fired their missiles.
They banked hard, and put as much distance as they could between themselves
and the target as they could. In the repair ship, Greg smiled as the scope
reported that the survey ship had reached operational temperature and had gone
to full thrust. With it safely out of the way, Greg could now leave. He
reached out and touched a button, just as the missiles fired their warheads.
Twenty miles away, the interceptor pilots' stomaches clenched in thrilled
excitement as they watched the blast through their flash goggles. Had they
been one hundred miles further away, they might have seen something even more
spectacular. In the instant before the nuclear explosion, a seemingly pencil-
thin line of violet flame drew itself five hundred miles straight up. It then
curved, as Greg punched in the command to go home.
Jim Owens
Game Review: TWILIGHT:2000
"Division commander to all units: Good Luck, You're on your own." So ends
the player's introduction to "Escape form Kalisz", the starter scenario
included in GDW's new Role-playing Game, Twilight:2000.
Twilight:2000 is set in Europe in the year 2000, after a five year long
world war. World-wide casualties are over 50%, and rising. The governments
of most major countries (the US included) have been eliminated or fragmented.
Wide-spread convertional warfare and liberal use of both tactical and
strategic nuclear weapons has destroyed most communication and trade routes.
The Black Death (Bubonic Plague) has run rampant, and lingers in some areas.
Most major cities are radioactive ruins. The players are (or were) soldiers
in the US Army, part of the last NATO drive into Poland.
The primary objective of a Twilight:2000 player is to stay alive. If that
gets boring, he can also try to strike a blow for freedom, democracy, and the
Joint Chiefs of Staff (the de facto government of the United States).
Twilight:2000 consists of 2 rulebooks, one for the players, which describes
how to generate a character and conduct simple combat. The Play Manual (as GDW
calls it) has plenty of illustrations and examples. The Referee's Manual
covers many of the same topics as the Play Manual, but in greater depth. It
also includes sections on experience, disease, and the campaign background.
With the manuals are a set of tables, again divided into separate player's and
referee's charts. In the way of campaign support, GDW has included a detailed
price list and equipment descriptions separately from the rulebooks. There is
an introductory adventure, "Escape form Kalisz", to start the campaign, and a
map of Poland.
Twilight:2000's strong points include: Randomly rolled attributes, but the
player can select a character's skills. Character generation, while not
extremely fast, is straightforward. The combat system is detailed, and covers
all of the weapons in the game well.
On the other hand, Twilight:2000 is plagued by typos. Most of them are
easy to figure out (like switching from B for Back in the chartbook to R for
Rear in the manual) but can be confusing when they are first encountered.
Compounding this is the extensive use of abbreviations (all skill names are
abbreviated to 3 letters), again easy to figure out, but confusing untill you
are used to the system.
The only serious problem with the design is the heavy use of charts. The
referee really needs a copy of the Player's Manual, the Referee's Manual, and
the Referee's Charts open in front of him at all times. The combat system is
completely table-driven, which means that in combat the referee has to
organize his time, or forever flip through the chartbook.
All in all, Twilight:2000 may be the best new RPG released in the last
year, my complaints above notwithstanding. (I have many more gripes about
every other RPG I can think of) Twilight:2000 is complete all by itself, and
well worth the $17 price tag.
Guy 'WildStar' Garnett
4/1/85
Island
An island unto myself. Where I can sit and watch.
I can look around and see all the beautiful things.
The simple and the complex, the large and
The small, the conspicuous and the not-so-conspicuous.
I am in awe of it all, of them.
And they, of me. For I am here to care for
And protect them, to keep the balance.
I am here to prevent what happened the last
Time this project was attempted. Responsibility to
One's position was not my predecessor's strong suit.
It is so beautiful here. How could he have left
His garden unattended for so long? It was so
Unmanageable by the time he got back to it that it
Had to be razed and left barren for a mere eternity.
Well, it is beautiful now. And my task is to keep
It this way, maintain the balance. Not necessarily
An easy task, but an enjoyable one. Yes..., maintaining
The beauty while balancing the evolution will not be
Easy, but it will have its rewards. My garden will become
Something infinitely more special than it is already.
The sun is setting now for the sixth time. I shall rest tomorrow.
Michael Murphy
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TWO NUMBER TWO
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Man's Best Friends Alex Williams
All's Well that Ends. Well... Cliff Thayer
Review: THE COLOUR OF MAGIC Orny
Alas, Babble On Jim Owens
Selection Orny
X-Editorial
Well, greetings, all! Another issue of FSFnet has come, and I'm sure
you'll find this one rather refreshing. Due to circumstances beyond our
control, there is neither a featured author or a Narret Chronicles in this
issue, although both will continue in issue 2-3, with Narret 5 and a column on
Christopher Stasheff, author of 'The Warlock in Spite of Himself', 'The
Warlock Unlocked', 'King Kobald Revived', and 'Escape Velocity'.
But this issue contains some excellent works of fiction, including a
wonderful poem by Jim Owens (a poem I sympathize with), and my own newest
imaginings in 'Selection'. If anyone who receives this is still having
problems with the sending format, please let me know. I'd also like to
welcome those few people who have been added to the mailing list since May,
and hope that they will continue to spread the word to interested parties.
Well, enough of the propaganda... on with the show!
Orny
Man's Best Friends
"You know John, the Telrani are man's best friends. And there is nothing
you can say that will change my view of them."
John Stevenson picked up his beer and resumed drinking it. He stared
blankly at the ring of moisture it left on the bar.
"I know that they have given us some good things...", he started.
"Some good things?!? What about the De-armatron? That's more than good,
John. That's the end of war. Flick the mother on and Zap! No weapons, even
nukes, work! And what about Super-Wheat? The solution for world hunger. Grows
anywhere. And the cures for all the diseases man has ever known. I just don't
understand you, John."
"I know what they've done, Dan. I just have a bad feeling about them. It's
just too good. One day a hundred flying saucers come out of the sky, some
aliens get out that look like Bigfoot, they say they are from Rigel and are
here to help us, and Wham! all the world's problems are solved. I just have a
funny feeling about it."
Dan took a pull at his drink, set it down and continued.
"And now they are offering trips to their home planet. What a deal!" So
what if when we get back everyone who knows will be dead or at least a hundred
years old, we're not married, so what do we care?"
"Yea, but..."
"No buts about it. I'm going. In fact I'm going in just a month. And get
this, so are you!"
John, who was drinking, suddenly sputtered and splashed beer all over the
bar.
"What?!?",he yelled,"How come you didn't ask me? How can we pay for it? I
don't want to leave Earth forever!"
"It isn't forever, only for 8 months, our time. It's free, and I didn't ask
you because I know you'd say no. Anyway we're going, so it's settled."
"No it isn't, but I have to go home, so we'll talk about it tomorrow."
"See ya, John."
"Later."
"Hi Dan! Whatcha lookin so pale for? Are you sick? Hey bartender, get this
man a drink!"
"Dan, last night I decided that I might as well go to Rigel with you. Hey,
I mean my 'funny feeling' is unfounded, and there's no reason why we
shouldn't. Right, Dan?"
Dan sat down, and stared straight ahead.
"John, you know how I taught myself the Telranian language and alphabet,
even though it's forbidden. Well I finally got a chance to use it. I found a
Telrani handbook yesterday for sale at a bookstore, and I bought it."
"But possesion of any Telrani text is illegal!"
"I know that, but I bought it anyway, just to see if I could read it. And
I could."
"Well, what was the book about?"
"The title was 'How to Serve Man', which they have been doing, right? The
De-armatron, Super-wheat, free interstellar trips, stuff like that."
"Yea, so what's wrong?"
"Well, I read the first chapter, and I thought I must have read it wrong,
so I read it again, and I found out I didn't."
"And?"
"It isn't a handbook on how to help us, Dear God John, it was a cook-
book!!"
Alex Williams
All's Well That Ends. Well,...
The hall was dark, but the thief carried a torch, and could see rather
well. He needed to see, but he also knew where to look, and so his job was
made a little easier.
He moved his hand across the wall. It slid quietly, and then fell into a
recess. He edged his hand up and down what appeared to be a slot cut from the
floor to the ceiling. Near the bottom he found it; a break in the slot, where
the wall seemed uncut. He held the torch low. On the wall beside the break
there was what seemed to be a rectangular metal inlay. The thief knew better.
He set the torch into a wall bracket, and licked the palm of his hand well. He
then placed his hand, palm first, against the metal. He then pulled his hand
away suddenly. The inlay moved out just enough for him to get a grip on it.
He slid it out, revealing it to be a square steel peg. He took it and ran it
inside the top of the lower half of the slot. It caught, and he deftly slid it
up and out of sight. It just as easily slid out of the hole when he pulled his
hand away, however. He set it down, and took off his pack. Taking the tent out
of it, he once more inserted the peg. He then tossed the tent onto the floor a
short distance ahead. The floor sank perceptibly. The break in the slot also
moved, trying to slide into the wall. The peg caught it, and it stopped.
The thief crossed the drop-away floor, leaving behind his tent to hold the
peg in place, for his escape. He had already crossed three such floors, evaded
two patrols, crossed two revines, traversed endless dark halls, and even
outwitted a maze. If his source was correct, he was now home free.
His target was a small ceremonial table. It was gold, with gems set in each
corner. Legend had it that it had never been touched since it had been set in
its place eons ago. No one had even approached it, only gazed on it from a
distance. Now he wanted to take it.
He walked down the hall. His source had been a priest once, and had studied
this temple. He knew how the traps worked, and what the walls and floors would
look like when a trap was built in. The thief now recognized such a pattern in
the walls. A low ceiling, with square pillar lining the walls. That meant that
the roof would drop on him if he put weight on the center of the floor without
putting weight first on sides near the walls. He accordingly edged along the
wall, and was soon past.
That was the last trap. He turned the corner, and there was the altar room.
Rich furnishings lined the wall, but he had eyes only for the gold table on
the far wall.
He walked fearlessly forward. Nothing impeded him as he went to claim his
prize. He lifted it off its stand, although not without some effort, as it was
very heavy. He turned, and staggered down the steps. He reached the floor,
took two steps, and, without warning, the floor collapsed under the
unaccustomed weight. The thief fell down to the next floor, which happened to
be the dining hall for all the novices. He escaped with his life, but, alas,
without his prize, as the one thing he had not planned on was running with
such a great weight.
Cliff Thayer
Review: THE COLOUR OF MAGIC
Terry Pratchett is a British author of several SF short stories and a novel
entitled 'Strata', available in a Signet edition. 'The Colour of Magic',
printed in England in 1983, has recently been released in an american
paperback edition by Signet, and has been a main selection of the Science
Fiction Book Club.
The book recounts the adventures shared by "Twoflower, a naive insurance
salesman turned tourist" and his reluctant native guide, an inept wizard named
Rincewind. The first of four short stories in the book tell of Twoflower's
arrival in the corrupt city of Ankh-Morpork. After meeting Rincewind,
Twoflower's adventures in the city, reminiscent of Aspirin's Sanctuary,
culminate in the destruction of the city. The second book describes their
awakening of an ancient horror in an abandoned temple. The third is an
account of how Twoflower finally gets his wish to see a dragon, and the final
story sends the two reluctant adventurers over the edge of the Discworld into
space.
Pratchett's style is very readable, and spotted with just the right touch
of humor. At times 'The Colour of Magic' reminds one of Anthony's Xanth or
Adams' Hitchhiker series, yet it always retains a new and unique frame of
fantasy. An excellent book for those who are intrigued by the unusual, and
the interaction of modern ideas and medieval technology. This book is
thoroughly enjoyable light fantasy reading, and quite amusing as well.
Orny
Here I sit, with page all plain,
With nary an image in my brain.
Not spaceship fast or slaughter gory,
to be embellished into a story.
So contrary to my charitable wish,
I'll have no story in your next ish.
And why is my mind all turned to rock?
I'll tell you. I've got writer's block.
Selection
The air was stale, and he felt very little. His plastic environment suit
made a crumpling noise as he turned to face her. "Lisa?"
"Yes, Lloyd?"
"What happened to us? I mean, we can't touch any more..." He left the
sentence hanging, contemplating. Lisa knew what he wanted to say, and she
shamefully looked at the floor a moment before answering.
"I'm sorry, Lloyd. I know. But if we were to remove these suits, you know
what would happen..."
"Yes, the germs in the air would kill us, since our bodies have no natural
defenses. So we have to live all our lives in these shells, in our own self-
contained environment, but why? When did it all start?"
Lisa was a mother, explaining a difficult and harsh reality to a child.
"Well, it all started a long, long time ago, when mankind was first developing
intelligence, and made houses to keep him safe and warm, so that he didn't
have to face the elements. But it really got worse in the last hundred years,
when we concentrated on welfare programs, health care, and started taking care
of the physically or mentally deficient. We cheated natural selection.
Because the weaker members of our society were protected, they survived, and
because they survived, they bred. The weaker genes were not weeded out due to
natural selection, and gradually the entire human species became weaker, until
we became wholly dependant on our man-made artifices to cheat natural
selection."
Lloyd also looked thoughtfully downward. "And then there was the Great
Plague? Is that why we have to wear these suits?"
Lisa's eyes burned with tears. "Yes, love. The Great Plague came upon us
not long ago. A sudden outbreak of disease became a worldwide horror, because
our scientists couldn't find a cure for it fast enough. The disease spread
quickly, and millions upon millions died, because they had no natural defenses
left, and we couldn't even find the cause of the disease. Now we must remain
isolated from the natural environment, or else we will die like they did."
Lloyd mustered the courage to look into Lisa's deep brown eyes. "But it's
unbearable! Is this what mankind has come to?
What can we do about it?"
Lisa broke the contact by averting her eyes. "Nothing, Lloyd, except
live."
Lloyd looked about him, through the clear plastic suit, at the antiseptic
white walls, and the sterile linoleum floor. "If you can call this life."
Orny
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME THREE NUMBER ONE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Review: CATS HAVE NO LORD Rich Jervis
Narret Chronicles: 5 Mari Paulsen
Featured Author: CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF Orny
Review: Chris Condon
X-Editorial
Hello, and welcome back! School is back in session, and here is the first
issue of the year. Unfortunately, due to a lack of submissions, the summer
volume only consisted of two issues, but I am hoping that with the return to
school there will be a corresponding increase in submissions. Remember, this
is your zine, and I can't do it alone. An entire zine by me would be boring,
anyways, so for all of you who have thought about submitting anything, please
do!
Well, hopefully next issue will be out soon, depending on the number of
submissions. I hope that this issue is not too slow, since it is composed
almost entirely of reviews. Of course, Mari Paulsen's Narret Chronicles
continues, and the featured author column this issue concentrates on
Christopher Stasheff's Gramayre books.
Well, I bid you welcome to volume three, and remind you that FSFnet cannot
continue without reader submissions, and also that there are a number of new
BITNET users who no doubt enjoy BITNET use but have yet to hear of FSFnet.
Please try to spread the word to anyone you think might be interested.
PS: Well, thanks to the link between YALEVM and MAINE, this issue is yet
another week late. Sorry about that. Also, look for a continuing fantasy
work called "The Aquisition" beginning next issue and the continuing Narret
science fiction series. Watch this space!
Orny
Review: CATS HAVE NO LORD
"...Dogs serve Ralkan the wolf king, horses answer to an aging mare named
Flowers, and ants obey Her Peerless and Exalted Majesty; Bzxxyl the 1842th,
mistress of the Universe and Eater of Treats. Yet cats have no lord...
Hawks serve Deathswoop the Daring, but all birds honor the Phoenix. Sharks
only share with the Hungry One, while all fish swim at Tam tuna's request.
Cobras turn at the command of the Hood of All-Potent Poison... Now, all snakes
revere Nosey Groundsnake. And so on.
Some wise folk claim that ther are creatures smaller that the eye can see.
If so, they're ruled by a Supreme Atomie, for so the God ordered all things
when She shaped the level of existence...."
"What has this matter of Cat Lords, or the lack thereof, to do with us?"
"My Order will pay each you each three thousand royals to climb World's
Peak, discover where the Wisest one lives there and ask her for the answer to
that riddle..."
This is the reason of CATS HAVE NO LORD, if not it's rhyme. And it's by no
means all there is to this smooth flowing novel by Will Shetterly. The main
characters, the acrobat/thief, the half-elven swordsman, the merry cleric, and
the most astute barbarian i've ever read, must find the Cat Lord while being
manipulated, helped and hindered by forces arcane and mundane.
Gamers and fans of Robert Aspirin's Thieves' World will find a familiar
feel to the novel, with the added plus of being one complete novel by one
author rather than a compendium of short stories.
This is not to say that 'straight' fantasy fans will be left out of the
action. Outside of beginning in an awkward way - the middle of a telepathic
discussion between a woman and her rather adroit horse - the world is full
fledged and easy to get into. Tensions between cities, lords and races (not
to mention the various Lords themselves) give an overtone that there is more
at stake than academic curiosity. It is almost a must that more will be heard
from this magical world.
CATS HAVE NO LORD by Will Shetterly, Ace Fantasy, New York, 5-85. Quoted
in part as a review and not intended to violate any copyrights pending.
-Richard Jervis <78KCK @ IRISHMVS>
THE NARRET CHRONICLES
BOOK THE FIFTH
"Well, it bears no Soviet markings at any rate, sir."
"Or any marking's of any kind for that matter, Captain Phillips."
"Well sir, what should we do now?"
"You try to establish radio contact with the bogie while I contact NORAD."
"They ought to be about ready to communicate by now," thought Samo. I had
best stop down the counter-universal communications descanner and encrypter.
"Seeker-1 to NORAD, come in NORAD, over."
"NORAD to Seeker-1, we read colonel, over."
"NORAD, we have established visual contact with the bogie, have found
neither hostile nor friendly markings of any kind. Trying to establish radio
contact at this time. Awaiting further instructions, over."
"Seeker-1, proceed with communications interface and report any necessary
changes in flight pattern, over."
"NORAD, we copy, Seeker-1 out."
"Any luck captain?"
"None, sir. There's no response on the standard frequencies at all."
"That's not surprising, let's face it - that's not exactly your standard
craft were up against. Try the international hailing frequency."
"All right sir... Seeker-2 to unmarked craft, Seeker-2 to unmarked craft,
please respond."
"Well," said Samo, "what do you know... they communicate. It took them so
long to find the right frequency I was beginning to have doubts."
"Unmarked craft to Seeker-2 - responding..." Samo said into the
communications device."
"Unmarked craft you have violated the airspace of the United States of
America. Please identify yourself or we will be forced to shoot you down."
"Friendly people." Samo said to himself. "I am Sgt. Dr. Samo Ht. I come on
a mission of trans-universal importance. I am here to prevent a possible
global war. Mine is a mission of peace, over."
"Well, Dr. Ht, this is Colonel William Roberts, US Air Force. I don't know
who you are, or where you come from but if yours is a mission of peace as you
claim, then I must ask you to cooperate. At this time you are approaching the
western boundary of our airspace. I must ask you to turn your ship around and
continue in this formation due east until we receive clearances for landing.
Will you cooperate?"
"Yes of course, I'll cooperate. Tell your superiors what I have told you,
I come in peace, and tell them also that I must speak to the leaders of the
two belligerent nations before an international forum."
"Seeker-1 to NORAD come in NORAD, over."
"NORAD to Seeker-1 we read, over."
"NORAD, we have established radio contact. The pilot of the craft is
cooperating and states he is on a mission of peace. He also requests to
address the President of the United States and the Premier of the Soviet Union
before the assembled ambassadors of the United Nations. Over."
"Seeker-1 the President is in his Oval Office, at this hour, and is being
briefed on your situation. Proceed on a course for Dover Air Force Base,
bearing 120 at 25,000 ft. We will notify the President of the pilot's
requests and relay further orders as they we receive them, over."
"NORAD, proceeding 120 degrees at 25,000 feet, Seeker-1 out..."
"...Dover Control to Seeker-1, come in Seeker-1, over."
"Dover Control this is Seeker-1, over."
"Seeker-1, you are no longer under NORAD command. Permission for landing is
granted. Proceed to dock alien craft in hanger-81, and place your Blackbirds
in hanger 71 Alpha."
-Mari A. Paulsen
Featured Author: CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF
Born in New York state in 1944, Christopher Stasheff grew up immersed in
the developing years of both television, radio, and science fiction
literature. Stasheff maintains that de Camp and Pratt's "Inconpleat
Enchanter" is the single largest influence on his style, followed by Lester
del Rey's "Day of the Giants" and "The Sky is Falling". After writing two
unpublished novels, Stasheff began writing a text for a contest sponsored by
the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Although the manuscript was
never completed until 8 months after the contest deadline, Stasheff sent the
book to Ace, who published it as "The Warlock In Spite of Himself". He has
also published three other books: "King Kobald" (and "King Kobald Revived"),
"The Warlock Unlocked", and "Escape Velocity".
There is some question as to the chronological order in which these novels
fit together. For simplicity, they will be discussed in order of publication,
rather than chronological order. "The Warlock In Spite of Himself" is the
story of Rod Gallowglass, an interstellar explorer, and his adventure in
trying to establish democracy on a long-lost planet of medievals (founded by
members of the Society for Creative Anachronism, no less). Rod discovers an
interstellar conspiracy across time trying to oppose him, and he and his
robot-brained horse, Fess (who is subject to seizures due to an engineering
problem), have their hands full trying to stymie their foes, occasionally
using superior technology, which earns Rod an unwanted reputation as a
warlock. An exceptional book.
"King Kobald" was published in 1970, although before the recent Ace reprint
of the series, Stasheff rewrote the book, and retitled it "King Kobald
Revived". This book takes place approximately two years after the previous
book, and describes a further threat from the forces opposing Rod's effort to
steer the planet, Gramayre, back to democracy. His role as Royal Warlock is
influential in defending Gramayre from an invasion of Neanderthals with
strange telepathic powers. An excellent book, with plenty of excitement and
wonderfully developed characters. The new version is much improved over the
original, due to the rewrite, but it does not contradict the other books in
the series.
"The Warlock Unlocked" is begun following two characters, Rod, of course,
begins the novel some 6 years after "King Kobald", and Father Al Uwell, a
priest of the Order of St. Cathode, an engineering saint. Uwell is being sent
to Gramayre by the church to monitor Rod, since he has become so involved in
the fight for democracy. meanwhile, Rod and his Gramayre family (wife and
four children) are transported to another world, and must discover the way
back to Gramayre before the forces against him overthrow all his works. He
meets up with Father Al, who has been tracking him, and together the group has
a number of very unique adventures. A very fast-paced book, indeed.
"Escape Velocity" is the only book of the series that does not concentrate
on the events on Gramayre, and is more science fiction than fantasy. In this
book, which takes place long before the establishment of Gramayre, Dar Mandra
and company must reach Terra before a coup planned by the LORDS overthrows the
democratic Interstellar Dominion Electorate. Unfortunately, someone in the
upper echelons has it out for Dar, and spreads the rumor that Dar and his
group are horrible telepaths, out to pry into every citizen's secret thoughts
and desires. In the following panic, Dar manages to reach Terra. This book
is perhaps the most interesting of the series, as the characters are all
fantastic and yet somehow believable. Though the action is interesting and
riveting, the end of the book comes too fast, and seems less well-written than
the beginning of the book. In this book, the founding of Gramayre (which
later is lost during a "twilight" of democracy and then later found by Rod
Gallowglass) is described.
In all the books, Stasheff's style is very enjoyable and readable. his
characters are all excellently depicted, and there is no lack of plot
movement. His Gramayre books are an excellent fantasy work, and "Escape
Velocity" is a very good piece of science fiction. His style is easily
adaptable to either genre, since it does not concentrate so much on the
environment, but on the human characters and their relations with other
humans. Altogether an excellent study in characterization, and also an
excellent read!
-Orny
Review: THE SAGA OF PLIOCENE EXILE
by Julian May
A four book series:
The Many-Colored Land
The Golden Torc
The Nonborn King
The Adversary
All kidding aside, this set of books is some of the best SF I have ever
read. It is chock full of truly interesting characters, plot twists,
insight, high tech and (yes!) even some action. There are several plots
running at once. MAIN CHARACTERS actually DIE! The GOOD GUYS (if you can
tell who they are) DON'T always win! It is a delight to read and so
sprawling in it's plot that it is difficult to describe.
Without giving too much away, this is how the story works: Sometime in the
not-too-distant future humanity is part of a Galactic Milieu of minds.
There are many metapsychics that are part of this "cosmic unity". The psychic
powers (such as coercion, psychokinesis, etc.) are supposed to be genetic
traits. Those people with latent abilities have no way to make
themselves operant metapsychics.
Enter the time-gate: A scientist puts together a one way time-gate
which runs six-million years into the past. Notice: ONE WAY. Anything that
enters the time gate from the pliocene takes on the burden of six
million years of aging. Until his death he keeps the gate running as a
curiosity. Upon his death his wife supports herself by sending PEOPLE on a
one way trip into the past. Many of those disgruntled latent
metapychics take that ticket to get way from it all.
This time gate tripping goes on for many years. We then meet a group of
time travelers and follow them on their journey into the past. Instead of a
"Riverworld" type of society they find a Europe inhabited by an alien
race! These Tanu use torcs to make themselves and latent humans
operant metapychics as well as enslave those that are not latents.
Can humanity be freed from the slavery of the torcs? Do they want to be?
Is the time gate really one-way?
That little synopsis covers the first fifty pages of the first book without
giving away the juicy details. Those of you that have already read the book
know that I haven't even gotten to the really good stuff. This is too good
to spoil. It's in paperback so it won't bust your wallet to read it. Trust
me. Read it during the summer when you have time to get really involved in
it.
-Chris Condon
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME THREE NUMBER TWO
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
X-Editorial
Well, here we are! Sorry about the delay in getting issue 3-2
out, but I had to be sure the Narret Chronicles continued, and I'm
sure you'll be pleased with this copy. We start off with the first
part of a four part fantasy story by Roman Olynyk which I'm sure
will captivate you. The next article is a short story idea I came up
with which is interesting, although the copy in this issue is only a
rough draft. The idea is: What if an alien came to a post-holocaust
Earth and tried to figure out what went on, and came to the
conclusion that automobiles were the dominant life form? Finally, we
close with chapter four of the Narret Chronicles, which is drawing
towards an enthralling climax! I'm sure you will enjoy this issue
and the ones that will follow.
In news, the seventh Thieve's World book has been released by
Ace, and is titled "the Dead of Winter". This seems to be an
improvement over the previous books, and will be reviewed in issue
3-3 of FSFnet. If you are looking for it, note that the old cover
art by Walter Velez has been replaced by Gary Roddell. There is also
a new Tekumel novel out by M.A.R. Barker and DAW, called
"Flamesong". An earlier FSFnet had Mr. Barker as a featured author
and reviewed the first Tekumel book, "the Man of Gold". Finally,
Houghton Mifflin and Christopher Tolkien have combined once again to
bring us a new work, called "the Lays of Beleriand". The book
(available only in hardcover) contains several partial poems, but
concentrates on the two major stories of the Silmarillion, the
former being the Tale of Turin Turambar, and the latter being, of
course, Beren and Luthien. The two are written as "the Lay of the
Children of Hurin" and "the Lay of Leithian".
There has also been renewed interest in a BITNET Diplomacy game.
The game, marketed by the now defunct Avalon Hill Game Company, is a
classic board wargame. Anyone interested in getting a game together
(using standard postal Diplomacy rules) please get in contact with me.
Well, enough is enough! Read on and enjoy!
-Orny
THE ACQUISITION
Part One: The Tavern
Far to the east, in a land more cold than warm, was nestled the
small village of Gorod. The village was situated on the plains, and
it was surrounded by distant mountains topped with dense forests of
hardwood trees. The people of Gorod were peasant folk. Stocky and
fair-haired, they farmed the rich fields and plied their simple
trades. Seldom, if ever, did anyone chance to venture from the
village. More seldom, still, did they ever return.
In the middle of Gorod stood a tavern of rough-hewn wood. The
tavern was called the Antlers, for that was what hung over the
doorway. The antlers were sun-bleached, bony white and porous,
marking their age in seasons. Fare at the Antlers was meager. The
only beverage served was mead. The mead was stout, however, and it
was the best in the village. In the evening, as the sun went down,
villagers would cease their labors and stop by for a brew and a meal
before subsequently dropping off to a restful sleep. This pastime
usually was limited to the younger folk who still had energy left
after a day's work.
Today, however, was different. The tavern bustled with farmers
anxious to hear the latest reports. A monstrous sow, which only a
few remaining elders remembered, had returned. The return of Kathryn
was news indeed!
Kathryn was far from being an ordinary sow. Some believed her to
be a demon wrought by the curse of Baba Yaga. Others thought she was
the reincarnation of Baba Yaga, the evil sorceress who had died more
than a century ago. Still recalled in tales around the hearth, the
tale of Baba Yaga was now considered as more of a children's story.
This day, even men of stout heart shivered at the mention of
Kathryn. From whence Kathryn returned, no one knew. When her foul
temper suited her, she would leave the dark forest and raze the
fields, burn the summer crops with her breath and ravage all in her
path. The countryside was blighted.
"Yeauh, I saw her!" said the Miller. "She was big as a bull, she
was. Her mouth was full of big awful teeth." The Miller grimaced to
illustrate the remark with his own jagged dental work.
"Who's going to drive her away?" asked the farmer who first saw
her.
"I saw her too," added another farmer. "She spit out a fiery
froth and set my rye ablaze. My crop is lost. What am I going to do?"
"Someone should go after her and kill her," suggested another
farmer.
Nobody looked the farmer in the eye. Nobody even wanted to hint
that he might wish to undertake such a task, for it seemed true;
Baba Yaga had returned in some other form.
"Who's going to drive her away?" Asked the same worried farmer
as he wrung his hands.
"Anyone who is fool enough to follow her back into the forest
will never return," commented another.
The door to the tavern opened and a wobbly-legged figure wended
its way around the oaken benches to find a seat near the kegs.
"Yeauh, that's a fact," sneered the Miller as he eyed Banewood
staggering through the door. "Maybe our Shaman can fix her one of
his spells. Kathryn'd get so dizzy that she might burn herself into
a hole!" Everyone laughed at the Miller's remark and at their
stumbling Shaman, who had been attempting to induce a vision by
smoking some hebona. Banewood still reeled and talked to the air as
he tried to pour himself a draught. Everyone laughed again,
forgetting Kathryn for the moment.
The apprentice Shaman sat with his mead and weathered the jeers
brought on by the Miller. Banewood wondered why he came to the
Antlers rather than stay at home to sleep off the effects of the
powerful smoke that he had used for divination. He found a quiet
seat far from the burly Miller and sipped from his flagon of mead.
His head cleared slowly. Banewood recalled his latest trance, a
flying vision through the forest to what appeared to be a
dilapidated hovel. From the darkened door peered two crimson eyes -
eyes that haunted Banewood for the remainder of his trance.
Kathryn could hardly be forgotten. She was black and as large as
the largest bull, just as the Miller had described. From her mouth,
which bristled with large and irregular teeth, she could spew a
cloud of caustic vapor that ignited objects it came in contact with.
The fact that Kathryn's eyes were red brought on the notion that she
was really Baba Yaga.
When she had lived, Baba Yaga was known for her blazing red eyes
which defied description. They shone of their own light - a bright,
bloody red glow. Tales of her sorcery were numerous. She was known
to fly and to take on animal forms. In any form she took, she worked
solely for evil. Never actually seeking mastery over men, she
controlled them only long enough to bring them to ruin. As an
outcast throughout her life, Baba Yaga came to hate humans or any
reminder that life was good.
To the inhabitants of Gorod, Baba Yaga seemed to live far beyond
her years. As time progressed, she made fewer appearances, but her
evil work continued through lesser genii who were under her mastery.
Eventually there came rumors of her death. Her demise was never
confirmed, for no one had ever approached her dwelling within the
dark forest. Whenever a marauding beast met its end, it was with the
anticipation that it might have been Baba Yaga in one of her forms.
Deathly visages, the skins of wolves and bears and a large stuffed
owl adorned the tavern wall, silent reminders that the black forest
was never far away.
When the wide doors opened again, they offered Sod the plowman
to the gossiping crowd. Sod was dressed in the brown, earth-crusted
clothes of a farmer. He was richly tanned and had the muscular
heaviness as befited his trade. Within his brow, his eyes were deep
and clear. They sparkled with a life seen in few other faces of the
village. This time, worry lines corded across the plowman's brow.
Sod went to Banewood and sat before the smiling Shaman. In his
hands, Sod carried a burlap bundle, which he placed carefully on the
table before Banewood. A crowd gathered as Banewood unwrapped it.
Silently and soberly, Banewood lifted the cloth and revealed a sword.
Before the wide eyes of the gathered crowd lay a sword of
unsurpassed beauty. It was about two cubits long, but it had the
grace and balance of a finely wrought instrument. The sword had the
gloss and weight of a material more like porcelain than metal; it
rang clearly when struck. Unadorned, the hilt was of a hard, white
material which shone immaculately. The edge was keen.
Sod looked as amazed and perplexed as Banewood. The strong but
unassuming plowman gazed steadily at the sword. The two, sword and
person, appeared almost as if they were measuring one another.
"The sword looked just like this when my plow turned it up."
Said the plowman, breaking the silence which had accumulated.
At once, theories were offered as to the possible origin of the
sword.
"It looks like it was made by magic," Said a farmer.
"It was probably made by Pollocks," snarled the Miller, who
washed his remark with a gulp of mead. The Miller, who seemed
spiteful of everything, resented his life and occupation, and he
thought that everyone should share his bitterness. To the Miller,
such crude remarks were an anodyne for the harsh realities of life.
"The sword is crafted as if it is beyond age," Banewood
countered. He shot a reproachful look at the Miller. "Yet it looks
as if it might have just been forged." It could have been made by
the Ludki, he thought silently to himself.
The Ludki were a legendary race of little people fabled for
their craftsmanship with metals. They were reputed to be
peace-loving, Banewood said "For those who believe that the present
holds the greatest marvels, I say: Look again and consider this
ancient treasure! There is some timeless magic within it."
The Shaman felt more power emanating from the strange weapon
than he stated openly. His knowledge of lore extended far beyond the
simple life of Gorod, yet he was at a loss to determine the history
of the sword. It could have been crafted by the Ludki but... his
knowledge was incomplete.
Banewood was a loner. He was twice orphaned: once by his parents
who perished in a blaze, and once by the Shaman who'd adopted him,
only to die himself several years later. The Shaman had only just
begun the long task of training his apprentice. When the Shaman
died, Banewood was left with only his master's books and the
roughest of outlines to follow in his quest for the greater
knowledge. Because Banewood continued on the road to knowledge with
no guide, a task never attempted before, he would often err. The
apprentice would sometimes find himself wandering alone in a
stuporous haze brought on by smoking some of the strange concoctions
left by the Shaman. Once, the Shaman lived, Banewood had a guide to
help him through these tortuous visions which helped to give a
Shaman his knowledge and opened the secret doors of power to him.
Now alone, Banewood faltered like a man blind. His acquisition of
power was slow and unsure.
Banewood noticed how well the sword fit the hand of the plowman.
When Sod hefted it, the sword moved easily, as if it were pliant
with the wishes of its wielder.
When the crowd at the Antlers had all viewed the sword, the
conversation turned to the possible use of the sword against
Kathryn. They talked of what damage such a sword could do to its
victim. Each offered his opinion of a sufficiently brave fellow, one
other than himself. A challenge to one's manhood was quickly
answered by bluster and puffery but not by a volunteer.
"Yeauh, maybe our Shaman could fix up one of his..."
"Shut up!" Came the unexpected response from the usually demure
Banewood.
The Miller sat transfixed, his hand at his throat, unable to
utter a sound. There was silence.
"What did you do to him!" Yelled one of the Miller's companions
as he started to lunge for Banewood.
At that instant, the room resounded with a loud bang and the
splintering of wood. One of the large oaken tables lay on the
ground, cloven in two. The lunging man stopped in his tracks and
stared in disbelief. Sod, still holding the sword, blushed. His only
response to the crowd of farmers was a firm, "I'll do it."
Comraderie again filled the air. Fresh kegs were tapped and
toasts were offered to Sod. Men normally distant to Sod hugged him
to show their admiration for him, to bask in reflected glory and to
wish the best of luck to the doomed fellow.
"Yes, with such a weapon, one could take on Baba Yaga herself!"
said a distant relative to Sod who wondered of his own claim to the
doomed man's land and oxen.
Sod left the celebration early. He needed to sleep and to ponder
the consequences of his decision. "What had happened?" he asked
himself. He had been fondling the hilt of the sword when the near
fight had broken out. He had been weighing a decision to seek the
monstrous sow and had made his resolution as the Miller made his
last remark. Sod had only thought of stopping the incipient brawl by
slapping his weapon down on the table. It was a common method of
gaining attention. Now he found himself alone on a vain quest.
Sod the plowman lived alone in his hut of modest means. The
modesty was of twofold nature: Sod spent his long days in the fields
and his nights resting from the day's labors, and Sod's livelihood
as a plowman brought him only a meager subsistence. Sod enjoyed his
occupation, for he knew he must make the best of his situation;
chances were that it would be for life. The physical exertion of
guiding a plow did not demand a similar mental exertion. Therefore,
Sod spent his working time dreaming of other lives and other worlds
- noble dreams in the mind of a simple man. In Sod's fantasy, he
would roam the kingdom as a knight errant, working deeds for glory
and profit, for surely people paid well for such special services.
These were mere dreams, however, and Sod realized that he possessed
neither the ability nor the courage to live the life of a hero.
And now what was he to do? He was commited to a suicidal quest
on the basis of momentary courage. What could he say? He found a
strange and unique weapon and that weapon offered itself as a
chance, a fleeting opportunity that must be seized and used at the
instant it was offered. Sod was unaccustomed to making such hasty
decisions, but equally, he was unaccustomed to receiving
opportunities. Sod the plowman dropped off to sleep, still clutching
his new sword.
In the early morning Sod awoke to the usual sound of birds
chirping outside his dwelling. He had already packed the meager
belongings he wished to take on his journey. Crafting a makeshift
strap, Sod girded the newfound sword to his side and stepped outside
to begin his journey. He almost stumbled across a reclining figure.
"Banewood! What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you. I'm going with you," Banewood said as he
limberly rose without the aid of his hands. A satchel lay at his
side and a quiver full of arrows hung across his back. The old
Shaman's longbow was gripped by Banewood's left hand.
"Don't you realize that this is going to be a dangerous trip?
Few venture into the forest to return again."
"Yes, I realize the consequences. I have a knowledge of the
trees, and besides, two can travel safer than one." Banewood didn't
mention that he'd already decided to attempt the quest himself.
Sod slapped his new comrade on the back and silently thanked his
luck that he would have a companion on such a fateful journey.
Together, they marched down the dusty path that led away from Gorod
and across the fields. On their walk they passed by stooped women
already gathering herbs from their gardens. A few men were working
in the fields. The men stopped momentarily to wave to the departing
travelers. The night's comraderie was worn and forgotten.
If they had talked about this journey and their reasons for
going, Banewood and Sod would each have realized their similarity.
Banewood's quest for knowledge was proceeding slowly, much too
slowly. Still, Banewood felt that he knew as much as any man in
Gorod about the ways of their world. Banewood knew that something
had to be done about Kathryn. If Gorod didn't offer a means to the
solution, then maybe the answer lay elsewhere. Sod, on the other
hand, was not on a quest for any knowledge - he was instead trapped
in the occupation of the plowman. His work had dignity, though, and
Sod felt good about it. The sword changed Sod's outlook, though. He
felt that fate was offering him some sort of opportunity - that
given the means to accomplish something, he must seize the
opportunity and act upon it. Somehow, it seemed that the sword was
capable of slaying Kathryn, and all it took was the resolve to
accomplish it.
-Roman Olynyk
2100 AND COUNTING
The Ivory is in orbit around a planet named Foren-4. Once this
planet was home to an indigenous sentient species, but they are now
extinct. Had the invention of FTL drive come a mere few decades
earlier, I would be supervising the first contact between sentient
life forms. Maybe we could have helped them avoid their extinction
somehow. But now I am in charge of a group of archaeologists and
anthropologists, sifting through the dust that has gathered about
the bones of this once-great civilization.
Physically, the natives of this planet seem to have been
mechanical in nature. They were quadrupedal, and made primarily of
rare metals, which would indicate a synthetic nature. It is too
early to venture a hypothesis as to the origin of this species, but
I would guess that they were created by an elder race as robotic
servants who, for some reason, outlived their creators. From my
several expeditions to the surface, I have come to several
preliminary conclusions which shall be discussed in the following
report.
At a site the team visited in a place called "Detroyt-Michigan"
we found evidence supporting the hypothesis that the robots are
constructed by other nonsentient species of robots. There is no
evidence of an organized religion, and there are several reports of
large communal graves, called, in the vernacular, "junkyards".
There is very little evidence of a political system or
hierarchy, though evidence points to a system of self-government and
equality. Whether this leans towards anarchy or democracy is unknown
at this point, although further research is at this moment being
conducted.
There is, however, a vast number of observable social phenomena.
The entire globe is crisscrossed with broad avenues for travelling
with laws to govern them. I found an example of the organization of
these ways at a junction of two streets, where there were lights
which flashed "DON'T WALK" when it was unlawful or dangerous to
continue, and "WALK" when it was safe. This observation led me to
the conclusion that there was a global organization of the race. The
roads often pass by majestic views and natural phenomena, indicating
that there was a distinct respect for the natural environment from
which the race developed.
At one site I came across a large area where individuals could
gather for social interaction and entertainment. These areas, called
"Drive-Ins" have been found in several locations on Foren-4. At
other sites have been discovered large tracks where the robots could
run around and keep themselves healthy. The names "Daytona" and
"Indy" have been preserved as names of favorite tracks. This
indicates that the robots were concerned with their well-being and
perhaps enjoyed sports.
It seems that the race had also developed a sense of beauty, for
at several sites have been found structures where what were
considered the most physically attractive members of the species
were displayed behind large glass windows. These "showrooms" were
often placed close to the walkways, so that individuals could walk
by and admire the beauty of the species.
Very little has been determined about the language of the
natives, though two important facts have been interpreted. Firstly,
the language was written, as the walkways that cross the globe often
were decorated with large signs bearing messages that we have yet to
interpret. Also interesting is that the robots communicated in very
high frequencies, in the range of radio waves.
Unfortunately, very little has been determined concerning the
family structure of the natives, though there is a little to go on.
At most sites, the individuals lived in small buildings called
"garages" in nuclear family groups of usually no more than three
individuals.
At this point, I feel that the civilization at Soren deserves
much more study, as we have, in this mission, only been able to
grasp the most obvious facts about the race which once inhabited
this planet. I would hope that this expedition will be extended for
an indefinite period to gather more accurate and in-depth information.
-Orny
NARRET CHRONICLES
Book the Fourth
Samo landed Narret-1 as they requested, in hanger-81, which was
not surprisingly full of anxiously awaiting scientists, and waited
for further instructions.
The scientists, mainly aerospace engineers, with a few
astronomers thrown in for good measure, gathered around the ship,
some of them speculating how the ship was propelled, others eagerly
awaiting an explanation from Samo. close!! Well, I guess I shouldn't
expect much from them, being as belligerent as they are. Still,
you'd think they would have at least begun to think in binary
instead of that awkward decimal system of theirs. I'll have to
suggest it to them before I leave." thought Samo.
Time to make an entrance, Samo thought as he changed the
polarity setting on his daser-dewelder. Using this as a laser
cutting torch, he opened the door to the craft. A flood of dazzling
brightness the likes of which no one had ever seen rushed into the
hanger, momentarily blinding everyone in the room.
"I'm sorry about that." Samo said as he stepped down from the
spherical craft, "It's one of the affects of trans-universal travel,
when a body full of darktron radiation undergoes a
matter-anti-matter reaction, then that radiation gets converted to
light, provided it isn't turned to pure energy and is vaporized
during the light-warp of course."
"It's effect should last only a few minutes, but you those of
you looking at the door as I opened it may be seeing spots for a
short while. It is generally considered about the same as looking
directly at your sun for a moment with the unaided eye."
"In the meantime, I'm sure you must have some questions. I shall
entertain a few of them now if you like. However any questions
pertaining to why I am here must and shall be floored before an
international forum."
"I'm sorry gentlemen, but Dr. Ht wont be able to answer your
questions just yet," interrupted Colonel Roberts as he entered the
hangar. "He has to go through the post-flight debriefing procedure
that is undergone by all intercepted aircraft, being an alien makes
no exception."
What am I saying? Of course it makes an exception, he thought to
himself. This is crazy!!
"Dr. Ht will be available to answer all your questions after he
answers the Air Force's questions, and he addresses the United
Nations. Arrangements are being made at this hour for a special,
secret meeting of the United Nations, in response to your request.
Now Dr Ht. if you'll come with us we'll go to the debriefing room."
"I'm sure you realize how very irregular this situation is,
we're doing the best we can to have this meeting organized, but not
all of the countries are as eager to respond as you may have thought."
"Oh, don't worry about the others, I have the feeling they will
be coming," said Samo.
"We have several questions for you and, given the circumstances,
I hope you can see why we feel we need to ask them. This shouldn't
take very long, please bear with us," said Colonel Roberts.
"First of all," began Captain Phillips, "Will you state for the
record once again where it is you come from and why you're here?"
"I come from the Planet Sunaru in the Narret System, by a
technology much more advanced than your own. The Narret System is a
stellar counter-part to your own solar system, within the
counter-universe. My home planet is the Planet Amrif Arret. It
corresponds directly to this planet, Earth. I am here because we
believe you humans have pushed the threat of global nuclear war to
the brink of a disaster of cosmological proportions. What your
people have failed to realize is that there is an entirely contrary
universe out there, ours, which is the exact complement to your own
universe. And, quite simply, those things which you choose to
destroy here will also cause their complement in the
counter-universe to be destroyed. My people will not sit back and
watch our complement world destroy us, our peace, our prosperity,
all that which we value highly. Thus it was decided that I should be
sent to give a warning to the human race, and do whatever I deemed
necessary to preserve peace here."
"Secondly, what is it you want from the United States, officially?"
"On my journey here, which takes light some 16 of your years
within this universe alone (for us it is faster) I studied the
history of your world and found no concepts of virtue and moral
wealth greater than those noble statements recorded in your
Declaration of Independance, and your Constitution. I therefore
sought to begin seeking peace amongst those who value it most
greatly. It was simply logical, I assure you. I thought, and still
think your people will be most receptive to me, and to my necessary
appeal for peace."
"Very well, you've made your intent very clear Dr. Ht. We are
prepared to let you have the forum you requested, this very
afternoon. Until then though our scientists would like to give you a
complete physical to determine if you're undergoing any serious
side-effects from--"
"At the risk of sounding a bit facetious, I hardly think any of
your physicians could be called competent in examining me. Primarily
since they don't know what my 'norm' is. Honestly, how can they
expect to determine whether or not I'm undergoing any side-effects?
Obviously then, what they really want is to stick me full of needles
and try to make some heads or tails out of my AND molecular
structure. So, why didn't you just ask that in the first place? I
can provide them with all the necessary data from my ship's bio-log
computer, and a small blood sample to verify the truth of my data.
Isn't that what they really want?"
"Yes, I would imagine that would suffice. Any knowledge you can
give us about your people would be of great use and be much appreciated."
"Good, then no needles will be necessary. If there's one thing I
can't stand its a bunch of curious physicians sticking needles in
every appendage of my body. I hate needles..."
-Mari A. Paulson
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME THREE NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
X-Editorial
Well, folks, again I find myself apologizing for the lateness of
this issue. Unfortuantely I have been busy with my new job. For
those of you who are not already aware, I now have a new id, LISCOMB
at MAINE, as well as NMCS025. Should NMCS025 be unavailable, I may
be reached at LISCOMB, but for the time being FSFnet will continue
to be sent from NMCS025. Other news is that the most recent issue of
FSFnet can be found on CSNEWS at MAINE's ComDisk and can be
requested using TELL CSNEWS AT MAINE SENDME FSFNET VOLxNxx FROM COMDISK.
Also in the works is a new project for all people interested in
writing amateur fantasy fiction. A group of FSFnet contributors and
myself have begun a writers' workshop very similar in structure to
the Thieves' World project undertaken by Robert Aspirin. Several
authors have begun developing characters and stories, all based in
an area known as Dargon. FSFnet VOL4N01 should contain the first
written results of this project, and will be in your reader in
mid-January. If any of you budding authors are interested in joining
the effort, send me a mail file and I'll be glad to fill you in.
Unfortunately, there is no Narret Chronicle in this issue due to
the fact that I cannot get in touch with the author. Hopefully we
will get Narret back before volume 4 starts.
Finally, I'd like to remind you all that it's the holiday
season, and everyone's got a new book out. New McCaffrey, Anthony,
Tolkien, Adams, Daley, Asimov, Stasheff, and anyone else you can
think of. No time to review them all right now. Next issue the
Acquisition will continue, and I'll review M.A.R. Barker's new
Tekumel book, Flamesong, and, if I get it read, Norman Spinrad's
Star Spangled Future. Until then!
-Orny
THE ACQUISITION
Part Two: The Forest
Beyond the short expanse of cultivated fields, the two travelers
soon crossed the boundary of scrub that marked the edge of the
forest. At first, the woods were characterized by light beeches,
birches and poplars. The leaves of the poplars were waxy and rustled
crisply in the soft breeze.
Banewood recalled his early childhood when he would venture into
the light woods in search of edible mushrooms, a favored delicacy of
the local people. With his sharp and experienced vision he could
still pick out his favorites protruding through the fallen leaves.
It was here, while gathering mushrooms that Banewood heard many of
the childhood tales and legends passed to him by his parents: tales
of the Ludki, those mischievous little people who lived deep within
the forest and tales of Lessy, the Silvan Lord, who made strange
animal sounds and led lost children astray. Banewood remembered how
his father would then make animal sounds and frighten him for the
rest of the day. Stories of Baba Yaga, embellished over the years,
would cause tears of fright to well up into young Banewood's eyes.
Now, years older, Banewood still felt the burning in his face as he
realized that Baba Yaga might be real and that he might meet face to
face with the blistering eyes of Kathryn.
As the two journeyed onward, the character of the forest
changed. Dark oaks and towering elms now lined their path. The
leaves of years lay upon the ground, crackling with every step.
Animal sounds diminished.
Banewood and Sod picked their way uphill, climbing an overgrown
path which led to an uncertain fate. Throughout the day, Banewood
and Sod walked the leagues of dark forest, constantly catching
cobwebs in the face and beleaguered by blood-thirsty deer flies
scenting their first human.
At the top of the rise, the two travelers paused to rest. Sod
sat still in the hope of delivering a killing blow to the ravenous
deer fly which had doggedly followed him during most of the climb.
"I think we should make our first camp here," said Banewood.
"We're on the nearest hilltop and we'll have ample warning of
anything approaching."
"Gotcha!" Sod finally killed the deer fly which had settle in
his hair for a fateful supper. Sod picked the scrawny insect from
his hair. "If we build a smoldering fire we might be able to spend a
night without these cursed flies." Sod gathered some dead twigs that
still hung on the tree. After arranging them carefully, he reached
into his bag and brought out his flint and steel. Within minutes a
small fire was being tended. Banewood walked the perimeter of their
encampment and stopped occasionally to pick at some plants growing
scattered on the ground. He returned and gave them to Sod.
"Here, use these on the fire. They'll keep away the flies better
than the smoke."
"Thank you," said Sod. He threw them on the small fire and
whiffed the fragrant aroma created by the consumed leaves. "How did
you learn so much about herbs?" asked Sod, who already knew the
answer. He was fighting his nervousness with small talk.
"Most of what I know comes from the Shaman," said Banewood
obligingly. "Now I have to learn from his books, but the details are
really meager. Most of the Shaman's knowledge was in his vast
memory. He said that certain books did exist. The Shaman said the
books were dangerous because they could fall into the wrong hands."
Banewood and Sod ate a meal of wafer bread and dried meat and
then slept lightly upon cushions of leaves and boughs laid upon the
ground. Shallow holes were dug out to provide recesses for their
hips. Smoldering coals kept away the night flies, but they didn't
ward off Banewood's evil dreams; the crimson eyes still haunted him.
Dawn came with the cry of a horned owl.
The dying coals were fed a breakfast of fresh tinder.
Hard-boiled eggs and a little herb tea saw the worried travelers on
their way. Revitalized by the rest, Banewood and Sod trekked down
the slope, meandering ever deeper into the dark forest. Soon
Banewood's sharp eye caught the first impression of the large cloven
hoofs that were to show them the way. The tracks were too large to
belong to anything else except Kathryn. Broken branches and an
uprooted tree lent credence to the supposition. To Sod's relief, the
tracks were fairly old.
Sod fretted about his decision to hunt the sow. The mysterious
sword whose hilt he often fondled didn't seem like a weapon that
could stop a charging sow. Funny how he thought that if he set his
mind to killing Kathryn, he would find a way. Could they do it by
craft and artifice? Maybe by setting up a dead fall or some other
booby trap? Funnier still was the feeling that it was the sword
which seemed to whisper that, given the resolve, Sod would be able
to meet the challenge.
Banewood and Sod journeyed down the slope, up the next hill and
down another slope. Leagues passed beneath their feet. They skipped
lunch and walked under the power of their stored energy. They
continued on slight paths which joined and separated through the
forest. Occasionally, Sod would stop to mark a tree at eye level,
entertaining the hope that they would somehow return by this route.
Banewood now walked with his bow in hand, ever keeping a watchful
eye on the path behind them.
The Shaman's longbow proved its value later in the day when
Banewood knocked down a squirrel with a special blunt-tipped arrow.
They carried the black squirrel with them after quickly field
dressing it. The little tree rat, as Banewood called it, had set up
a frightful chattering before it met its final doom. Sod and
Banewood both agreed that it would be a good idea to cover some more
distance before feasting on the tree rat. There was no telling what
attention was called by the noisy animal and, besides, they didn't
want to prepare the tree rat until they were ready to make camp.
The two journeymen walked with greater care after killing the
squirrel. Banewood regretted his slaying of the little tree rat. He
now had the uneasy feeling that the forest knew of their presence,
that they were somehow being watched. Sod sensed Banewood's distress
or maybe he, too, felt the paranoia. He tightened his grip on the
sword. Banewood now walked with an arrow nocked. His fingers
whitened from their tight grip.
Every minute sound that the two seekers made was amplified by
the forest. Once, when Banewood turned quickly around, he thought he
noticed a pair of amber eyes watching them, but they disappeared
quickly and he was no longer sure. Tension increased with every
step. Both travelers began to perspire. Suddenly, the explosion of a
dry twig snapping sent Banewood and Sod into a back-to-back
position, their weapons drawn and poised. An electric tension pulsed
within them, begging to surge, asking for release. But nothing happened.
No other sound was heard throughout the forest. After
excruciating minutes of silence, Banewood and Sod voted to resume
their walk. Several more hours of travel brought them to a small
stream in the forest. The water looked wholesome, affording the two
an opportunity to refill their flasks and to bathe. This looked like
the ideal place to pitch camp and prepare a welcome supper.
Banewood's tree rat no longer looked as appetizing; however, it was
the best food that they had. Throughout the meal and respite they
remained watchful, for the penetrating silence of the forest remained.
Evening had settled rapidly. Sod and Banewood ate near their
fire, slowly finishing their meal and conversing. The fire cast a
bright glow around the immediate circumference, but outside, the
darkness was forbidding. Sod thought again about his quest.
"If I hadn't found this sword, I probably would never have
attempted such a foolish venture," Sod thought to himself. "This
fine looking weapon is of too fine a quality for a man like me. I
wonder if I shouldn't give it to someone worthy of possessing such a weapon."
Aloud, Sod said "We've been in this forest for two days. It
doesn't appear to hold the danger I had anticipated."
"The danger lies in our laxness if we trust in our safety,"
replied Banewood, parrying Sod's wishful thought. "Tonight I am
sleeping with my bow in hand."
Speaking the unspoken, Sod said "Then you also feel like we've
been watched?"
"Ya," replied Banewood. "I thought I saw it once, a pair of
eyes. I've learned to trust my intuition."
Tensing and grabbing for his sword, Sod said "Your intuition was
right! Look! Out there, see those eyes? I don't think they're
friendly." Sod pointed in the direction of the creek.
They both stood up and moved around the fire, placing it between
themselves and the presence. The same amber eyes Banewood had
thought he'd seen earlier were slowly reeling toward them. When
their distance from the eyes was cut in half, Sod threw an armful of
dry tinder upon the fire and threw extra light out into the night.
"It's a wolf." Whispered Banewood.
"It's too big." Answered Sod, who was beginning to quake in his
boots. His sweaty fingers grasped the sword tighter. "How am I going
to kill the wolf if it attacks?" he thought, questioning his ability
to wield the sword.
A deep, gutteral growl emanated from the large slavering beast.
It crept forward with its belly low to the ground, ready to leap at
the instant. Sod raised his sword slightly and then cried out.
"Oh no!"
In the same instant that the fell beast launched itself toward
them, Sod's sword slipped out of his hand and dropped to the ground
at a distance. The lunging hulk darkened his view. Sod heard a
snapping chord like the sound of his heart breaking. The wind rushed
past his left ear.
In a massive thud, a large wolf, larger than any Sod had ever
seen or heard of before, fell at his side. Its eyes were wide open
and its lips were curled in a hideous grimace. A feathered shaft
protruded from its throat.
Banewood's hand rested on Sod's shoulder. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"You killed him. I thought I was going to die and, just as
suddenly, this wolf is dead instead. You've saved my life. How can I
repay you?"
"Don't worry; it all comes out in the wash. But what happened at
the last second? Why did you drop your sword?"
"I don't know... I guess my mind went blank. The sword seemed to
slip from my hands," said Sod. "I've never seen such a fine shot. I
think the wolf was dead before it hit the ground!"
"I've tipped some of my arrows with the juice of the aconitum;
it is a deadly poison."
"With such a weapon as yours, you could single-handedly slay Kathryn!"
"It won't work. I've already tried," answered Banewood.
Sod was taken aback by this. "There's certainly more to this
Shaman than meets the eye," he thought. Aloud, "When did you try that?"
"On the last night that Kathryn attacked I hid myself and loosed
my best arrow against her. It shattered as if it had hit a rock."
Sod was incredulous. "How are we ever going to stop her if she
is as you say?"
"I don't know. We'll think of something."
"Ya," Sod said without sincerity.
The wolf was enormous, but Banewood and Sod, after endeavoring
for the better part of an hour, managed to drag the beast away from
the camp. The two found no difficulty in dropping off to sleep, for
though the forest was still dangerous, it now possessed one less threat.
Dawn came without a sound. Banewood and Sod got up and fed the
fire and went to the creek for water. On the way, they looked for
the wolf, but it was gone! They searched around the area in the hope
that they were disoriented last night when they dragged the wolf
out. It was gone. Now a very real fear possessed them; it may have
been Baba Yaga. How else can a dead animal disappear? Sod's empty
stomach felt like it held a rock.
Suddenly, through the trees, they heard a musical voice.
Banewood and Sod quickly reached for their weapons. Through the tall
trees they could see an approaching figure. It was gaily dressed and
wore a tall, pointed hat with a feather in its band. It sang:
"Hey ho, hey ho,
the wolk's a dead you know.
for if it ain't a dead
then I'm a not alive
and I know I'd better go!"
The two stood with their mouths open. Marching straight up to
them was a short person, a very little person, with large round eyes
and a pudgy little nose.
"Hello, hello, my name is Stickleburr unless I'm not, of course."
Sod and Banewood found themselves face to face with one of the
Ludki. The childhood descriptions were indeed accurate. He looked so odd!
"I want to thank you for killing the great wolk because he's no
longer alive. He has been plaguing my people for years, but not for
years to come. Anyway, they're not really my people, they are their
own people, but I guess you wouldn't call us people, would you?"
Banewood spoke: "I...I thought that the wolf, I mean wolk,
wasn't dead, that maybe it was really Baba Yaga."
Stickleburr jumped. "Oh, no! I mean yes, it was really a wolk.
It's certainly dead now, isn't it? You two are heroes, unless of
course you don't think so. So that's the wolksmert, isn't it?" Said
Stickleburr pointing to Sod's strange sword.
"Wolksmert?" Replied Sod. "Oh, yes. Certainly." He laughed at
the irony, because "wolksmert" meant "wolfslayer" in the eastern tongue.
"Yes, most certainly," laughed Stickleburr. "You two can come
with me unless you can't. We want to thank you properly, and it's
not proper to thank you here."
Banewood and Sod agreed to follow the Ludki back to his home.
They quickly broke camp and gathered their belongings. They
whispered and laughed among themselves, marvelling at the strange
speech pattern of Stickleburr: Ludki always followed the assertion
of a positive statement with it's negative. It was a most curious
pattern of speech, but it wasn't curious at all to the Ludki.
Within a half-hour, the three came in sight of the Ludki
village. It was set in a small dale cleared of trees. Little houses
in the shape of bee hives lay haphazard about the village. Wisps of
smoke curled out of their tops. The Ludki were fond of smithing, as
was evident from the many miniature iron furnaces that sent their
black smoke up over the rooftops. The Ludki village had evidently
been in this location for some time because much of the area was
cleared of the hardwood trees essential for the making of charcoal
needed to smelt the iron.
The little people walked about in gaily colored clothes. The
Ludki men wore high pointed hats dressed up with bright feathers.
They were a happy folk. The air was full of whistling and the songs
of their merriment.
When Stickleburr and the two travelers approached, the village
folk poured out to meet the heros. Stickleburr began introducing his
family and the more prominent of the Ludki to the strangers. The
names came rapidly: Milfoil, Hyssop, Lavender, Mullien, Five
Fingers, Violet, and, well, you get the idea; they were all names of
plants that the Ludki were fond of. At the bark of orders from
Stickleburr, the Ludki busied themselves with preparations for a
great feast. The men set up tables and stools, built fires and
brought out kegs of mead. The Ludki women quickly filled their ovens
with various breads and foods until the heavenly aroma replaced the
acrid smell of smelting iron. The Ludki loved feasting and
merriment, and this occasion, as any other, was an excellent
opportunity to lay aside their work. The fearful wolk which had
terrorized the Ludki for so many years was dead, slain at the hands
of the tall folk and wolksmert.
Among the Ludki, wolksmert was the center of much attention.
Their large eyes beamed with admiration and the little hands
eagerly, but reverently, touched the fine metal. From the Ludki,
Banewood could learn nothing about the sword, but by their evident
joy at seeing it and the two travelers, the Ludki seemed strangely elated.
Even while the preparations were still underway, the eager
little Ludki began to celebrate with joyous abandon. Musicians began
their tunes and the mead was passed around. And such mead! Banewood
and Sod both drank and agreed that it was the best they had ever
tasted. How the Ludki could consume so much of it without the
obvious signs of inebriation, they couldn't guess.
During the feast, Stickleburr talked with the two strangers and
learned the reason for their sojourn into the deep forest. At the
news, Stickleburr balked but then regained his composure.
"Oh yes, we had most certainly believed that Baba Yaga had died,
for we had not seen her alive. And Kathryn, oh yes, we had heard
whisperings of her rampages, else we were deaf. Kathryn is Baba
Yaga? We most certainly hope she isn't!"
"Yes, most certainly," agreed Banewood.
Sod, careful not to spill a drop of the mead he was drinking,
looked at Stickleburr and asked, "Do you know of the way to the hut
of Baba Yaga?"
Stickleburr replied "No, no...well yes, sort of. I know the way
but I don't know how to get there. It's a long way off, although not
that far to someone as long-legged as you, though for yourselves,
I'm sure you're not all that long-legged."
Stickleburr was beginning to show some signs of inebriation.
Banewood and Sod sat back to enjoy the feast. They watched the
antics of the Ludki as they danced their high-kicking dances and
swung their arms in the air. With a shout, the dancers punctuated
the songs with a "hey!" At length, even the subdued travelers were
on their feet and kicking. The Ludki laughed and clapped to urge on
the long-legged dancers. Sod twirled like a top and bobbed like a
cork. At a feverish pace, he was caught-up in the festive mood.
Moments before he could dance no more, the song stopped with a
rousing "hey!"
Stickleburr was much impressed with the two travelers. After
slapping both of them on the shoulders, the squat little fellow
mounted a stump and cleared his throat.
"Ahem!" The crowd became silent. "I'd like to express the thanks
of all Ludki for what you two have done. We couldn't have done it ourselves."
Stickleburr brought out a long object and handed it to Sod.
"This is for the wolksmert unless it's for something else.
Sod looked at the fine-crafted sheath given to him by the Ludki.
The sword slid silently into it's scabbard. Sod expressed his thanks
with a smile and a nod.
"And these," continued Stickleburr, "are for the Banewood and
they're not for anyone else."
Banewood received a quiver full of fine, Ludki-crafted arrows
with razor-sharp metal heads. The shafts were straighter than any
Banewood had ever seen.
With great bombast, the swaying Stickleburr went on to offer the
friendship of the Ludki to Banewood and Sod. Much to his surprise,
Sod immediately took him up on his offer for assistance. This was a
surprise, because the Ludki had very traditional views of
hospitality. After favors, guests did not customarily ask for more.
But Sod did. He wanted to know the way to Baba Yaga's hut. The Ludki
blanched at such a request. Oh horrors! But it was only a request
for directions; the Ludki need not accompany the travelers. Anyway,
thanks to the mead, Stickleburr was in a jovial mood. He went so far
as to offer guidance to the outside of their realm.
-Roman Olynyk
Review: THE DEAD OF WINTER
Thieves' World Book Seven
Robert Lynn Aspirin's Thieves' World series continues in this
new paperback from Ace, and it is, in my opinion, quite a step up.
The most recent TW books have been, to me, a letdown. They were
bogged down with the heavy-handed politics of Sanctuary and were not
interesting to read. Book 7 starts slowly, but soon improves vastly
into what I believe to be the best TW book written to date. The
Veiled Lady, by Andrew Offut, is a very warm and amusing tale of
Ahdio, the keeper of Sly's Place in Downwind. When the Spirit Moves
You, by Aspirin, is also one of the best tales TW has put out, and
nowehere near as heavy-handed as previous efforts. The Color of
Magic by Diana Paxson returns us to the household of Lalo the Limner
and Gilla, who is taken captive by a Roxane who is determined to
sink Santuary in a storm of epic porportions. For me, however, the
most wonderful story was by Diane Duane, called Down by the
Riverside. It is an account of the death of Harran and what happens
when the twin goddesses Sivieni and the once-mute Mriga find out.
They and their dog, Tyr, elicit the aid of Ischade in a
wonderfully-depicted descent to Hell and back, and is filled with
surprises. Buy the book if just for this story!
This book is a must for TW fans, and a wonderful breath of fresh
air after the dry politics of the previous books. You may be
surprised to find that cover art is being done by Gary Ruddell, so
the book looks a little different, but you should have no trouble
finding it. Unless, of course, the bookstore runs out before you get
your copy!
-Orny
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME THREE NUMBER FOUR
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
X-Editorial
Well, I had this issue all set to go out before Christmas, and
then Yale went down for vacation. Sigh. Well, I guess late is better
than never. In this issue we continue with both the Acquisition and
the Narret Chronicles, thanks to Mari's staying up until 3am to type
it in. I hope you enjoy them. There will be one more issue in Volume
3, which will follow on the heels of this issue, before we start
Volume 4 and the Dargon writing project. By the way, I've rewritten
the FSFnet sending program again. Anyone who wants to change the
program I use to send their issues please mail me. You may choose
from: DISK DUMP (class N), PUNCH (noheader class m), and SENDFILE
(netdata). If anyone is really into CARD DUMP, I'll even use that!
For those of you who haven't heard, and didn't notice, FSFnet is
being sent out from a new id - CSDAVE at MAINE. Due to the work I do
on CSNEWS, NMCS025 has been changed to CSDAVE. FSFnets will continue
coming out, but from CSDAVE. NMCS025 is no longer in the CP
directory, so please forward any mail or messages to either CSDAVE
or LISCOMB at MAINE.
Finally, just when you thought it was safe to write a Thieves'
World review, TW 8 has just been released. More details (and a
review) as soon as possible!
-Orny
The Narret Chronicles
Book the Third
"Dr. Ht this is Dr. Terrence Seni of the Armed Forces Institute
of Pathology at Sir Walter Reed Medical Center, and Dr. Adam Tristy
of the American College of Surgeons. They will be examining you,
with your permission of course."
"Surely." said Samo
"Dr Seni is the nation's foremost pathologist, and Dr. Tristy is
one our most prominent bio-physicists."
"Really, well this is quite a reception... Pleased to meet both
of you gentlemen. You can examine me if you wish, but I'd rather
provide you with the data myself. You see, I have all the pertinent
information on our physiology stored on tape in my craft. Allow me a
moment will you and I'll be back with the data you wish for in
several of your languages.
"Here you are, 'Yarg's Complete Physiology of the Narretan' a
Narret classic physiology text. The best ever produced! That should
answer all your questions concerning our physiology, but I'll bet
you still want to know about my AND molecular structure. That I'll
leave up to you."
"Could we take a small blood sample to help us study the makeup
of your circulatory, respiratory, lymphatic, and immune systems?
Such a sample would provide us with the AND molecular structure data
we also desire." asked Dr. Seni.
"Sure." said Samo "I'd be glad to help in any way I can. I'm a
scientist myself. I was only kidding when I said I hate needles. I
was just trying to get a laugh."
"Make a fist," said Seni as he searched Samo's arm's densly
packed molecules for a vein. "This may pinch a little."
"No sweat," said Samo. "What you gentlemen will really be
interested in though, is the fact that in the counter-universe, we
are not solid creatures at all, as you know it."
"Really?" queried Tristy as he took notes.
"Yes, really." said Samo. "At home, on Amrif Arret, we are by
our own nature of a gaseous form. As your molecular forces are
attractive here, ours are repulsive, thus, we are all perfectly
non-solid, as opposed to your solidity."
"How extraordinarily fascinating!" exclaimed Tristy.
"In fact all our worlds, stars, everything is unbound but space,
which is the solid through which we all pass. That is why I can get
here so much faster in our system of time, our entire concept of
time is based on density of our solid space, rather than the
vacuousness of yours. It is far easier, I assure you, for a plasma to
pass through a solid than a solid to pass through a vacuum."
"Ahh, I got all but that last bit then I lost you, could you
clarify the part about easier..." started Dr. Tristy.
"Surely," Samo interrupted "You see, when we pass through the
solid form of our space, we use the actual binding forces of the
particles in motion of the spatial-solid in order to propel
ourselves. Thus we can utilize the very nature of our 'space'
itself, as a means, or force of propulsion. Do you understand that
better, doctor?"
"Much better, thank you. I must say this is all quite astounding.."
"Not at all, simply the state of nature doctor. Which reminds
me, I wish to make a statement on the wisdom of our physicians in
the Narret System. If you would be so kind as to record it doctor,
I'm sure all of humanity will find it of great use."
"Surely, any advice you can give would be held in highest regard
by our scientific communities." said Dr. Tristy
"It came to pass, through the thousands of Losar Cycles (what
you call years) of our existence, that our physicians began to use
the fundamental laws of nature in their favor. Rather than fight the
immune system for example, they found ways of strengthening it,
bolstering its abilities. Cancer, as another example was found to
contain cells of a much stronger variety than those said to be
normal. What our physicians did was to retrain the immune system to
work on the AND structure within the Cancerous cells, so that the
dominant Cancer cells were effectively "programmed" to conduct the
function of the tissue it replaced. And this new, Cancerous
super-cell was stronger and better than the original cell it
replaced, because it lives longer and is less suceptable to other
diseases. Therefore your physicians should also learn to work with
and not against nature."
"Thats absolutely astounding. You've just helped us realize how
far we've set back Cancer research in the last 50 years. We've been
trying to eradicate it for so long we completely overlooked the
possibility of trying to turn it into something useful. Incredible!"
"I see you're rather enthused at the prospect." said Samo.
"Enthused? I'm simply overjoyed at the possibility that there's
a cure for our worst killer. Cancer claims millions of lives here
each year."
"Yes, I know..." stated Samo.
"Dr Ht. you have no idea how much just that little information
you just shared with us means, how many millions of peoples lives
this few minutes you've shared with us will save. Mankind shall be
forever in your debt."
"Oh, I think I do." said Samo "Remember, peace and understanding
throughout these universes is what I came here for. And sharing a
little scientific knowledge in the process is the least I can do. If
you gentlemen will excuse me, I see the colonel at the door. I have
another speech to give, and I hope if everything goes well, you
gentlemen may get a little more time to work on your medical problems."
-Mari A. Paulson
The Acquisition
The Hut
In the morning, bright and early, Banewood and Sod were woken by
the sound of little marching feet. A troop of gaily dressed Ludki in
tall, feathered hats approached them.
"Hey Hyssop! Hey Burdock!" shouted Stickleburr as he clapped his
hands. Immediately, two little people ran forward. Stickleburr
addressed Banewood and Sod.
"Good morning, unless it's already mid-day. My two sons and
myself will accompany you to the borders of our realm unless you
don't wish to be accompanied. First, though, you must have breakfast."
Stickleburr clapped his hands again and several Ludki approached
with steaming plates of food. The travelers ate with relish, though
there wasn't any. From a nearby keg they filled their flasks with a
light mead and they were ready to depart.
Banewood and Sod followed the Ludki as they marched off, their
pace marked by the rhythm of the Ludki's singing. Hyssop and Burdock
marched ahead while Stickleburr walked and chatted with Banewood and
Sod. He told them about the paths ahead and how they must not stray,
lest they tread paths unknown. He told them to be on their guard for
the Silvan Lord, for these were his woods. The Silvan Lord, or Lessy
as he was better known, would lead them astray with his lies. Lessy
was a liar at heart and he delighted in deluding the hopelessly
lost. He would draw them to one point and then to another, then to
another and yet another. However, there was one way of outsmarting
the Lessy. It was a method known only to the Ludki, and it was
Stickleburr's parting gift to the travelers.
"Lessy is a liar," said Stickleburr, "for he can't tell the
truth. To get to the truth, if it's lies you don't want, you must
wear your clothes inside-out or outside-in if they're already
inside-out. Your shoes you must wear on the opposite feet unless, of
course, your feet are already opposite. Then you just wear your feet
opposite."
Banewood and Sod laughed aloud at Stickleburr's foolish words.
"It is worthy of a children's rhyme even though it doesn't
rhyme," Banewood said.
They all laughed again at the strange paradox of Ludki speech.
After their having walked away the longest part of the day, and
after their having heard innumerable anecdotes from Stickleburr, the
two travelers parted company with the Ludki. Banewood and Sod
marched on at a much faster pace, since they needn't keep time with
the short-legged Ludki. Once again, the brightness of sunlight and
companionship dimmed as the travelers departed the realm of
civilization. The dark forest seemed darker without the chatter of
the little people.
A dark, sinuous path pointed out by Stickleburr led in the
direction of the setting sun. The roots of gnarled oaks lay twisted
across the path, occasionally catching the carefully placed feet of
the plowman. Spider webs built across the gaps of branches often
ended up in the faces of Banewood and Sod, tickling their noses and
generally making their way unpleasant. Pale mushrooms of the deadly
varieties could sometimes be seen lining the edge of the path.
Strange animal sounds echoed through the trees.
After hours of walking, the travelers still had not found a
resting place suitable for a night's encampment. Though the sun was
possibly an hour away from setting, the way had become dark and
difficult to navigate because of the forest canopy. At length,
Banewood and Sod stopped to decide which way the path was supposed
to lead. The forest seemed more alive at this dusky hour than it had
earlier in the day. Birds chirped and strange animals chattered
beyond the distant trees.
"I don't know," said Sod, "maybe we should stop right here and
wait until morning. I just can't be sure of keeping on the right
path if we go on."
"Oh, don't worry, I'll show you the way to go from here," a
strange voice answered.
Banewood and Sod quickly drew their weapons and stood ready.
Wolksmert glowed reddish from the light of the evening sun. Before
them stood an eerie sight. A greenish man, or something resembling a
man, though much taller, stood a dozen paces before them. His eyes
had an orange, malevolent glow. They appeared cat-like. Banewood
feared the worst, for to his inexperienced knowledge, the eyes
reminded him of Baba Yaga's. The apparition was dressed in what
appeared to be leaves. A bird nest was perched upon the shoulder.
Sod felt the hilt of his sword slide through the sweaty grip of
his fingers. His hand clenched Wolksmert tighter. He wondered about
what action he should take. Quickly, he decided that it would be
safest to let the creature make the first move.
The green figure stood before them and made a chirping sound
like a bird. He clapped his hands and then smiled. It was a
friendly, disarming smile.
"Take the path straight ahead until you come to a fork," said
the strange apparition. "Then, bear left until you come to a large
boulder and proceed to your right until you come to an old tree.
>From the tree, go left until you meet the next tree, then take a
sharp right to the first stream. You can't miss it."
"Uh, excuse us for a moment, if you please, sir." Banewood
tugged at Sod's shoulder and pulled him away.
"Oh yes, most certainly, yes, yes." The green man laughed,
clapped his hands and chattered like a tree rat.
"What's the matter? Who's that? What are we doing?" Sod's
questions came quickly and nervously.
"Shhhh!" hissed Banewood as he led Sod out of sight of the green
man. When they were safely out of sight, Banewood said, "That must
be Lessy, the Silvan Lord. Stickleburr warned us of him. Remember,
he'll lie to get us lost. Let's hurry and turn our clothes inside out."
As quickly as they could, Banewood and Sod pulled their clothes
off and reversed them. They turned the insides outside and helped
each other button-up from the back. They did the same with their
britches. Then, they pulled off their boots and placed them
opposite: left boot on right foot and right boot on left foot. When
they had finished, they smiled sheepishly and stepped back out into
the open. Lessy was patiently waiting, whistling to himself and smiling.
When the Silvan Lord saw how Banewood and Sod appeared, his
orange eyes opened wide and bulged. He stood stiff with his fingers
out-stretched.
"Eeaarrgh! Owwww!" Screamed Lessy. He jumped around and emitted
more strange sounds.
Sod stood nonplussed, unable to move during the exhibition.
Banewood took the initiative and said aloud: "Tell us, Silvan
Lord, which is the way to the hut of Baba Yaga."
"Eeaarrgh! Owwww! I'll talk, I'll tell you the truth, I promise!
I'll tell you anything, but pulleese! Straighten-out your clothes!"
Banewood and Sod felt sorry for the Silvan Lord. Evidently, the
truth was so foreign to Lessy that it caused him great discomfort.
When Banewood and Sod had put their clothes back on outside-outside,
they returned to Lessy. The Silvan Lord was now docile, almost
subdued; he was saddened by his loss of victims to his trickery.
"Yes, most certainly," said Lessy, "I will show you the way to
Baba Yaga's hut. Yes, then you'll wish you were lost! Follow me."
Banewood and Sod walked behind Lessy as he led them through the dark
forest night.
Since they had first met the Silvan Lord, the sun had set,
changing the long shadows to a solid smear of blackness. The two
travelers were both stabbed by the sharp pang of doubt as to whether
Lessy could be held to his word. Whatever the status of Lessy's
honor, Banewood and Sod realized that they were both in the hands of
the Lord of the Forest.
Lessy strode before them, mumbling to himself and emitting more
strange sounds. More than once, Banewood and Sod had tripped on tree
roots and stumbled to the ground. Low branches snapped back by Lessy
often caught Sod in the face and chest, leaving him sore and scored.
The long hours of night were unbearably drawn out in this manner.
When the slender rays of first morning light pierced through the
trees, the three travelers found themselves on the edge of the
forest. Sod felt a heaviness in his stomach when the first
realization of their plight hit him: How were they to return?
Neither of them had thought of marking their way.
Lessy turned to face the exhausted travelers. The faint light
barely illuminated his gnarled and worn face. Banewood and Sod could
only concentrate on the eyes-- those strange cat-like slits
surrounded by an orange glow.
"Here is where I'll leave you," said Lessy. "The rest of the way
is before you. You'll probably reach the hut by mid-day." Lessy
chuckled as he pointed to the path before them. As quickly as when
they had found him, the Silvan Lord disappeared into the green
growth of the forest.
The path lay before them. Banewood and Sod stood on the edge of
the dark forest and before a vast expanse of scrub. Sod preferred
the darkness of the forest to what he now saw: a thin path leading
through a tangle of long-thorned trees which were so closely
interwoven that they seemed inpenetrable.
"Why don't you try Wolksmert on those branches," offered Banewood.
Sod drew his sword and swung lightly against the tangle that lay
before him. Sod was glad for the chance to draw his sword and test
its edge. The massive, thorny growth fell to their feet.
"Only Kathryn could walk a path like this," commented Sod as he
continued to slice his way through. "These branches are so sharp and
tightly interwoven that only the sow could manage to walk through
unscathed."
The plowman and the Shaman, however, could not pass through
unharmed. Even though the path was partially cleared by Sod's sword,
some branches remained to tear at their clothing and puncture their
skin. Punished and brutalized by the last leg of their journey,
Banewood and Sod proceeded slowly, their hearts heavy with fear and
anticipation. By noon, they had passed through the forest of thorns
and had entered into a wide perimeter of tall grasses and occasional
trees. Banewood sniffed the air and winced.
"Look," he said, pointing to a large copse of assorted and vile
smelling weeds. "This must have once been Baba Yaga's herb garden."
The expanse of foul-smelling weeds grew unbounded. They had
probably been untended for many decades, but they still held firm
against the encroaching forest and field. One fell weed pitted
itself against the other for dominance of space. It was an evil
looking tangle. Banewood hoped he could return by this path and
gather some of the herbs. A few were familiar to him; they were
shaman's herbs. Some plants had divinatory purposes, some had
medicinal uses. Other plants were total strangers to Banewood's
herbal. These were the most curious to the novice.
Reluctantly, the two pressed on. Because of the tall grass,
Banewood and Sod didn't see the hut until they were almost in front
of it. The hut of Baba Yaga loomed dark before them. Centuries old,
the hut was partially collapsed at one end; it appeared like an
apparition, grayish and fragile. The grass about the hut was
trampled-- signs of a current inhabitant. Banewood was shaken by the
sight; it was an eerie recollection of his divinatory dreams, minus
the malevolent red eyes. Sod sensed the nervousness of his companion
and gripped Wolksmert tightly. He glanced over his shoulder and
searched around them. The scene was quiet. Not even a bird song
could be heard. Sod turned and shook his companion's hand. It was a
farewell to their past and an initiation to whatever would befall
them in the moments ahead.
Banewood and Sod resolutely approached the hut. It looked weak,
but it stood in evidence of craftsmanship from a forgotten century.
Patches of straw, now grayish, were still attached to the roof. A
few strange weeds had taken residence on the roof in order to catch
extra light. On the roof's peak perched a dark bird. It was a raven.
It waddled about and croaked a few times, picked at the wood and
then silently winged out of sight.
Sod held out Wolksmert and walked toward the dimly lit entrance
of the ramshackle hut. Fat spiders retreated to the shadows with the
approach of the plowman. Sod's heart quickened and his whole body
started to tremble slightly. He placed his feet carefully to avoid
making any sounds. With Banewood close behind, Sod craned his neck
through the doorway. It took an agonizing instant for his eyes to
grow accustomed to the dim light. Was there something inside? Had it
heard them coming? Where is it? Nothing stirred within. Lying among
the cloven tracks and defacation, however, was a flattened pile of
leaves-- Kathryn's bed. The stench from inside made Sod gag.
Confirming their worst fears, it seemed that Kathryn, the monstrous
sow which had rampaged through Gorod, was now living in the hut of
Baba Yaga. Signs of the monstrous sow were everywhere. Most of the
hut's interior was badly battered and decayed. Scattered debris on
the ground may have once stood for a chair. Few furnishings remained
distinguishable. In the far corner, though, near the bed of leaves,
stood a dark and mouldering chest. The brass straps and brads had
long since turned green and disintegrated from the moisture.
Banewood saw the chest and could not restrain his curiosity. He
entered the hut and opened the chest. Most of the wood was badly
decayed, and it fell apart when it was disturbed. Inside the chest,
however, the contents were fairly well preserved. Banewood unwrapped
a book-sized, oilskin-covered bundle which was on top of other
items. It was a book.
"I don't believe this," whispered Banewood in awe.
"Don't believe what," said Sod, not believing that Banewood
dared to utter a sound in the lair of Kathryn.
"It looks like Baba Yaga's book of spells. I can't make out some
of the writing; it's an old script. This is one of the books my old
master told me about. It contains the ancient secrets of sorcery.
This is an unbelievable discovery."
"Well, pack up your discovery and let's get out of here. This
place makes me nervous," said Sod. His hands began to sweat and he
could feel the weight of his sword sliding through.
Banewood hastily rewrapped the package and stuffed it into his
own sack. On an impulse, he picked up another small bundle, which
upon inspection, contained what looked like a Shaman's smoke
mixture. Banewood lashed the sack to his belt and the two retreated
back into the daylight.
When Banewood and Sod stepped outside, they saw that the
scraggly raven had returned. Seeing the plowman and his companion,
it cried out in a raucous frenzy. Through the cacophony, Sod and
Banewood heard another sound: a terrifying squealing and trampling
sound. Towering above the distant grass was a massive black shape.
Thin, gray hair lay matted on its back and around it's notched ears.
It was a wonder that such a large beast could have existed unnoticed
for so many years, but it is true: The forest hides many secrets.
Clouds and fumes emanated from around the creature's snout. It
reared its head up and Banewood and Sod could see a pair of blazing
red eyes.
"It's Kathryn," thought Sod.
"It's Baba Yaga," thought Banewood.
"We're in trouble," said the two aloud.
Sod was possessed by a grave doubt as to his future being. This
whole scene was a nightmare and he wished he could wake up. What
finally woke Sod up was the one thing which he had most feared. Like
a fish, Wolksmert's handle slid through the gripped fingers of the
plowman and fell to the ground. When Sod reached to pick it back up,
it immediately slid out of his grasp. Kathryn was charging and
spewing her fiery froth. Banewood loosed a Ludki arrow at the
charging Kathryn, but it glanced off of the sow's forehead. Sod was
distraught, to say the least. His sword would not remain in his hand.
Banewood, seeing Sod's plight, ran forward and shouted at the
charging Kathryn. A spray of singeing fire told Banewood that he
succeeded in getting her attention. He ran around the hut in an
attempt to lead Kathryn away from Sod, who was still pathetically
trying to grip his sword. A bit of Kathryn's breath caught the
corner of Baba Yaga's hut and ignited the tinder-dry structure.
Evidently, however, Kathryn's fiery froth had a limit, for it
quickly decreased in range and intensity to the point of being a
caustic dribble. Banewood took advantage of this and became bolder
in his taunts. He loosed a few Ludki arrows at the enraged sow in
order to further torment her. It worked. Banewood saw a nearby tree
that he thought could hold his weight. He ran to it and limberly
pulled himself up the trunk. He had previously discarded his
backpack and other paraphernalia, but he neglected to untie the tiny
old bag which held the ancient smoking mixture. It ripped open as
Banewood shinned up the trunk, spilling its contents around the base
of the tree.
Kathryn was not an ignorant sow. She saw this grand opportunity
to harvest the tree's single fruit: Banewood. She ran headlong into
the sturdy trunk of the tree and splintered part of the trunk. She
tore at the ground around the tree with her hooves and layed her
forehead against the trunk in an attempt to batter it down. Kathryn
kicked up a cloud of the ancient herbal mixture torn from Banewood's
belt. Her two wide nostrils inhaled part of the cloud and Kathryn no
longer felt any pain. Hitting the tree with her head was easy; in
fact, it was fun.
Sod saw the impending danger that Banewood was in. It was Sod's
fault, he thought, that Banewood even came on this journey. He
couldn't let him die. Sod had decided to go into this quest, and by
his life, he would take it to its completion. He picked up a rock
and threw it squarely at Kathryn's rear. Kathryn turned about and
faced Sod. He taunted her with insults to her genealogy. Sod hardly
noticed that he now gripped Wolksmert firmly in both hands. He
spaced his legs, hurled another insult and waited.
The smoking mixture continued to work on Kathryn's brain. It had
a strange, numbing sensation. Colors burst before her crimson eyes.
Directly in front of her stood a tattered and sweaty plowman-- easy
prey and a quick lunch. Suddenly, though, she was faced by two
plowman-- no problem-- then a third. Three Sod's stood before the
eyes of an enraged and disoriented sow. Baba Yaga's mixture,
whatever it was, buzzed around in Kathryn's head like a swarm of
happy bees. Kathryn decided that the plowman on the left, Sod number
three, was the real one. It didn't really matter; she could always
come back and finish off the other two. She charged with full fury.
Distance between the two retreated with the sound of thundering
cloven hooves. Sod number two, the one in the middle, didn't quite
understand why Kathryn was veering so much to his right. No matter--
Wolksmert, guided by the plowman's strong arm, swung with the ease
of a baton but crashed with the weight of a boulder.
Blood poured from Kathryn's head. Blood ran to the ground in red
rivers and stained the dusty feet of the plowman. Blood dripped from
the shining blade of Wolksmert.
Kathryn was dead.
It was several minutes before either Sod or Banewood moved or
said anything. Sod stood alone with his sword dripping blood to the
ground. Banewood shouted from the tree.
"You killed her. I can't believe that it happened so quickly."
"Quickly?" Sod thought hours passed during Kathryn's charge.
"I owe you my life," said Banewood. "How can I ever repay you?"
"Don't worry," said Sod, who smiled for the first time. "It all
comes out in the wash."
Without having to discuss their next step. The two quietly and
deliberately set about gathering dried brush and grass for a fire.
It took nearly an hour to amass the giant pyre, but it was finally
built and easily set aflame from the embers of Baba Yaga's
smoldering hut. The evening light was brightened by the burning pile
of brush. A night bird sang vespers, and the wind whispered softly
over the plains, gently fanning the blaze.
-Roman Olynyk
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME THREE NUMBER FIVE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
The Acquisition, Conclusion Roman Olynyk
Review: Soul of the City - TW8 Orny
Narret Chronicles, Book 2 Mari A. Paulsen
Narret Chronicles, Book 1 Mari A. Paulsen
X-Editorial
Well, folks here it is, the end of volume 3! In this issue
conclude both Mari Paulsen's Narret Chronicles and Roman Olynyk's
Acquisition serials. Sandwiched in between is a short review of
another new Thieves' World book, "Soul of the City". In the next
issue, Volume 1, issue 1, the first of the Dargon writing project
stories will appear, and I'll go into that in more detail in the
editorial-cum-prologue in that issue.
I would encourage readers to send in their comments on either
Narret or the Acquisition, and they will be considered to printing
in issue 4-1. By the way, Mari is considering writing a sequel
series for Narret, and Roman is incorporating Banewood and Sod into
the Dargon writing project, so you can expect more from them, as
well as the other authors involved with Dargon. And, of course, I'll
plod on with news, reviews, and featured authors as time and
submissions permit.
Thanks for reading, and thanks for sharing. I hope you all enjoy
the zine and the upcoming fruit of the writing project as much as I
have enjoyed writing for it. Catch you later...
-Orny
The Acquisition
Part Four: Conclusion
Banewood and Sod remained awake most of the long night and
occasionally fed more wood to the pyre. Only when they were sure
that nothing remained of Kathryn's carcass did they rest for the
waning hours before dawn. For breakfast, they ate a hasty meal of
dried meat and bread, and then they departed in the same direction
from which they arrived. Banewood managed to gather some of the
strange simples and root stocks from the ancient herb garden he had
passed on the way in. The path through the tangled thorn brush was
certainly no easier than it was on the way in. Nature did not go out
of her way to extend its thanks for a job well done.
When they passed out of the thorn thicket and reached the
forest, the two men found the same path they had traveled with the
Silvan Lord. Surprisingly, the path was actually straighter than
they thought when they travelled it a couple of nights earlier.
Lessy, no doubt disheartened, was not to be found on their return
trip, but Banewood and Sod were not dismayed, for now the dark
forest seemed more alive than before. Previously somber birds were
now joyfully singing, and occasional butterflies could be seen
flitting among the treetops. On their way back home, Banewood and
Sod found more to talk about. Banewood was excited about the book of
ancient secrets he had found in the hut of Baba Yaga. He felt that
this book could unlock the doors blocking his quest for knowledge of
the Shaman's arts. Already, Banewood was practicing strange, new
spells that he had translated from the book. His prowess was
increasing steadily. Sod spoke of his dream to break away from his
life as a plowman. He wished to sever his roots to the soil and
become a journeyman, a knight errant of this kingdom upon the
plains. He found that he now had the confidence to realize his dream.
When Banewood and Sod arrived once again at the Ludki village,
they were greeted by the entire population of little people. The
smiles were upon the round faces and bright and exotic feathers
dressed the tall caps worn by all. It was a state reception for the
two heroes. Banewood and Sod walked waist-deep through the cheering
crowd and stopped directly in front of Stickleburr.
"Hey Sod, hey Banewood! It seems that you've killed Kathryn, for
she can no longer be alive. The forest and plains are free again,
though they've hardly known any freedom. Congratulations, yes, most
certainly!" Spoke Stickleburr from atop his royal stump.
The little people all cheered and waved their hats. All around
the Ludki village stood cloth-covered tables layed out with fragrant
foods -- all of the delicacies that could be concocted. Kegs of mead
were everywhere in anticipation of a great feast in honor of the
slayers of the monster Kathryn.
"You've done an Immeasurable Service to all of The Ludki by Your
Slaying of the Great Wolk and Kathryn," said Stickleburr in his
finest rhetoric, adding: "Since your Service is Most Certainly not
Measurable to even a single Ludki, and Since It wasn't actually Your
Slaying of the Great Wolk and Kathryn because the Wolk wasn't all
that Great and Kathryn wasn't at all Kathryn."
Sod found it difficult, to say the least, to follow the
circuitous speech of Stickleburr, but he did manage to glean the
meaning: Kathryn was not really Kathryn. Did they kill the wrong
monster? Worse yet, was there actually another monster like Kathryn?
Stickleburr said: "I know what you're thinking, Sod, even if you
don't. There is no other monster, for there was only one; Kathryn
was really Baba Yaga because she was nothing else."
Once again all of the Ludki cheered loudly. The feast was on and
the music was struck. Flagons were filled with bubbly mead poured
from the aged kegs. This was the best of brews, for this was to be
the best of celebrations-- Kathryn was dead and Baba Yaga was no more.
Without prompting, the two heroes joined in the merriment. Food
and drink were both brought to the guests of honor. The large, round
eyes of the Ludki bulged in disbelief at the sight of Banewood and
Sod drinking their mead. Surely, the two strangers must have hollow
legs to hold so much drink. Banewood and Sod could very well have
had hollow legs, for they drank considerable amounts of mead even
for men. They had had a long and difficult ordeal, and this was a
welcome relief from the events of the past several weeks. And most
certainly, this mead was the best they had ever tasted!
While Banewood and Sod were enjoying themselves and filling
their bellies, the Ludki danced furiously, spinning and hopping and
clapping their little hands. The musicians were adept with their
instruments-- strange varieties of many-stringed wonders. Suddenly,
from some occult cue, the music and dancing and laughter all
stopped. A lone minstrel approached Banewood and Sod, bowed, and
began to pick his instrument. After several introductory bars, he
sang a song whose chorus was joined in by all:
"Tell a tale of Kathryn,
a tough old sow with tougher skin.
She razed the fields with flame and fire
now where did she go? Hey!
Chorus:
"They ground her up for sausage links.
They boiled her down for candle sticks.
They tanned her hide and sewed some shoes
so now she's hit the road. Hey!
Tell a tale of Shaman folk
who packs himself an awful smoke.
He smoked a bit with Kathryn
now where did she go? Hey!
Tell a tale of a man named Sod
who found himself a sharp old sword.
He smote a bit on Kathryn
now where did she go? Hey!"
Banewood and Sod were both deeply touched by this tribute. In
their dim age of little writing, great deeds were memorialized in an
oral tradition. The song of their deeds could very well outlive any
scrap of paper or even any memory of just who Sod and Banewood
actually were.
Stickleburr once again mounted his royal stump. The thin-haired
and pot-bellied leader of the Ludki swayed slightly, for it was
apparent that he'd been sampling his share of the mead. He rubbed
his bulbous little nose to see if it was still there and then spoke
to the gathering in long-drawn syllables.
"My fellow Ludki. We are gathered here, for we aren't elsewhere,
to Honor these Two Humans whom we don't wish to do dishonor for
their Deeds. Hic. Since it wouldn't be Right to take them away, I'll
present these Medallions to Sod and Banewood for their uncowardly
Courage in defeating Kathryn-Who- Couldn't-Be-Defeated. These
Medallions make known that which is not unknown: Sod and Banewood
are forever Friends of the Ludki, for we cannot be your enemies even
for a short while."
Stickleburr paused to hang the medallions around their necks. He
hiccuped and continued: "I must tell you, for it wouldn't do to tell
another, that both of you will find Greatness, unless Greatness
cannot be found but rather achieved. Hic! Sod, it is not a
coincidence, though You may think it is, that You found Wolksmert.
Wolksmert found You. Wolksmert, the wolf-slayer, was crafted many
hundreds of years ago by the Ludki, for it could have been crafted
by none other. It seeks the hand which can guide it, unless that
hand can't be found, then it will evade the unsure hand, though an
unsure hand is more likely itself to evade the sword! Hic! Sod,
wield Your Sword wisely, for to do otherwise would be foolish. Hic! Hic!
"Banewood, you shall be a Powerful and a Good Sorcerer, though
You may not think You are either. In Your lifetime You will undo
much of the evil that has already been done by the Evil Sorceress,
for You can't undo that which hasn't already been done. Hic!"
Stickleburr was quite obviously reeling now and finding it
difficult to keep his balance. He continued to feel for his nose,
but he couldn't find it for the numbness.
"So let Me say, unless you say I can't say it, that You Two have
found Greatness that you never lost because you sought to acquire
it. Hic! It was there-- it wasn't anywhere else. Hic! I... I... I
must stop now, for I think I've had too much to drink, though if I
start on it, hic, I'd say it wasn't the drink that I drunk-- the
drink's not drunk, rather, I drank the drink, unless I drunk it. It
was already drunk, but now I'm the one who's drunk-- Hic!"
With that, Stickleburr spun off his stump, much to the relief of
the other Ludki, who had become almost as confused as Banewood and
Sod. While Stickleburr lay passed-out with a smile upon his numb
lips, the other Ludki-- those who weren't also passed-out--
endeavored to follow their leader. Banewood and Sod joined in the
twirling, leg-kicking dance of the Ludki and shouted "Hey!" The
dancing, music and magic lasted long into the night, and remained in
the memories of the two humans long after many things had passed.
A warbler's song awoke Sod from his slumber. Rosy morning rays
penetrated the covering of trees and illuminated the Ludki village
with radiance. All around the beehive ovens and little houses and
strewn-about kegs lay the supine bodies of Ludki, some still wearing
their pointed hats and bright feathers. Sod's pre-breakfast mind
pondered over the many events that had recently come to pass. He'd
seen so many things that he'd never thought he'd see-- the Ludki and
the Silvan Lord and parts of the great countryside surrounding
Gorod. Things he'd wished he'd never seen-- the Great Wolk, Kathryn
and Baba Yaga's hut. Stories from his childhood had come to life,
and all he had to do was to brave seldom-travelled paths. How many
more wonders lay waiting to be seen? He didn't know, but now he
would endeavor to find them, for his curiosity had finally been aroused.
After they had both broken fast, the two journeymen washed away
the grime of the last few days and bid farewell to their friends,
the Ludki. Banewood and Sod promised to respect the privacy of the
little people; they would not divulge the existence and location of
the Ludki, who wished to maintain their distance from the human
race. As Stickleburr explained, once upon a time, many thousands of
years ago, the Ludki lived near humans. It was Ludki adroitness with
smithing that led humans to request from them weapons of iron --
weapons the Ludki had no wish to forge. The few weapons they did
make, the Ludki imbued with a magic that would not allow their use
without purpose or good intent. Wolksmert was one such weapon which
had survived that golden age of metal working.
By the time Banewood and Sod reached the center of Gorod, they
had acquired a persistent throng of followers eager to hear news of
their adventures. Most expressed murmured amazement that Banewood
and Sod returned alive, uninjured and not white with fright. If
anything, they even looked healthier than when they had originally
undertaken their quest. Banewood's Ludki-crafted arrows were hidden
away and both of their medallions lay hidden beneath their tunics.
Banewood and Sod only offered unembellished details of Kathryn's
final moments. They didn't mention Baba Yaga's hut or even the great
wolk. There was considerable rejoicing among the populace at the
news of Kathryn's death. Regardless of how little the two travelers
told, they were highly regarded by the folks of Gorod. They were heroes.
Inside the Antlers, Sod and even Banewood were offered seats of
honor and given drinks of crude tavern mead. As the days went by,
Banewood and Sod would often meet there to discuss their plans for
travel. This time they were going across the plain in search of
distant cities. Tales were told of men in the far away cities who
rode upon the backs of four-legged beasts, and Banewood and Sod both
agreed that they would like to explore more of their world. It was
now late autumn, and what little harvest there was that was spared
by Kathryn's harsh breath was stored away. The daily work routine
was slowing in pace. The time was ripe for travel.
A few large bottle flies were marauding about within the
Antlers, enjoying the late warmth and making a general nuisance of
themselves with the few customers. One daring fly kept alighting
near Sod, trying to divert the normally stolid plowman. The air
intermittently cracked with the resounding whack of Sod's large hand
upon the table. He couldn't kill the pesky fly.
"Yeauh, Sod," yelled the Miller from across the tiny room. "Why
don't you let Banewood give the fly some of his smoke. The little
critter'd get so dizzy it would burn itself into a hole! Harr! Harr!"
Banewood cast a glance at the bottle fly buzzing around their
heads and sent it to the great beyond with a tiny, explosive pop.
The Miller, who saw this, inhaled part of his mead and coughed.
Banewood and Sod laughed.
-Roman Olynyk
REVIEW: The Soul of the City
Thieves' World Book 8
When I first saw the new Thieves' World book on the shelf, I
thought to myself: Oh, boy, another TW book to drudge through and
review for FSFNet. Well, the seventh book (which also came out only
recently), "The Dead of Winter" was good, so I jumped in, even
though it takes too much time to read and go to school. Folks, if
you haven't read "the Dead of Winter" and the most recent book,
"Soul of the City", you're in for a TREAT!
After Aspirin's third or fourth book, I had lost interest, due
to a stagnation in the characters and events in Sanctuary. As if
reading my mind, these most recent books each seem to focus on one
aspect of the authors' writing styles that had been lacking. "The
Dead of Winter" contains superb characterization, and each character
portrayed leaves a lasting image on the reader. The book reads like
several short stories about Sanctuary's inhabitants.
The new book, "Soul of the City" is it. For all you people who
knew that it would eventually come down to war in the streets, here
it is: the resolution of all the conflicts of Ischade and Roxanne,
and everyone who's anyone is town, including the new Rankan emperor.
In contrast to the style that "the Dead of Winter" was written in,
this book flows and has excellent continuity. It is an action-packed
novel, not a collection of short stories, and despite my schoolwork,
I had a very difficult time putting the book down. This book,
written entirely by Lynn Abbey, C.J. Cherryh, and Janet Morris, is
supposedly the lead-in to a forthcoming book by Abbey entitled
"Beyond Sanctuary".
I encourage any Thieves' World fans out there,as well as fans
who have become disenchanted with the series, to pick up books 7 and
8. Each is in a different style, but both are well worth the time.
-Orny
The Narret Chronicles
Book the Second
"The forum you requested is waiting Dr. Ht" said Colonel Roberts
as they escorted Samo to a waiting helicopter. "Both the president
and the premier are anxious to meet with you."
"They should be, I've come a long way to meet them." Samo
replied rather smugly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Samo began, "I have been sent here by a
very costly effort on behalf of my people. By the words "my people"
I do not mean the people of my country, or even the people of my
planet, Amrif Arret. By those words I mean the people whose lives
you will destroy, those people whose advanced knowledge and advanced
technologies may never be shared with any of you in this room, or
with any human.
"Why? Not because there are no longer any humans to understand
us. Why? Not because we are unable to communicate with you, or to
bridge the gap of space between us. But simply because you would
rather collect a set of nuclear playtoys for winning childish
squabbles over masses of dirt to put your under-populated, over-fed,
fat human bodies on. And go about praising your documents of law,
your 'Declarations of Independence' your 'Constitution' and its
'Bill of Rights' with their claims of perfect unions, the
establishment of justice, and most of all the self-evidence of all
men being created equal. Those were noble thoughts. Thoughts, far
more they were than words, they were the Ideals upon which this
great country was founded. These thoughts, these ideals of peace,
equality, and justice came from men far nobler than those before me.
"Surely you may grow impatient with my gruffness, please hear me
out I implore you for your own sakes and the sakes of my people,
hear me out.
"I cannot understand how two adults can even think to begin
compiling the weapons you have compiled while there are thousands,
no, millions of your brethren dying throughout your world. How much
can these rights mean to you? How much does the equality of creation
mean, when you will tomorrow blow each other off of your precious
land masses and ruin your world for those who had nothing but hope
anyway, all for naught.
"All because you worried that you may not be free tomorrow to
have all your own little worries and troubles taken care of, that
tomorrow you may not be as comfortable as today. Soon, very soon, if
you continue this deadly and insane weapons compilation, there may
not be that tomorrow you're so desperately worried about today.
"If you were to continue, and had a last and final war, you
gentlemen should be congratulated. For you gentlemen would be
responsible for the ultimate extermination of entire solar systems
in not one, but two universes at the same time.
"You see, what you've failed to realize is that if you blow your
planet to the fifth physical dimension, you'll be blowing my people
up with you. And not only will the destruction of good old Terra
Firma have an effect on the Solar System, but it will have an
equally disastrous effect on the Losar System. Our entire planet
will merely "go out of existence" as you know it. In addition, my
people will have no say whatsoever in that event. Is that within
your concept of fairness equality, and justice? If so then how about
within your forefathers?
"Furthermore, who knows what may be said will happen at the
unbalancing of energies within this universe itself. How many other
life-forms' chances of survival will you destroy, in that solitary
instant of selfishness?
"I came here hoping to find some reasonable men. Men of a
knowledge of peace, and instead I found the ignorance that breeds
belligerence. I did find hope though, and that hope lies where I
knew it would, in the men of science. The hope lies in those who
were bright enough to create weapons of war, and it rests in those
men with talents to make the weapons of mankind's enemy, disease.
Your physicians are those within whom your hope lies now.
"Before I came here, I met with two of your physicians to better
the knowledge of mankind in defeat of Cancer. You will find, if you
take the time to decrease your stockpile of weaponry, that if you
give your doctors the insurance that their efforts will not be in
vain and the assurance that there will be a world full of people to
help tomorrow, they may just be able to find a cure. The hope of
peace, and of life itself lies in your hands. Why don't you give it
back to the men who deserve it most. The men in both your countries
who have been fighting for years for the same thing, the prolonging
not the extinguishing of life--your physicians."
-Mari A. Paulsen
The Narret Chronicles
Book the First
Samo stood there in silence as his last words echoed throughout
the auditorium. Then suddenly his ears were filled by the tremendous
sound of applause by third world countries while both the
president's, and the premier's eyes welled with tears as they looked
at each other realizing how right he was...
"<<>>"
"Catabilizer--Load Future Analog tape running from last approach
to Terran planet number three." Samo replied to his onboard computer.
"Well, so it was..." Samo said to himself, wondering if he was
going to be as successful on this trip to Earth. He sat there
wondering, in the quiet of his spacecraft, rather dazed by the
immensity of it all, as a great light appeared in the heavens in
front of him. And at once he new he was late. Ignorance had won, and
greed had gone too far.
-Mari A. Paulsen
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FOUR NUMBER ONE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
X-Editorial
Well, folks, here it is: the First Anniversary Issue of FSFNet,
and the first issue containing stories of the Dargon writing
project. I must say, this is an impressive issue, and I hope you all
enjoy it as much as I have enjoyed putting it together. The Dargon
project is a group of FSFNet contributors who have gotten together
to write about a single location, much like Aspirin's Thieves' World
project. And, as you can see, the results are phenomenal! Any people
who are interested in joining the project and feel they will be
productive, feel free to mail me. I'd also like to welcome the new
readers who responded to the notice I sent out. I'm not sure whether
to apologize or not for the extreme length of this issue, but I'm
sure you won't mind once you start reading...
But, for now, I suggest you sit back and enjoy some of the best
amateur writing you will find on BITNET. Thank you all for your
support. Blessed be.
-Orny
Welcome to Dargon!
Dargon is a small, out of the way fiefdom of the Kingdom of
Baranur, situated in the extreme northwest corner of the kingdom. It
is separated from the rest of the kingdom by a vast wood and a minor
range of hills, and is ruled by the young Lord Clifton Dargon.
Dargon Keep, where the wealthy merchants and courtesans live, lies
on a hill overlooking the town and port of Dargon, which lie at the
mouth of the River Coldwell. The port is Dargon's only link to the
more populated south, and the town is an active and busy place. In
the fields of Dargon can be found many small farming peasant
villages, that pay tithes to the Keep. Quaint and pittoresque, these
villages lie on the very borders of civilization, and can be hotbeds
of superstition as well as gateways to adventure.
Come follow, whether your pleasure be politics and court
intrigue, the devilish workings of a medieval port-town, or the
horror and adventure of the hinterlands. Come follow the tales of
wonder and woe that unfold before you, in Dargon.
-Orny
Simon's Song
Dale ran breathlessly down the Street of Travellers towards the
docks. His father had told him to read two whole lessons; being the
son of a scribe wasn't the most exciting life in the world. His
father, a well-known teacher and scribe named Cavendish, made his
living by hiring out to teach youngsters how to read and write. He
had left the fourteen year-old in the family library while he went
to Dargon Keep to instruct some poor aristocrat's son. Dale knew his
father had meant well, but there were other things to do all
afternoon than read some old dry book. Besides, he'd be back in time
to read most of his assignment, anyways.
He turned the corner by Sandmond's, nearly capsizing an emerging
sailor (listing five degrees to port), and scanned the dockside for
the familiar red and white canopy. Finding it, he plunged back into
the crowd and made for a warehouse at the far end of the quays. He
pushed through the mob of sailors, soldiers, and merchants, finally
coming within sight of his destination, a squeaky old cart,
overloaded with three steaming kettles, attended by a tall, smiling
man and his little monkey. A sign on the cart read 'Salamagundi
Stew' in large letters.
The youth slowed and yelled across the crowd, "Hey, Simon!" The
tall man saw Dale and waved him over.
"Hey, Dale! What you doing out so early? Did you Papa give you
too much to read, eh?" The tall sailor smiled broadly and batted the
young man on the shoulder.
"Yeah," sighed the lad. "How's Skeebo?" he asked, bringing a
sweetmeat forth from his cloak to offer the monk.
"Oh, he's fine. Business is good, and look at the port! It's so
busy!" He spread his arms to take in all the port area. Dale looked
up after giving Skeebo his treat and surveyed the port. The crowds
were thicker than ever, and there were several tall ships and
galleys tied up along the docks. He knew the Angelique at the far
end, and Captain Smith's Victory Chimes beside it. Right in front of
the warehouse was a galley that Dale had never seen before, with a
great deal of bustle on deck and a number of strange papery
ornaments hanging in the rigging. "What ship is that? Is it from the
south?"
"Ah..." began Simon, a glint in his brown eyes. "I checked 'er
out before. She's called the Singing Mermaid, and she's been on a
long, long voyage. She left Baranur, down south... must've been
nearly two years ago. Headed west, of all places!" Simon was aglow
with the rapture of a bard revealing a tale. "They say this is
their first landfall since they left a place called Bichu, across
the western ocean. They say they've got some sort of western noble
who paid them well to bring him here. Wonder what would make a man
pay such a high price to leave his home, eh, lad?"
While Dale listened, he dipped himself a bowl of 'regular', as
Simon called the first of the three varieties of stew he sold. Dale
had often listened to Simon's tale of how he had learned the recipe for
Salamagundi Stew while he was serving as a cook on a galley many
years ago. The stew itself was a sort of fish chowder, heavily
seasoned, and the 'regular' was fairly good. Dale had never tried
either of the other stews - Simon had always steered him away from
them with a laugh.
The young man looked up and contemplated the Singing Mermaid.
There were a number of large crates sitting on deck, and many
strangely-colored paper ornaments hanging from the yardarm. The
captain came from below deck and stood talking with a
strangely-dressed man who could not have been any taller than Dale
himself. He nudged Simon and nodded towards the ship. Simon's eyes
widened. "Yep. Must be that westerner... Let's go get a good look,
eh, lad?" With that Simon slowly hauled his cart closer to the pier
where the Singing Mermaid was tied up. Dale watched the foreigner
order another man to gather some chests and boxes and make his way
down the gangplank, the poor servant, overburdened with the
foreigner's gear, close behind.
The stranger was a young man, though perhaps five or more years
older than Dale, but no more than an inch or two taller than the
scribe's son. His clothing was strangely decorated in blue and white
shapes that Dale had to think twice about to understand, and his
robe hung about his body very oddly. Dale could see that he had a
slight limp, and carried a very strange and wicked-looking sword in,
of all things, a wooden sheath! Dale saw the stranger stop for a
moment and look around, a dark expression on his face, and turn
towards Simon. The youth hurried to catch up.
Simon set his cart down and waited for the stranger to approach,
carefully inspecting and gently stirring each of the three chowders
he had made that morning. He had been lucky to get some spices from
the Singing Mermaid's haul earlier in the day, and he was confident
it was an excellent batch. The foreigner walked directly to him and
slowly, haltingly said, "Excuse, prease... You offer to sell food?"
Simon nodded and replied "Yes - stew! Three kinds: regular,
sweet, and sun-sweet. It's very good," he added, lifting the cover
from one of the pots to let the foreigner know just what he was
about to purchase. Simon certainly knew enough not to upset
travelling nobility.
"Ah, very good. I would like the sun-sweet prease..."
Simon nodded and carefully suppressed a chuckle. Sun-sweet was
the spiciest of the brews, and he knew of only two people who had
ever been able to finish a whole bowl: himself and Guiseppi, the old
sailor-cook who had taught Simon how to cook, when he was younger
than Dale. He smiled to the stern-faced stranger, dipped a steaming
bowl of regular, and offered it to the stranger. No sense making a
scene, Simon thought. He had travelled enough in the west to realize
that he might have just saved his own life!
The man took the broth with a short bow, if no smile, and
reached within his silken clothing, producing two short sticks with
which he began to eat the chunks of fish from the broth. Simon was
about to congratulate himself on his tact when he saw Skeebo grab a
spoon from the cart and thrust it at the stranger, who slowly lifted
his eyes towards the monk, to Dale, and finally to Simon. Simon felt
his stomach knot in worry. Suddenly, the strangely-clad foreigner
broke out into the oddest laughter Dale had ever witnessed. The
stranger took the spoon and gave the monk a small coin in return. He
finished the chunks of fish and began noisily sipping the broth with
the spoon. Simon knew that the man had probably never used a spoon
before setting foot on the Singing Mermaid, though how anyone could
go through life without using a spoon was quite beyond him.
Skeebo went back to Simon, looking sheepish as any monkey could.
The sailor took the coin from the monk, and an odd look came over
his face. The westerner had paid in gold! It was a strange looking
coin, but it was probably worth more than Simon had made all year.
He was obviously a noble, but he didn't seem quite that rich...
The stranger had finished his bowl, and seeing Simon's
puzzlement in his face, he asked "The coin... is it not enough?"
Simon, more confused than ever, could not speak for a moment.
"It is more than too much!" he suddenly stammered, too astounded to
even care that he could live off that small coin for nearly a year.
He held the coin out to give it back to the foreigner, who closed
the sailor's hand upon it.
"I am Ittosai Michiya," he began. "I have left my home in
dishonor, and am far from where I would be. I have not been happy in
many months. Take the coin - is a smile not worth so much stone?"
With that, he bowed low and, with a gesture for his baggage,
left Simon and Dale both rather puzzled.
Simon soon was busy with customers again, and Dale wandered off to
look at the ships, including the Singing Mermaid.
Simon had given up. The port was just too busy, and he couldn't
keep up with the customers. His mind kept dwelling on the strange
foreigner, and he found himself looking at the small golden coin,
somtimes touching it like a worry stone. It was an interesting coin;
on one side, an etching of a strangely shaped building surrounded by
an even odder-looking garden, on the other side were strange letters
that looked like chicken-scratchings. Perhaps he would get it
changed and pay rent. Perhaps he would buy Dale something useful and
give it to him during the upcoming festival. Then again, maybe he'd
just tuck it away in case he might ever need it; it was a very
attractive coin...
Simon's twenty-fifth contemplation of the strange coin was
interrupted by a familiar cry. "Hey, Simon!"
"Hey, Dale!" After going off to look at the ships, the youth had
wandered up along the coastline. Dale came over to Simon's cart and
chittered at Skeebo as only a child would. "Guess what, Simon?"
"There's a world outside Dargon?" Simon smiled.
"No, silly," responded Dale, "I've found something while I was
walking up the coast."
"The ocean?" Simon asked, still sarcastically smirking.
In answer, Dale brought forth a small bundle from his tunic. He
had wrapped something in a wool cloth, and he unwrapped it very
carefully to reveal what looked like a carving that had been covered
with sand and seaweed.
"What is it?" Simon was curious.
Dale carefully picked the seaweed away and, with a handful of
water from a nearby rain barrel, washed off the stone carefully.
What was revealed was a small sculpture of Dargon Keep, crudely
done, but made in ivory, the unmistakeable three towers rising above
a walled section of town. Simon's eyes widened, then seemed very
far. Then he came back, smiled at Dale, and said, "What a find, lad!
I'd hang onto that, if I were you."
"Yeah. I'm going to keep it in my room. I think it's really neat!"
"It sure enough is that, lad. Now you run home and do your
reading. We've had plenty of adventure for this day, eh?"
"Yeah!" Dale said as he carefully wrapped the miniature keep in
the cloth. "Well, see you tomorrow, Simon!" He turned and jogged
away, innocent of the expression on his older friend's visage.
Simon Salamagundi felt old, perhaps for the first time in his
young life. Seventeen years earlier, he remembered, his mother had
apprenticed him to a sculptor, thinking Simon had artistic hands.
His father, Seth Salamagundi, had been a sailor, and Simon's blood
came from his father's line. One afternoon, he had sat by the ocean,
trying desperately to live up to others expectations of him, carving
a small ivory model of Dargon Keep. It had looked so horrible that
he hurled it as far into the sea as he could throw it. He ran home,
wrote a note for his mother, and hired himself out to ship's cook on
the Lilith. That was the end of his landboundedness, the last he saw
of his mother, and the end of his childhood.
Over the years, the memory of that piece of ivory had meant many
things to Simon. When he was young, he had hated it, for it was a
symbol of his mother's attempts to keep him home, and his failure to
live up to the expectations of others. During his many years at sea,
he had both loved it as a symbol of his freedom and success and
hated it still for the failure associated with it. Now he could only
look back at the wealth of emotion attached to the object and feel
all that he had gone through once more, and cry.
-Orny
Rendezvous
The aging alchemist Gilman awaited an appointment with a
customer, but that did not make the mysterious, nocturnal visitor
any more welcome. His silver however was, and Gilman knew well
enough not to inquire too deeply into its source. It rankled him
that respectable patrons were so rare these days with the rise of
the mystic cult Masgrah, which seemed to be developing into a full
blown hanse. The members, which included most of the aristocracy of
the city of Magnus, were forbidden to deal with outsiders except as
absolutely necessary. Gilman refused to give into these ecomonmic
coercions but unless he did something soon his business would fail.
His eminent customer's medicinal orders were some of the few
means of support he could find in his toubled situation, tough the
covertness often bothered Gilman. Gilman had wondered about the man
since he had first entered his laboratory almost a year past. At
first appearance the youth seemed to be among the riffraff commonly
encountered in the poorer sections of any city the size of Magnus.
He appeared unwashed, unkept, and half-starved; his clothing little
more than rags. His face seemed a battlefield of pox scars. But the
feature which repulsed Gilman most was the constant twitches and
jerks which wracked the youth's frame. Still, he possessed two
qualities which did not align with this image: money and a classical
education. Gilman often worried about the source of funds which
allowed him to acquire such rare ingredients at what Gilman well
knew to be inflated costs. He had been similarly astounded to
glimpse the youth's knowledge in classical science and literature in
their discussions. So great was his education that Gilman often
wondered why his own services were required by the youth at all. But
then the youth's unsteadiness and nervous aggitation would be a
major hindrance in the laboratory. The youth's background was one
mystery into which this well-meaning investigator would not pry as
he feared the prospect of losing such a monetary find.
A gentle but unrhythmic rapping roused Gilman from his thoughts.
Approaching the barred door, Gilman called for his visitor's
identity. The sole answer "Atros" was sufficient passage into the
alchemist's combined laboratory and home. The youth appeared if
anything to be more nervous than normal.
"You have completed the Nepenthe of the Mahedeos?" Atros asked.
His articulation was so flawless that once again it startled Gilman.
"I await only the second half of the payment," Gilman answered
noticing the strange expression in the youth's eyes. "It is by far
the strongest nepenthe that I have ever compounded. Its potency will
surely overcome the tolerance which you seem to be developing. I
promise that your sleep will be both deep and undisturbed by dreams
if you imbibe in this 'Little Death'." Gilman chuckled lamely,
growing uncomfortable.
"I'm afraid that I don't have the money yet, but surely some
arrangement could be worked out," Atros said with a rehearsed tone.
"That is not according to our agreement nor my policy. Full
payment on reception of the vial." Gilman had already promised the
youth's coins to a creditor by the following day.
"Allow me to take it and I will have your money within three
days," Atros offered weakly.
"No, I cannot accept credit. I cannot...." Gilman's mind filled
with his eminent monetary troubles.
"There is no other alternative?" Atros asked faintly.
"No." Gilman responded hardly rising from his worries.
The youth seemed to be taken by a particularly violent jerk of
his right arm which flew toward the old man. In a near blinding
flash of motion, Atros wedged a knife in the old man's chest. Gilman
stared in astonishment, gurgled once, and died. Already beginning to
mentally curse his impulse, Atros removed the knife and cleaned the
blade. Not for the first time had he tragically let his instinct
rather than his mind control his actions.
"Fool! Coward! Where will I ever find another supplier!" Atros
shouted at himself. After a moment, "He was just a harmless old
man..." he mumbled leaning over the body, accepting yet one more
burden of guilt.
He began to search the building knowing that Gilman's
apprentices would discover the crime at sunrise. He easily located
both the vial of nepenthe and Gilman's alchemical notes and texts.
With greater effort he found the old man's disappointingly small
cache of coins. Careful so as not to be seen he slipped from the
building and returned to the hovel in which he was currently residing.
Once there he began to consider his situation. Surely, Gilman's
apprentices knew of his nocturnal visits. He would never escape the
headman's block if he remained in Magnus. He resolved to leave as
quickly as he could pack his meager possessions, which were mostly
comprised of rare and coveted books on a wide range of subjects. He
was reluctant to leave any of his prizes but he realized that they
would only slow him down in his flight. Quickly, he made his
selections and headed for the north gate. He had heard of a distant
port near Dargon where a man might lie low for a few months. He
hoped that such a place could cater to his needs, but he realized
that skilled alchemists were quite rare, especially ones who would
accept a client as unaristocratic as he himself appeared. He tried
to convince himself that his change of residence would be an
oppurtuntity to begin anew, but he had drifted too much not to know
that you always take yourself along with you. Within a few minutes
he slipped past the guards at the northern gate and was leagues
distant from the city by sunrise.
A few hours after sundown of the following day, Atros sat near a
small campfire in a secluded grove far to the north. Though he was
very weary he had taken a great deal of time preparing as good a
meal as possible under the circumstances. Of course, he had only
attempted to delay the inevitable. Finally, he lay close to the
small fire huddled in rags and slept for the first time in many
days. Well aware of the finite supply of the nepenthe, he had chose
not to partake of the drug hoping that the weariness of his body
would prevent dreaming. He had been wrong.
Atros didn't know when he first became aware. The environment
about him had come into being quite gradually. Perhaps it was the
heat of the forge itself which had roused him. Atros knew almost
instantly that this was a dream, at least it was what other people
in the waking world called a dream, though Atros was no longer so
certain of the distinction. He also quickly realized that this was
one of those few dreams wherein he was present as only a
discorporate observer. This frightened him since such dreams, with
their innate feeling of helplessness, were often the worst.
His point of perception was suspended about three feet above a
curiously crafted forge or oven. It was a hollow stone cube with two
opposing sides open. Within the cube a bank of red coals were fanned
by a strange wind which passed through the cube's open faces. The
forge itself seemed to be composed of a gritty, brown rock which was
encrusted in soot.
Atros first perceived a disturbance in this scene with the
sounds of the approach of several person who were beyound his field
of vision, which seemed to be fixed downward. Shortly, he
periferally sensed a dark, muscular figure who examined the coal
bed, grunted, and placed a long, somewhat squared bar of black metal
into the forge. The metal quickly grew red with firery intensity.
After a time, the man, whom Atros took to be the smith, removed
the brand, placed it atop the forge and set to striking it with a
blunt, iron mallet. Each blow seemed vaguely unsettling and
disturbing to the point that Atros mentally winced in anticipation
of each strike.
During this time another figure beyound Atros' sight began
speaking to a third. He seemed concerned that the metal was too
imperfect to temper it so harshly, but the third voice reassured him
that the alloy was finer than before crafted and that none other
could fill their purpose. This seemed to mollify the second voice to
some extent but his voice retained a tinge of nervous anxiety.
After what seemed to have been an eternity of excruciating blows
to Atros, he gained awareness enough to look upon the product of
these labors. He was astonished to discover a fantastically
beautiful, silver brand of glossy smooth finish extending from a
fine point down a double edged shaft to a thin tang bolt. Atros'
mind was awed by this creation while the smith wiped his sweaty grip
and brow on a soot-smeared rag.
A barely perceived motion suggested that one of the as yet
unseen figures had given the smith an ornately carved dark walnut
box, which the smith fumbled open. Inside lay a fine silver chisel
and a heavy mallet made entirely from a single casting of bone white
metal. Here again, the voice of the second figure gave caution. He
was unsure whether the forthcoming action was totally justified when
the dangers were fully considered, but the third reassured the smith
and set him about his task.
Carefully, the smith took the hammer and chisel in hand
positioning the chisel's tip on a point just below the sword's
point. He raised his right arm and with a mighty blow came down with
his full force which sent fine crack through the forge.
Simultaneously, Atros elsewhere perceived the astonished stares of
grocers, merchants, and midwives to a single clang from their
chapel's bell tower, which for centuries had been used to signal a
call to arms. This dual point of awareness was only momentarily
disorientating to Atros as he had experienced the like before in
other dreams. Returning to the forge, the bewildered Atros saw
engraved on the blade the entire word "Cogne", but the smith was not
yet finished.
Once again, his hammer rose and fell but with an even greater
force which further enlarged the forge's flaw. Once again, the high
noted report of the barrel-shaped warning bell drew attention of
distant farmers, herders, and millers. The blade now bore the highly
stylized word "Tu" at its mid-section.
The smith, exhaustion seeping from his pores, stretched his
frame over the hot forge to impart the last engraved word to the
haft. For the third and final time he drew his hammer high with
incredible slowness and delivered it with the unmatchable strength
that arose from the last of his reserves. As the block split, his
blow caused the sword to leap outward lodging the sword's point deep
within his abdomen. Exhausted by his efforts the smith calmly
accepted death. Simultaneously, the bells of the church tower broke
out in a furious and undying clangor demanding action from all the
denzines of the manor.
Struggling to keep out the clamor, Atros concentrated on the
still visible haft of the sword which rose from the crumpled form of
the smith. The word "Ipsem" was firmly engraved, but Atros also
noticed that a fine crack ran from this engraving to the tang bolt,
where its prescence might cause the handle to snap in its wielder's
grip at some future date. Still, the clangor of the bells continued
as Atros drifted apart from this vision.
After some moments, Atros rolled over in his sleep somewhat
roused by the bell. "Who was that? Dear." He called to the supine
form laying beside him in bed.
"Wrong number... Go back to sleep," a rich feminine voice replied.
Atros drifted into sleep once more.
Atros awoke with a startled cry jumping to his feet and throwing
some of the begraggled bedding into the smoldering coals of the
nearby campfire. He was sweating profusely though the night air was
quite cold. Quickly, he rescued what scraps he could from the flames
and croached back near the fire. He struggled to force the
unpleasant recollections of his dreams from his mind. Aided by that
natural psychological force which seperates our dream lives from our
wakeful lives by forgetfullness, he managed after an hour to recall
only that his dreams had been most unpleasant. No longer willing to
take such chances, Atros quaffed a rather large dose of nepenthe and
gradually returned to unconsciousness. His final thoughts lingered
on the translated phrase which occupied his mind long after his
dream had been forgotten. Still, he recognized that he had
considered the phrase vitally important only moments ago. To the
occasionally cynical mind of Atros, "Know you yourself" now seemed
just a sample of that profound sounding drivel which streetcorner
philosophers fostered on the unwary. It could not be worth troubling
one's sleep over so, he let this too pass from his mind. Gilman's
word, after all, had been good. Atros experienced the sleep of the
dead for the next nine hours.
A few minutes after Atros had administered himself with the drug
and safely passed the arms of Morpheus without mishap, a black
cloaked figure arose from the brush at the edge of the fire light,
floated smoothly across the glen floor, and stood motionless above
Atros' helpless form. It stood thus until nearly daybreak then
glided into the nearby depths of the wood to wait yet again.
-Joseph Curwen
Exile
Michiya awoke to the cries of sea gulls in the early morning
hours of his last day at sea. He carefully groomed himself and
donned a pair of stark white trousers. On top of this he wore a blue
and white patterned shirt. About his waist he wrapped a pale blue
sash pinned together with a tiny ivory figurine of a Kitsune.
Through the sash he thrust the swords given to him by his father. As
he reached the door of his small cabin he stopped and looked back at
the black lacquer case next to his bed. He turned around and knelt
in front it with his hand on the latch. After a moment he lifted the
top and reached under the clothes to remove the two ancient swords
given to him by his uncle Sasaki as he left home. He looked
longingly at them and eventually told himself 'Michiya, you are a
long way from home and the time has come for you to accept the
changes in your life! Put away your boyhood swords and bear these
ancient blades with the honor you deserve.' It was the first time he
had borne the two beautiful swords since receiving them as he left
home. After a short prayer to the Storm God Susano-wo for continued
good sailing, he went out on deck. For a long moment he stood
watching the sunrise until the mate called out to him, 'Good morning
Ittosai-san.'
'Hai,' he whispered, 'totemo ii desu ne!' Turning to the mate he
called 'Good morning Stiben-san, when will we be arriving in Darugon?'
Checking the sun and the colour of the water, he replied 'Just
before lunch if the wind holds up. Why don't we go below and get
something to eat with the night crew before they eat their foolish
heads off and leave nothing for us?'
Taking Steven's suggestion to catch an early breakfast with the
crew he was treated to a meal of lightly fried fish and potatoes.
Potatoes were one few thing he had found to his liking since leaving
his homeland so he ate with great enjoyment. Listening to the
sailors talk of their expected docking later that day he realized
how much he missed his homeland. Weary of hearing their foreign
tongue that he had been forced to learn out of necessity, he drifted
off into a reminiscence of his final good bye to his uncle.
The bitter winter winds had swept the dock clean of snow that
cold night in Yoshida. The cold irritated the freshly bandaged wound
in his leg as he stood there waiting for his uncle. He considered
returning to Osaka and facing his enemies rather than leave the
country. His uncle insisted that this was the only proper course of
action available to him, but leaving hurt his pride. Just as he
decided that was exactly what he would do, he saw his uncle approach
carrying a bundle under his arm.
Kneeling before his uncle he said 'Uncle-san, my apologies but
my sense of honor demands I return to Osaka and face the Itokawa clan.'
His uncle, Ittosai Sasaki, replied 'You will do no such thing!
The Itokawa clan is acting dishonorably in their attacks against
you. They send many of their Samurai after you, a lone ji-zamurai,
just because they cannot accept that one of their children could
possibly be defeated by you. Once they capture you and find out who
you are, they will declare an illegal blood feud on our small clan.
I will not allow the Ittosai clan to be destroyed to salve their
hurt pride. You have acted honorably all along, it is no dishonor
for you to leave now and save your family. Go now, and may Susano-wo
bless your travels.'
'But uncle-san!' he replied 'I do not feel so very honorable at
the moment. Why are they so respected, if they act so dishonorably?'
Sasaki thought a while before answering, 'They are very
powerful, and they aided the new Shogunate on its rise to power.
With such credentials many things are overlooked.' At this point he
began unwrapping the bundle at his side. Inside was a beautiful old
Dai-sho. Holding it out to Michiya he said 'I want you to take this
and bear it with the same honor your great grandfather did after the
son of heaven, Emperor Go-Shirakawa, gave it to him with his blessing.'
With trembling hands, Michiya accepted the ancient blades, but
said 'Uncle-san, I cannot accept this gift! They belong in our
family shrine!'
'Do not argue with an old man on a cold night! Take them now and
board the ship.' With that his uncle turned around and stalked off
into the night. Rising stiffly to his feet, Michiya turned and
boarded the foreign trade ship, The Singing Mermaid.
His reverie was broken then by the yells of the crew as they
prepared to enter the port. He went up on deck and headed forward to
get out of the crew's way and get a good look at his new home. It
wasn't as colorful as his home back in Bichu province nor as
spotlessly clean, but it could have been worse. Some of the ports
that they had stopped in to restock their food supplies had been
smelly cesspools.
As they docked, the Captain approached, and said 'Michiya-san,
the crew has unshipped your crates and is ready to unload them. As
you are new to Dargon, I have taken the liberty of ordering them to
carry your belongings to a respectable inn called "The Inn of the
Hungry Shark". Thomas the bartender is a friend of mine, tell him I
sent you and he will make sure that you are treated with respect.'
'Thank you Captain Markus-san' Michiya replied with a bow 'I was
wondering where I would stay until I became understanding of this
place. I have enjoyed the trip and the company of you and your crew.
I would also like to thank you for teaching me your language.'
'No thanks are necessary' said the Captain. 'It has been a
pleasure to have you on board these last few months. In fact it is I
who should be thanking you for your assistance in dealing with those
pirates last month. I usually am able to go for years with no such
encounters, and every time I have had an encounter I've been lucky
to drive them off. Now I think it'll be quite a while till I have to
worry again.'
Looking rather embarrassed Michiya said 'It was nothing, please
stop, such flattery to my head will travel. I not so special am...'
At this point Michiya broke off in confusion and further
embarrassment over his poor English.
Saying good bye to the Captain, Michiya went ashore. It finally
sunk home to him that he was in a foreign land. Nowhere that he
looked, did he see any of his people. At this point he noticed a
brightly colored wagon with an umbrella. The owner was a merchant
and was selling some stew. Going over to the wagon he got some "Sun
Sweet" stew which was quite good. Instinctively he had brought out a
pair of hashi to eat with, but this seemed to offend the owner's pet
monkey. The little creature grabbed a spoon and thrust it at him.
Not wishing to offend to little monkey any further, he accepted the
spoon. Handing over a gold koku to the little monkey he quietly
complemented it. 'Anata wa kawakute chisaii saru imasu ne!'
His comment seemed to puzzle the monkey who was obviously
pretending that he didn't understand. Taking his leave of the soup
vendor, he thought to himself that the merchants over here were
definately an improvement over the ones' back in Nihon. Back home
they grubbed for anything they could get and had no self respect at
all. The crew members carrying his supplies brought him to a
reasonably clean and tidy inn. Here he was introduced to Thomas the
bartender. After finding out who had sent him, Thomas set him up in
a small but nice room on the second floor.
After a short rest, Michiya went back down stairs and asked
Thomas to explain the Dargon monetary system to him.
Thomas sighed and began to explain the long sad story as he saw
it. 'At first there were only two coinage systems in use. One was
the Shapkan system which had only two types of coins in modern
usage. The two coins were of copper and silver. The other system was
the Baranur system which had three basic coins. These coins were
gold marks, silver rounds, and copper bits. The copper coin is of
the same value as the Shapkan copper, but the silver coins were of
different worth. Recently though, the Rand system has been
introduced by our Lord Clifton Dargon to "simplify matters". It is a
sort of average between the two systems and also has three basic
coins like the Baranur system. Once again the copper coins are of
common value with all the others, but the silver coins are of yet a
third new value and the gold coin is of a different value than the
Baranur gold mark.'
Michiya stood there taking this in thinking to himself that
'This is madness! How could any one want more than one money system?
One money system alone is bad enough, but three will surely cause
greed and hatred.' Michiya thanked Thomas for his help and went out
for some sight seeing. During his wanderings he passed by a farmers
market where he bought some cucumbers. Back home they were
considered a delicacy and he hadn't had any for a long time so he
was quite happy when he returned to The Inn of the Hungry Shark for
dinner. Michiya spent the next few days in somewhat the same manner,
though he was constantly on the look out for something he could do
to support himself in an honorable fashion. He realized that he
could not live forever on the cash that he brought with him and was
quite concerned with his future.
One night as he was taking his evening walk after dinner Michiya
wandered into one of the seedier sections of town. Having been
warned by Thomas that thieves and cutthroats were known to attack
people from time to time in the area, he was on his guard. Shortly
after passing a dark and smelly alley way he heard a sudden stealthy
sound behind him. Without pausing to look, Michiya spun about while
dropping to his left knee and drawing his katana. Just as he dropped
he heard the sound of a thrown dagger pass right over his head.
Silently muttering a brief thanks to Hachiman, he rose to meet the
rush of the attacking thief. The thief didn't look too happy about
the turn of events, but had already committed himself to the attack
with his charge. Michiya turned a parry of the thief's first swing
into a wheel stroke, expecting the fellow to jump back and avoid the
swing. Instead his attacker tried to parry but was hopelessly out of
position. The swing cut through the thief's left arm and made a
shallow cut in the side of his chest. Dropping the sword with a
scream the thief grabbed at the stump of his left arm and stared at
it in disbelief. Michiya was also shocked. He had been told that the
local thieves were reasonably skilled in weapons and had assumed
that they would all know the only possible response to such a basic
attack. He hadn't wanted to kill or even seriously maim the man,
only wound him slightly to drive him off. The thief fell to his
knees and begged 'Please don't kill me! Here, I'll give you
everything I have!'
Michiya noted that the man was going to pass out from blood loss
any minute now, so told him 'Keep your money and your life. I had
only intended to try to scare you off and am now ashamed at myself
for my failure. Take this as a token of my sorrow over what has
happened here tonight.' With that statement Michiya tossed the man a
small gold koku and turned away. The thief stared numbly at the
small gold coin still disbelieving what was happening. Shakily he
reached out, picked up the coin, slipped it into his belt pouch and
staggered of into the night clutching at his arm.
As Michiya stood there wondering what to do, he heard the sound
of many running footsteps approaching. Thinking that more assailants
were on the way he began to step into darkness when he realized that
it was the city guard. Shaking off the blood from his sword, Michiya
sheathed it and stood there calmly in the middle of the street.
Six men in uniform came running down the road. Three of them
immediately surrounded him and two of the others spread out and
started searching the area. The last man, who seemed to be in charge
came over to Michiya and asked 'Who are you sir and what went on here?'
'Ittosai Michiya I am' he replied 'I was just by a thief attacked.'
At this point one of the searchers came running up with the arm
and sword of the thief who had attacked him. He approached the
officer and pointing in the direction of the fight said 'Sir! We
found these over there by that alley.'
Unshuttering his lantern, the officer inspected the sword. With
a start of surprise, the officer exclaimed 'This is Captain Koren's
sword. It was stolen from him a week ago!' With this he turned to
Michiya and said 'Sir, I apologize for the rude manner with which I
initially treated you. In this neighborhood we have to assume the
worst about anyone we don't know. I am Kalen Darklen and am pleased
to meet you.'
Michiya noted that the soldiers relaxed as he replied with a bow
'I am honored to meet you Kalen-san. Unduly impolite for the
situation, you and your men I did not find'.
They chatted pleasantly for a while and eventually Michiya was
invited back to the barracks near the Keep to return Captain
Koren's sword. Michiya was initially hesitant to go there and
embarrass the man in such a fashion. After all losing a sword was a
horribly embarrassing thing. Kalen reassured him that it wasn't
quite that bad of an embarrassment here in the west.
Eventually Michiya returned to The Inn of The Hungry Shark with
an escort this time, went to bed, and dreamt of home.
-Eric Holmquist
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FOUR NUMBER TWO
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
X-Editorial
Well, folks, here's the second batch of Dargon stories. The
response to the first ish was, as we downeasterners say, "wicked
massive". In fact, when I told one reader that my head was swelling
and that I'd start charging for FSFnet, he came back saying that
he'd pay for it! Well, for now we'll just keep cranking out the
stuff for free, but I won't refuse contributions...
I'd like to thank Chris Condon for keeping FSFnet in BITLIST,
and all the new readers who responded to BITLIST or the note I sent
out last month. Readership is better than ever, but we all know
there are more people out there who would be interested in this sort
of fanzine, so spread the word, send issues around, and coerce
people if necessary to make them sign up! The more the merrier, right?
Finally, for all you back-issue freaks, FSFNET INDEX, a list of
back issues and their contents is available from mine truly. Feel
free to ask for it, and any back issues, but remember that such
requests often go several weeks before being fulfilled, since issues
before 4-1 are kept on magnetic tape in my living room.
Well, that's all the news from the north, on to the two newest
Dargon stories...
-Orny
Deep Trouble
The day was sunlit, although there were still clouds in the sky,
and rain still came down occasionally. The wind was no longer cold,
as it had been, though, so Levy and Mattan Barel shed their cloaks
as they passed through the great wooden gates of Dargon. All around
them men carried heavy crates and barrels of food and goods, setting
up their booths for the Festival.
Levy and Mattan made their way through the streets to the home
of Cavendish the Scribe. Levy had spent a few years with Cavendish
learning several scholarly languages, and every year, when the
Festival came, Levy made it a point to spend a few days in Dargon
with his teacher and friend.
When they arrived, Cavendish's son Dale made their horses
comfortable while Cavendish personally saw to the comforts of his
guests. After several hours of "catching up" on old times and
equally generous amounts of food and good beer, the household
settled down for the night.
Levy was jolted out of a sound rest by the sound of loud
knocking on the outside doors. As he rolled over, he heard Cavendish
making his way to the door, unbolting it and greeting his early
morning guests.
"We would speak with Levy Barel. We know he is lodging here."
The voice was not harsh, but there was no mistaking the
authority behind it. By the time Cavendish reached the door to
Levy's room, both Levy and Mattan were in their trousers. Levy saw
the apprehension in Cavendish's eyes as he stepped into the room.
"There are some men here to see you. Lord's Guards."
Levy stepped into his boots and walked out into the main room,
followed by Mattan. As he did he breathed a quick prayer. Standing
in the doorway were three large men, all wearing swords at their
sides, undrawn. Levy approached them.
"How can I help you?" Levy's tone was carefully chosen, not
arrogant, but not fearful either.
"Lord Dargon wishes to see you. Immediately." Although there was
no threat in the man's voice, it was obvious that he would not leave
without Levy.
While taking in the situation, Levy noticed his brother's face.
It had a curious expression on it, as if he were sizing up the
opposition, a look Levy knew well. The three guards, on the other
hand, anxiously watched Levy and Mattan. Levy turned to his brother.
"I'll go with them. It's all right." Levy knew that Mattan could
and would stop these men from taking him against his will. It was
always best to play things easy, though.
Levy grabbed his cloak and stepped outside to where the men
waited with four horses. The group rode silently through the
sleeping city to the central keep. There they dismounted, and
entered. Please let me see the outside of this castle again, Levy
breathed, uncertain. Once inside, the guard Levy had spoken with
turned to the other guards.
"You may return to your posts."
As the two guards saluted, and turned to leave, the third guard
turned towards Levy.
"Follow me. My Lord awaits."
They made their way into the center of the keep, which was
larger than any Levy had been in, and up to the top level. Levy was
surprised to note that every one they met saluted deferentially to
his guide, no matter how high their rank. Soon, they came to a short
hallway, in the center of which was a door with guards on both
sides. When they reached the door, the two guards blocked their
entry until the guide surrendered his sword.
Once inside Levy immediately recognized Lord Dargon, a young
man, straight and honest-looking. The Lord looked up almost as soon
as they stepped in.
"Bartol. You found him. Well done."
"Thank you, My Lord."
"Bartol is my bard. He sings for me when I hold public court.
What most people don't know is that he is also second in command of
my personal bodyguard, and one of my most valuable spies."
"Concerned citizens, Sire." The reply was accompanied with a grin.
"Forgive me. Concerned citizens. I would make him ruler of a
third of my lands if it weren't for the fact that then he would be
of no use to me anymore."
Levy infered from their talk that this was to be an informal
audience. Therefore, he got to the point as soon as possible.
"How can I be of assistance to you, Lord Dargon?"
"Allow me to explain; it is a short tale. I must, as all lords
in this country must, pay tithes to Baranur. Unlike most lords, I
have always paid them promptly, and without grudging. This year,
however, a problem has arisen. My financial adviser died this spring
of old age and left his eldest son, whom he had been training, in
his position. One of the first things his son did was to, how did he
say it, invest the tithe money overseas. It really was a good idea.
For every piece of gold I sent over, two have come back. Further,
because of their increased trade with us, several of our long time
enemies would not dare invade us, for fear of loosing a good
customer.The only problem arose when the tithe collector from
Baranur came. The ship carrying the tithe was late, so we had to put
him off for two weeks. He was not happy. When the ship finally did
arrive, it arrived during a storm, and sank just outside of the
harbor. The tithe collector grew suspicious, and returned to Baranur
despite anything I could do. Now, we don't have enough gold in
Dargon to pay the tithe, and Baranur has sent me this."
Lord Dargon handed Levy a scroll, which he opened. Out of it
rolled a dead scorpion. With shaking hands Levy read the scroll.
"Be it known! The hand of Baranur is long and heavy! Tithes must
be paid in full by the full moon, or the next messenger will not be
a dead one!"
Levy looked up at Lord Dargon.
"The moon is full tonight."
"Yes, but the letter did not arrive until yesterday. Baranur is
impatient, but not unrealistic. It would take two days for the money
just to reach Baranur. No, we have until the next full moon to pay
the tithe."
"I see. Just what part do I play in this little game, Lord Dargon?"
"I am trying to raise the money by other means. There is little
hope of doing it, but perhaps we could buy some time with a partial
payment. What I want you to do is raise that ship. I know of the
legends concerning the first Barel, how he saved this land by his
engineering skills. I also know that you follow in his footsteps.
Now I am hiring you to help me. Raise that ship. and you will walk
away with a tithe of it's holdings."
Levy paused.
"And if I don't?"
Lord Dargon looked Levy straight in the eye.
"I will not threaten a guest to my city, nor will I threaten
someone I wish to hire. But I will not take no for an answer. And if
you don't raise the ship in time, you and your brother will be here
in the city when Baranur comes to claim it's due."
Dawn found Mattan Barel and Cavendish asleep in chairs, with
half empty cups of strong herb tea in front of them. They had been
waiting a long time for Levy to come back. They awoke and sprang to
their feet when Levy opened the door and stepped in.
"What happened? Where have you been? What did they want?" Mattan
was relieved to see his older brother in one piece, but now his
curiosity was aroused.
"It seems I'm not going to get to see much of the Festival after
all. Lord Dargon has a minor engineering miracle he wants me to
perform for him."
Cavendish and Mattan sat back down as Levy removed his cloak and
took a free chair. Cavendish leaned forward with a knowing look on
his face.
"Was it about the ship that sank?"
"I'm not allowed to tell any more than what I have, but I will
say he's willing to pay me very well. You might say, a lord's
ransom. And he won't take no for an answer." Levy sat back, grinning
at the expression on Cavendish's face. "I would ask you not let
anyone know of this. Not even your family. Mattan, I may need your
help later. For now, though, you can have your fun at the Festival.
And don't worry about saving enough money for the trip home. We
won't be needing to worry about that." One way or another, Levy
added, as a silent afterthought.
After breakfast, Levy rode across the city to the docks. Once
there he rode up to the largest ship he could find. Naturally, it
was one of the Lord's own. It was a trading vessel, the Heavenly
Walls. Levy tied up his horse, and strode on board. He found the
captain, one John Largo, directing the loading of the first part of
his cargo. Levy approached him.
"I really hate to say this, but I'm afraid you're going to have
to unload that cargo."
Largo, and everyone else who heard, froze. They all turned to
look at Levy. There was a long pause. Largo looked around at all his
men, then back to Levy.
"And why would that be? Who are you to be telling me these things?"
Levy pulled his hand from where he had been concealing it in his
cloak. He held it up, palm in.
"Who am I? I'm the man who wears this ring."
Captain Largo looked at the ring. His eyes sprang wide open, and
he immediately doffed his hat and dropped to one knee.
"Please! Pardon me! I had no idea!" He turned to the crew. "He
wears Lord Dargon's ring!"
The entire crew immediately dropped what they were doing and
presented a hasty salute. Levy had not asked for the ring, but now
he was glad it had been given. He realized now that it would make
things much easier, for while he wore it, he had, for many if not
all intents and purposes, as much authority as Lord Dargon himself.
"Rise. Lord Dargon has asked that I use this vessel. He thought
it to be the best one for my needs, and my needs are going to be
great. Can you fulfil them, captain?" Levy knew that no man in the
captain's position could allow his competency to be so questioned.
"Name it, and we will have it done yesterday!" The crew gave a
shout, and when Levy smiled and motioned for the captain to lead the
way to the cabin, they broke into cheering.
A week later Levy stood on the deck of the ship, frowning at the
grey waves. Voices behind him drew his attention. He turned and
walked across the deck to where three seamen were pulling a drag
rope on deck One of the men stopped, and leaned over the side. A
moment later he straightened up, pulling a diver on deck. Levy
approached the diver.
"What can you see down there?"
"Nothing. The ship is down there, but we can't get close enough
to see it. It's too deep, and the water's too cold, and there are
too many sharks."
"What about that sack I gave you? The one with the shark poison
in it."
The man gave a wry smile.
"A shark made a pass at me, and I dropped it. The shark doubled
back, and ate it."
Levy vented a sigh, and turned back to the cabin, He stepped
inside, grateful to be in out of the cold wind. The cabin was
surprisingly warm, heated by a large cooking stove. The cabin was
the living quarters for the whole crew. Two men were presently
playing dice in the far corner. One had had his leg broken when a
drag line had snapped and thrown him against some tackle. The other
was a diver who had been mauled by a shark.
The rest of the crew was on deck, busily trying either to put
off marker buoys to mark the wreck, or helping the divers in their
attempts to reach the wreck. So far the only success had been the
initial find of the ship, and even that had taken three days. The
grab lines had not been able to haul anything up. No divers had been
able to reach the wreck, and at least one other diver had been
injured by the sharks, although not severely. The captain had asked
to be allowed to take the injured men back to shore, and Levy had
agreed. He was secretly glad, as he needed time to plan his next
move. He had hoped that the divers he had found at the Festival
would help, but they were foiled by the deep, the dark, the cold,
and the sharks. He had spent much time petitioning his God for
another idea, but none had come yet.
Three days later Levy was back at the wreck, only this time with
two ships. The first was the Heavenly Walls. The other was a trader,
the Green Squid. It's captain was a man called Itoh Carran Tchock.
They were the largest ships available, and they had on deck the
largest winches Levy could find, ones like those used to raise the
drawbridge leading into Dargon Keep. At the moment the two ships
were about two hundred feet apart with a thick hawser slung between
them. At an order from Levy, the line was played out, until Levy
figured that enough had been let out that it was now resting on the
bottom. Levy then motioned to Capt. Largo. He bellowed an order to
his men, and the ship started moving. He then motioned to Capt.
Tchock on the other ship, and it moved forward as well. As the ships
moved through the water, the hawser followed. Occasionally it would
grow taut, only to slacken as the obstacle was overcome. Then, after
about half a minute, it grew taut and did not relax. Both ships
stopped. Levy then turned to Capt. Largo.
"Launch the boat!"
Five men lowered the ship's boat into the water and climbed into
it. Another hawser was passed to them, and they started for the
Green Squid. When they reached it, the line was passed up to it's
crew, who made it fast to the winch on board. The boat crew then
rowed back towards their ship. They stopped half way, and fished the
hawser out of the water. Then, as Levy watched, more line was let
out. The boat rowed forward, pulling the hawser out, until the
weight of the extended line was ready to swamp the little boat. Then
the crew dropped the line, which disappeared underwater. Capt. Largo
turned to Levy, but Levy just stood there, watching. After a long
moment, Levy turned to Largo.
"It should be down there by now. Make it fast, and start pulling
it in."
The crew scrambled to fulfil the command. The line was attached
to the winch as the first was, and then teams started laboriously
turning the spool. Onboard the other ship the crew did the same. The
two ships drifted together. As soon as a line could be tossed
across, the two ships were drawn together. Wooden beams were placed
across the gap between the ships, and lashed to the two decks,
binding the two ships together solidly.
Levy's plan was easy to understand. It had come to him as he
stood on the pier and watched the waves pushing anchor lines around.
He didn't know if it was divinely inspired, but it was better than
no idea. The first hawser had been dragged along the bottom until it
had caught on the bow of the sunken ship. A second had then been
sunk around the stern of the wreck. The ships had then been lashed
together, so that they could try to winch the wreck to the surface
without worrying about capsizing.
All through the day the crews turned the big spools. Inch by
inch the wet rope wound around the drums. Levy did not plan to
totally raise the ship, only get it high enough so that it could be
hauled to shallow water.
As the sun drew towards the horizon, the wind picked up. With it
came rougher seas. Levy told the captain to start to make for shore.
The men who were not cranking the winches raised the sails. They had
gotten them half up when the two ships lurched. The beams between
the two ships snapped, and both ships rose suddenly higher in the
water. Levy fell to the deck, as did just about everyone. He got up
and ran to the winch. He didn't even need to ask what had happened.
Both cables were limp.
Levy had been there for only a moment when both ships shuddered
again. This time the ships rolled away from each other. One man fell
overboard. The air was filled with horrible thumps as each ship was
struck several times. When things quieted down, both crews ran to
the side of the ship, and were astonished to see the man who had
fallen over standing, apparently on top of the water.
It didn't take long for Levy to realize that the sunken ship had
surfaced, and was now floating on it's own. It wasn't for a few
minutes that Levy realized that the ship was now in two pieces, the
stern and the bow. After that it was only a moment before the real
impact of what had happened hit him. The reason the wreck hadn't
floated before was that it was weighted down with it's golden cargo.
If it floated now, it was only because the gold had all poured out
when the ship had broken in half.
Levy stood in an open field. Three weeks ago the Festival had
started in Dargon, and three days ago the sunken ship had broken in
half as Levy and the crew of the Heavenly Walls had tried to raise
it. Since then an effort had been made to dredge the gold off the
sea floor, but to no avail. The bottom was rough and craggy, unlike
the smooth floor of the harbor. Attempts to dive down to the gold
had almost gotten a diver eaten.
Levy looked around him. The sun was hot, a welcome change to the
cool sea air. Levy had decided to take a break and practice the
archery his young twin brother had taught him. He had set up a
target in the center of the grassy field, and had walked back to
where his bow lay. Now he bent and picked it up, along with an
arrow. He had only brought three, as Mattan had wanted to go hunting.
As Levy stood there he thought. Where in the world am I going to
come up with a way to raise that ship? In this field? He laughed
quietly at that thought. I'll never be able to find the solution to
this problem. It'll take a miracle. And that wouldn't be a bad idea,
he concluded, aiming that last thought skyward.
He raised the bow and shot. The arrow struck the target at the
base. He drew and fired again. This time he hit to one side. Once
more he shot. The arrow struck the very top of the target and
glanced off in high, arching flight.
Levy groaned. His aim this morning certainly wasn't inspired. He
dropped the bow and jogged out to where he thought the arrow had
landed. Past the target he found a small stream, and a tiny pool,
and his arrow, sticking out of the water in the center of the pool.
Levy squatted on the edge of the pool, staring at the brightly
colored bolt as it pointed upward, unwilling to muddy the water by
wading in to retrieve the shaft. As he sat there a movement caught
his attention. A spider scurried along the edge of the pool. It
reached a fallen branch that extended out into the pool, and turned
out along it.
Be careful, little spider, or you'll get wet, Levy thought. To
his surprise, the spider turned down a side branch, and crawled
right under the water.
Levy leaned closer. He had heard of spiders that lived
underwater, but he had never seen one. He watched as the small
creature clung to the twig, a bubble of air cloaking its abdomen in
silver. As he watched the spider, another movement caught his eye. A
fish, rather large for such a small pool, swam by. The spider
paused, and as it did the fish saw it. With a movement of it's tail,
the fish darted after the spider. Before the fish could reach it,
however, the spider squeezed between two twigs. The fish bumped it's
snout against the twigs, unable to reach the tasty morsel behind
them. It hung there for a moment, then swam off, puzzled.
Fooled him, you did, Levy thought, safe in your little wooden
cage. Then Levy stiffened. Cage!
Three days later Levy was once again on the deck of the Heavenly
Walls, looking at the red marker buoys bobbing in the water. This
time he had brought something else along. It had once hung from a
gibbet, holding a criminal's body. Now it hung from a derrick, ready
to be swung over the side of the ship. It was a large iron cage,
just big enough for a man to stand in. A large, clear glass jar,
which Levy had managed to talk the local glass blower into making,
was wedged into the top. While the crew watched, Levy climbed in and
shut the door. He had decided that he wasn't going to risk someone
else's life on one of his ideas unless he was willing to risk his
own life first. He motioned for Captain Largo to come near.
"When I want up, I'll pull the rope. I'm no diver, and there
isn't going to much air in this thing."
Captain Largo nodded, and steadied the cage as his men swung the
derrick around. Levy hung there a moment, then the cage dropped into
the water.
The shock of the water was muted by the woolen clothing Levy
wore, but it was still great. He was overjoyed to see how well he
could see through the glass. The sea around him was easily visible.
He sank down quickly, the men above allowing the winch to run almost
free. Soon the second part of Levy's idea was tested. A large shape
swam up. Levy didn't see it until it circled around the cage.
Immediately Levy tensed, and immediately the great fish sensed his
nervousness. The shark turned toward Levy, and with a audible snap
of it's tail it slammed into the cage. Levy and the cage swung like
a pendulum, but the cage held firm. Just as the fish had done, the
shark hung there for a moment, then swam off in search of softer game.
Levy watched it for a moment, and then he was at the bottom. He
scraped along a rock wall for a few seconds, and then thudded into a
surprisingly flat bottom. The dark was too thick to see through now,
so Levy opened a pouch at his side, and pulled out a small glass
jar. Inside was some foxfire he had gathered before setting out. It
glowed greenly in the gloom. By it's light Levy could see a metallic
glint from the seabed. Reaching through the bars of the cage, Levy
grabbed something hard and heavy. It was a gold coin. Joy flooded
Levy's mind. He silently shouted praise, his mind singing. He was so
happy at his success that he stared at the coin until his lungs
started burning, and he realized that the air in the jar was going
bad. He reached up, and yanked the cord.
Later that day Levy stood at the bow of the Heavenly Walls. Down
below divers were scooping gold from the ocean mud. Levy's mind was
not there though. He looked out across the waves. He was thinking of
what had happened down at the bottom of the sea. Just as the men
above started pulling him up, Levy slipped his jar of foxfire back
in it's pouch. But the sea around him stayed lit. He looked up, and
almost stopped breathing, for staring right at him were two large,
glowing eyes. As the cage rose, the eyes disappeared in the gloom.
For all of his life, Levy had always wondered at the marvels of
this great planet, this marvelous creation. Yet he now realized that
he had only seen a tiny part. There were other lands, other worlds
within the world. He knew now that he would not have seen anything
if he did not take the time, and look deeper.
-Jim Owens
The Essence of Ur-Baal
Banewood smelled incense when he entered Aardvard Factotum's
home. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he noticed
conspicuous details of wealth: polished wooden furniture from
Magnus; a paved floor topped with woven grass mats; and thick
tapestries, imported from distant Baranur, adorned the walls. The
richness of the furnishings attested to Factotum's success as a
local healer and surgeon -- a barber, in local parlance. The
peasants, those who could afford his services, paid dearly with
their cattle, which augmented what was already one of the largest
herds in the realm. Those who were rich, however, had rich diseases,
and they paid in gold for their treatment, preferably Baranur gold
marks. Many of them.
But Banewood wasn't looking for healing. And though he could
probably use a different type of barber, he hadn't come for a
surgical consultation. He was looking for magic and for anyone
willing to trade magic spells and potions.
When he had first arrived at Dargon, Banewood milled about the
docks and warehouses, casting about for information among the
sailors, longshoremen and merchants. It didn't take long. Beneath a
red and white canopy, a soup vendor called Simon had volunteered the
name of Aardvard Factotum, the physician, in barter for some exotic
seasonings brought by Banewood. This was not an age of
specialization -- a physician, especially one trained by an elder,
also dabbled in sorcery.
The apprentice shaman, ever on the search for new spells and new
knowledge, eagerly sought the physician's house and gave his
credentials to a haughty secretary. After about ten minutes --
Aardvard didn't wish to appear eager -- the secretary returned and
ushered Banewood into Factotum's richly appointed office.
"Hansen, go take a walk and leave us alone," said Aardvard to
his secretary. Hansen demurred at the order to leave his employer,
but he left obediently.
"Who's your instructor?" asked Aardvard. From behind thick lids,
his reddened eyes peered at the dusty Shaman. He drew a heavy puff
from a pipe. The pipe, made of whale ivory scrimshaw, was very rare.
"Ostap of Gorod," responded Banewood.
"Never heard of him," said the physician. He stifled a yawn. "I
presume you came here with something on your mind."
Banewood shifted his weight; he'd been on his feet all day.
"Yes. I'm a stranger to the kingdom of Baranur, having journeyed
through the forest from the east.
"More to this bumpkin than meets the eye," mused Aardvard to
himself. The eastern forests seldom admitted strangers. Ones who
passed that way may, indeed, have something to offer. "Go on..."
Banewood told Aardvard little of his adventure at the hut of
Baba Yaga or of his meeting with the little people who lived in the
dark forest which surrounded Gorod, his home. Nor did he mention
Baba Yaga's book of spells. Baba Yaga was an evil sorceress who died
centuries ago in the dark forest. Last summer, Banewood and his
companion, Sod the plowman, journeyed through the dark forest to
slay Kathryn, a monstrous sow believed by many to be the
reincarnation of Baba Yaga. Banewood found Baba Yaga's book of
spells within the ruins of her moldering hut. Books of any sort were
rare commodities in this dim age, and a book of sorcery was beyond
price -- more than one's life, at least. Banewood concentrated
instead on his quest for the greater knowledge, his euphemism for
the shaman's art.
Factotum was amused. Never before had someone sought him out to
exchange spells and potions.
"Let's play with this one a bit," Factotum thought to himself.
"Well, shaman, show me what you can do, and I'll see what I may have
to offer you... But I'm sorry, I'm forgetting my manners, aren't I?
Please sit and ease your feet."
Banewood nodded in thanks. Picking a stool, he sat down and did
little to suppress a weary sigh. He reached into his sack and
produced a wooden rod. He waved the rod over a small table in front
of him, muttered a few words and caused the table to rise about a
foot into the air. It floated about for a moment and then abruptly
settled back to earth.
Aardvard shrugged. "I'm afraid the table is the only thing to
get a rise from that old trick," he said with smugness. Thinking to
impress Banewood, he reached for a nearby urn and showed the shaman
that it was empty. Aardvard covered the urn with a fine cloth which
he pulled from a pocket in his robe. He produced his own wooden rod
and waved it over the container. With slight flourish, he produced a
little white squat-hen, your typical rabbit. He offered the
squat-hen to Banewood. "Something for your dinner, perhaps?"
Banewood smirked. "Is that all you can do? Squat-hen tricks?" He
reached again into his bag and this time pulled out one of his
favorites; it was a narrow vial filled with a dark green liquid. He
sipped once from the vial and placed it back in his pouch. Banewood
closed his eyes as if resting and appeared to go to sleep.
"Now what?" wondered the physician.
Several minutes went by. However, just as the physician was
thinking of offering Banewood a cup of tea or some other stimulant,
a raven flew up to the open window and perched on the sill. It
looked sideways at Aardvard, which is the way birds often look when
gazing directly at you, and croaked "Aar-vard! Aar-vard!"
"Is that all you can do? Bird imitations?" scoffed Aardvard
Factotum. But the physician had never seen this bit of sorcery
before. "Hmm... What else can you do with that potion?" He asked.
Once again, Banewood closed his eyes and appeared to sleep.
After about a minute, Banewood stirred; he opened his eyes and
beamed a knowing smile at Aardvard.
"You have twelve hundred gold marks hidden behind your hearth.
Don't you trust the banks in Baranur?" Banewood asked.
Factotum controlled an urge to jump out of his chair and
throttle Banewood. "You can do that with your potion?" he asked.
"What is it?"
Banewood replied "It's the Essence of Ur-Baal. It sets the mind
free of the body."
"Oh! I've got to try this essence. Let me try it, please?"
begged Factotum, going down a bit in Banewood's estimation.
"No, I don't think so," replied Banewood. "It's kind of
dangerous if you don't know what you're doing; you can easily get
lost and not find your way back to your body."
"I've never been lost a day in my life," retorted Aardvard.
"You mean you've used the essence of Ur-Baal before?"
"Yeah, sure. A long time ago." Aardvard lied.
"Well, in that case..." Banewood looked pensive, Aardvard looked
eager. "Okay." Banewood relented. He trickled a few drops of the
essence of Ur-Baal into a waiting glass. "But be careful and don't
stray too far," he warned.
"Don't worry, mother, this will be easy," said Aardvard Factotum
as he snarfed down a small mouthful of the dark green liquid.
Aardvard Factotum closed his eyes. He didn't feel any different
for about thirty seconds. Suddenly, he felt strange, like he was
having a giddy dream. The muscles in his neck felt extremely loose,
and then it felt as if the base of his skull was opening up. His
thoughts poured out -- literally. "Boy, this is neat," he thought.
In his mind, he went to the kitchen and looked for his gold behind a
loose cobble stone near the hearth... "Yes, it's still there, all of
it." And while his body remained indoors, his mind perceived the
sky. He was moving... at least it felt like he was.
He took in the panorama of a dimming twilight sky -- it was
particularly beautiful -- and then perceived the smoke of a distant
cooking fire. Following the source of smoke, his mind flew down the
chimney and entered the living quarters of one of his tenant
farmers. A farmer and his stoutish wife were eating and talking
about the day's events. How odd! Aardvard didn't hear them, but he
FELT what they were saying. They were talking about the stranger who
had come to visit the physician, speculating as to what kind of
chicanery might be afoot.
"My secretary, Hansen, cannot resist passing on the latest
gossip," thought Aardvard. "So Hansen becomes a rumormonger when he
takes his little walks!"
He passed through a small open window and again flew over the
countryside with increasing exhilaration. Aardvard's disembodied
mind experienced elation as the sensations bombarded him through
numerous channels. Aardvard understood so many things. He sensed the
heartbeat of a barn swallow in flight, he felt an oak tree breathe,
and he felt the vastness of the earth and the sky surrounding it.
His mind flew upward and toward the Street of Travellers which
ran through the business district of Dargon, then over the wall of
Dargon Keep. The castle of Dargon Keep served as home to Lord
Clifton Dargon, for whose family the city below is named. Within the
keep also lived the lesser nobility and other courtiers.
Aardvard Factotum's mind now ran up and down the halls of Dargon
Keep. He entered the chamber of Griswald Brutsam, a
physician-sorcerer in the employ of Lord Dargon. Most potentates
kept court physician-sorcerers to ward off bad food and bad spells.
Clifton Dargon was no fool and, hence, no exception. And Griswald
was one of the best.
Someone else was in the room with Griswald. Normally, Aardvard
wouldn't have known who this man was, but his instinct said that it
was Lek Pyle, a leading shipping merchant from Baranur. Neither
Griswald nor Lek took notice of Factotum's entrance, though Griswald
did shift his eyes about as if he was about to impart something
important to the other visitor. Anything that Griswald had to say,
particularly to one of Baranur's leading merchants, was worth
listening in on. Aardvard decided to eavesdrop.
Griswald talked about Captain Markus and the return to port of
the Singing Mermaid. The Mermaid had gone further east than any
Baranur ship -- and it had managed to return.
"I know Lord Dargon's will in the matter of sending an army
against the island of Bichu," said Griswald. "He wouldn't risk it,
and I'm afraid he's also morally opposed to it. He figures that as
long as those people are already willing to trade with us, there's
no sense in fighting them. And I'm not sure I see the sense either."
"It doesn't matter what Griswald thinks of this matter," said
Lek. What's important is that Baranur has the exclusive right to
govern trade with Bichu."
"I still don't like it," rejoined Griswald, "but it looks like I
don't have any choice. Loyalty to Lord Dargon isn't worth my life."
Lek smiled a crooked grin, stood up and headed for the door.
"Still," continued Griswald, tugging absently at his ear and
rising from his seat, "I'm not sure of the best way to get Lord
Dargon out of the picture."
If the disembodied mind that was Factotum's could have choked at
this moment, it would have. "By the great gods!" thought Factotum.
"They're talking of assassination! I've got to go warn somebody..."
While Factotum watched mutely -- at least mutely as far as Lek
and Griswald were concerned -- both men quietly walked out of the
room and headed down the hall toward the stairs.
But when Aardvard Factotum tried to follow, he couldn't move. He
felt like a man trying to escape a nightmare beast; if he'd had
knees, they'd have turned to rubber right now. No, actually, the
feeling was more like standing in muck up to your chin, and knowing
that it was going to get higher. Aardvard felt the same sort of
panic that men felt when they were about to die, that is, his mind
seized up and refused to work. It was a sinking feeling.
-Roman (Mr. Fish) Olynyk
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FOUR NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
X-Editorial
Greetings, all. Well, there is so much to write of here, yet so
little space. Enclosed you will find 4 new Dargon stories (the last
of which takes place well before the current ones). I must apologize
for the delay, but I think you will find it worth the wait. Also,
there will be another issue out before the end of the semester, if I
have my way, although who knows? I might mention that if you look at
the distribution, we are growing at a phenomenal pace, and I'd like
to again thank all the new readers for their interest.
As for new books, look for Janet Morris. She's released two new
books that are the first Thieves' World novels, titled "Beyond
Sanctuary" and "Beyond the Veil" (the latter available only in
hardcover as far as I know). Also, new Robert Anton Wilson, Piers
Anthony, Anne McCaffrey, and a reprint of an old Tanith Lee book.
Two more items. For those of you who will be around this summer,
a user at Cornell is planning on running a play by mail Diplomacy
game over BITNET. For more details send a mail file to UXHJ at
CORNELLA. Finally, for those of you with accounts that will expire
soon, please let me know so that I can delete you from the
distribution list. This will help save me from having to sit up all
night watching sent file messages, as well as the annoyance of
filling up your node's spool space.
-Orny
The Awakening
The morning sun was boldly creeping towards the edge of
Hartley's sleeping mat when he woke. Sitting up, he shed the single
wool blanket he had been given by one of the peasant women from the
nearby village of Greenmont. He had left the shutters and door of
his modest dwelling open, and the smell of the surrounding pine
woods and the warm sun permeated the room. Shrugging on a light
brown tunic, Hartley leaned out the window and took a deep breath.
This was one of those special May mornings Hartley had been taught
were called Truespring, when spring finally came in a burst of
warmth and lush greenness. The sky was clear and deep azure, and the
leaves on the old Maple out back were calm, signifying that the rest
of the day would not see any spring showers. A nuthatch hung upside
down on a Cedar, nibbling at the piece of suet Hartley had hung only
yesterday afternoon. Truespring had come at last, and Hartley's soul
was healed, after the long days of winter. He could feel the raw,
rejuvenating power of Nature, and he rejoiced in it.
After several very long moments of private reverie, Hartley left
his small cottage with a pewter basin. He walked barefoot down a
well-known path, carpeted with a dun-colored mat of last years
fallen pine needles, eventually coming upon a small woods stream.
The druid climbed upon a stone that jutted into the stream. After a
moment of excited consideration, Hartley tossed the basin towards
the path and stripped off his tunic. The water would be very cold,
but after the winter, Hartley couldn't wait until he could swim a
little and wash all over. After steeling his nerves in the sunlight,
he leapt into the spring runoff. He thrashed around in the water for
a bit, getting clean, and hopped right back up onto the rocks. He
shouldn't stay in too long, after all.
He laid down on the sun-warmed boulder for a time, drying off
and listening to the babble of the rushing water and the voices of
the woods. After several minutes, he donned his robe and filled the
basin, bringing it back to the hut with him.
Walking around to the front of the cabin, Hartley came upon his
garden. Here grew all varieties of flowers and herbs, and, soon,
vegetables. He sprinkled water from the basin around. Most of his
flowers were up, and the Lilacs were blossoming in white and
lavender. His patch of Lilly-in-the-Valley were also blossoming
fragrantly. There was a great deal of work in his garden, but
Hartley knew that it was well worth the effort. It was still a
little early to plant many vegetables, although he ought to head
into town and buy some pea and corn seeds. If he was lucky he could
get two groups of peas before fall, so he planned to get them in the
ground as soon as possible. As for corn, that took all summer to
grow, and should be planted as soon as possible.
He bent down and picked a single Lilly-of-the-Valley stem and
smelled its sweet bell-like blossoms. Placing the basin down, he
walked to the far side of the garden, where he had built his altar
to the twin gods. The altar was nothing more than a small gathering
of stones, but it meant more to Hartley than any other place he
knew. The snow had melted from it, revealing the remains of prior
offerings: a few golden leaves, a pine tassel, and so forth. He
knelt before the altar, placing the Lilly blossom atop it. For
several minutes he sat in silent meditation, worshipping the works
of the two gods, the strong-willed man called Nature and the
softness of Mitra, goddess of Love. Hartley had been taught early
the worship of Nature, and knew little of Mitra save that she was
the all-mother, and Nature's twin companion.
After this ritual was complete, he quietly returned to his home
and prepared for a trip into town.
-Orny
Spirit of the Wood
The acrid smell of the 'smokers' stung loric's eyes and he
rolled onto his side to cover his head with his lightly tanned arm.
This position was soon ruined also, as an errant beam of early
morning sunlight stole under the shade on the window and hit him in
the corner of his left eye. Soon the battle of boy versus nature was
over and Loric groaned as he gave up and sat up.
He watched the dancing motes of dust pirouette in and out of the
beam of golden light for a few moments and then moved to the window
through which it came.
Loric never ceased to be moved by the sight of his village in
the Trees. The web-like network of vines that linked his home to the
surrounding trees, the home of his uncle down that one, that of his
sister Silsia at the base of the other (she was an unmarried female
and was considered somewhat a rouge by the other villagers, except
Loric who worshipped the ground she walked on even if it was in fact
ground and not the vines he had been born to.
There was a natural depression of the land between here and the
village of Greensward, with the lake shimmering in the exact center
like a jewel of surpassing beauty, in fact the only gem Loric had
ever seen was the blue polished stone that his uncle wore in his
headband, as a sign that the Spirit of the Wood had chosen him to
lead. He was a demanding taskmaster and not taken to change but fair
to all, and his leadership had gotten the people through several
hard winters when the ice-ladened vines had snapped and fallen upon
the 'Downlanders' below.
The mention of the Spirit of the Wood reminded Loric of his
morning prayer. His was a simple one and not really a rhyme to be
proud of but his Grandfather had assured him that as time went on he
would achieve better rapport with the spirit and the Hearth-song
would reveal itself more clearly.
Making a simple hand gesture of acknowledgement to the rising
sun, he sang to the Spirit of the Wood:
"Spirit of the Wood,
Spirit of the Wood,
I'd come be with you,
If I could."
This done Loric took a step outside to see where his Grandfather
was this morning. Loric's father Dernhelm had been one of the
'Downlanders that has perished in the winter and since that time
Loric had lived with his Grandfather, whom everyone in the village
called Oldsir. Loric's awe for his older sister was only
over-shadowed by that for his Grandfather, who though blind for
nearly all of Loric's two years and twelve still negotiated the
vines connecting the upward village with the ease some never
developed. Several of the younger men who were jealous of his seat
on the arboreal council urged him to join his wife and family on the
ground but he always said "If I go below again it'll be on my head!"
"That's a strong oath for a young man to take," commented a
voice from above him. "Shall I swear witness to it, Loric?"
"Oldsir I was talking to myself, and besides, I have yet to take
the Shreaving, and I can swear no oaths before then."
"It is only three more nights till the Moon shows itself full
upon the land, I think perhaps you are ready to try."
Loric was surprised, it had been only a cycle earlier that he
had begged Oldsir to allow him to accompany the young men to the
ground where the Rite of Shreaving began. He looked closely at his
grandfather, somehow sensing the weariness and pain that sometimes
took his Grandfather and shook him for nights in a row. Oldsir
turned tired, sightless eyes upon Loric and in a flash of
inspiration Loric saw what it was that his Grandfather was fatigued
from. His eyes bore the tale-tell spider-tracing of a Vision. The
Spirit of the Wood had spoken to Oldsir, or perhaps through him
during the night. No one alive in his village had ever had two
visions from the Spirit. This meant that something of extreme import
to the village was about to occur.
Oldsir's eyes showed Loric something else equally disturbing.
They revealed to Loric that his Grandfather was dying.
The days between that moment and the day of Sheaving were filled
with a combination of early congratulations from the villagers,
getting his garb fitted for him by his sister, and quiet reflective
evenings as his Grandfather taught him the oral histories, and
shared with him the knowledge of dreams and visions that The Spirit
gave him.
Loric feared that Oldsir would not live through the days of
Shreaving to see if he became a man. But his Grandfather seemed at
peace and showed no outward sign that his time of death had been
revealed to him. He seemed to convey a quiet dignity that Loric
tried in vain to accept. He felt like shouting and fighting but
there was nothing but shadows for him to vent his anger on.
"Why?" He said finally, unable to keep his fear to himself,
"It's not fair!"
"Is it fair that you were born to my son and not to another,
that the rain falls on the Windbourne mountains and leaves the
Plains of Woe a place where only djervishes can walk?"
-Rich Jervis
Dreamer's Holiday
The Grand Hall of the Keep of Dargon rivaled the local shrines
and temples in augustness of stature, especially on this night, the
eve of the opening of the Spice Market at the Dargon festival. The
ivory white hall's sumptuous furnishings had been commissioned by
the somewhat frivolous and eccentric grandfather of the the current
Duke. The high flanking windows were decorated with rose red and
aquamarine tinted glass arranged in somewhat bizarre geometric
patterns. Paintings of obscure artists dotted the alabaster white
walls. Short flights of burnished wooden staircases were the only
entrance onto the central dance floor on which was centered a great
ebony clock marking the hours in hollow base tones.
This was the forth night since the beginning of the fairs that
the hall was filled by a voluptuous company. But this night was
special, second only to the opening of the fairs themselves in its
festivities. While small clusters of nobles and merchants mingled on
the edges of the hall discussing the fairs, elegant couples danced
gracefully to the controlled harmonies of the performing orchestra.
One such couple was Kite and Pecora. Youthful, aristocratic,
handsome, recently engaged, and remarkable pleasant, they were
favored and envied by all.
"Your friend Raffen doesn't seem to be having a good time this
evening," Pecora observed indicating a lone man standing in one of
the darker corners of the ivory white hall. A nearby coal brazier
sent ruddy red light onto the man's extremely white face causing an
astonishing macabre effect of which Raffen was apparently unaware.
"He doesn't fit in here for all his efforts. He was invited as
entertainment only. The court wanted to hear of his travels in the
south," Kite responded somewhat worried.
"Other wealthy merchants are here," Pecora suggested.
"Yes, but Raffen isn't wealthy. He holds several commenda."
Noticing her look of noncomprehension Kite added "Agreements with
southern merchants to act as their agent in the fairs. But he lacks
any real property of his own. The payment for his services is
relatively small. A brillant man but still a commoner." Kite's voice
was wistful. He often regretted the social conditions of his
society. "He realizes why he was invited. Perhaps he resents it," he
added somewhat gravely.
"He's been alone most of the evening. Perhaps his novelity has
worn off," Pecora observed.
"I don't know about that. I overheard Sir Ponte and Duralt's
younger brother discussing adopting the custom of wearing facial
talc which Raffen picked up while in the south. I suspect that they
want to share in Raffen's attention."
"Those two would try to capitalize on anything to get the
ladies' attention. But Raffen's not exactly a lady's man... Too
introverted. I don't think that he wears the talc to attract women,
though it does cover his rough complexion well," Pecora said.
"It wasn't so long ago that Sir Ponte had designs on you," Kite
chided playfully.
"I knew that there was some reason for our engagement. I just
hope getting rid of Ponte is worth the price," Pecora responded with
equal playfulness and kissed Kite.
"It's Raffen's brooding that chases everyone off," Kite added
after a moment. "He always has something on his mind, though he
never admits what it is."
"Yes, he always appears so contemplative...depressed. He doesn't
dance and often seems so distant."
"Yes, but conversations with him are never dull. Maybe we should
go over," Kite suggested.
"I'd rather have you to myself.... There's Pravo. Why don't you
introduce them. He's also something of a misfit."
"Good idea. Be back in a moment." Kite smiled as he crossed the
dance floor.
As Kite and Pravo approached, Raffen stood admiring an arresting
oil painting detailing an immense cavern wherein cowled riders fly
gray, corpse-like humanoids with large membranous wings from
galleries and high ledges over a darkened, sluggish river flowing
over uncountable cataracts into a distant chasm.
"Raffen, have you met Pravo, one of Dargon's most distinguished
scholars?" Kite asked. The gentleman looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"No, I'm sure that I would recall such a pleasurable
experience." Raffen replied driely.
"I'm sure that you will find that you have much in common. But
I'm afraid that I will have to leave you to yourselves. If you will
excuse me, duty calls," The departing Kite explained gesturing
toward Pecora who seemed to be signalling him.
"I've been looking forward to meeting you, Raffen, since hearing
of your travels to the far south," Pravo said with a bit of hesitation.
"Yes, it seems my adventures have sparked great interest in this
court," Raffen said with artificial warmness tainted with agitation.
"But my interests are different than most, I'll warrant," Pravo
said looking about court, perhaps checking for eavesdroppers. "I am
less concerned with brillant scenes and deeds of daring than with
the cultures and religions which you encountered."
"That is well because my meager collection of brave and daring
deeds are to the point of exhaustion." Both laughed. Raffen began to
develop an interest in the man.
"You see, I am something of a scholar, perhaps you've
encountered my works, 'Legends and Myths of Thasodonia' or 'Northern
Nights'?"
"You wrote 'Legends and Myths' !?!" Raffen said with some
excitement. "I've read the work and liked it a great deal."
"You needn't flatter me, I have no great influence here," Pravo
said looking somewhat uncomfortable.
"No, I'm serious. Your rendition of the Tchai myth was the most
complete that I've yet encountered."
"Oh! Then you really have some interest in my field," Pravo said
looking pleased. "Perhaps you can be of some help."
"Hopefully, how might I help you?" Raffen offered with a
slightly sarcastic flourish.
"I'm compiling a collection of creation myths. Perhaps you could
contribute something from the South," Pravo asked hopefully.
"Oh...... I'm sorry but my business there was remarkably
consuming. I had little time to really observe the people."
"Unfortunate." Pravo appeared disappointed. "I was hoping to
uncover something unknown in this area," Pravo said turning away,
showing obvious signs of intent to depart.
"No wait. Let me think.. I do remember one rather unusual tidbit.
Have you ever heard the word 'Squarg'?" Raffen asked with a smile.
"'Squarg'?.... No, not that I recall," Pravo replied somewhat
confused, trying to determine if Raffen was joking. "It doesn't seem
to fit into the linguistics of any language with which I am
familiar. What does it mean?"
"As all really good words, it stands for a concept which is
difficult to express otherwise. Perhaps because it is not of truely
human origin," Raffen added solemnly.
"A nonhuman word? No wonder I did not recognize it.
Interesting... Please attempt to define it as best you can," Pravo
requested somewhat reassured but still confused.
"The best method of defining it lies in the creation myth in
which it originated."
"Oh then, by all means tell it as best you can," Pravo asked
seeming very attentive.
"As the myth goes, the word was coined by the first sentient
creature," Raffen began then stopped.
"Oh, I see. Go on."
"Soon after it was created, the sentience was guided by the All
Creator to a point from which it could view the entirety of reality
so that for the first time the Creator could share his handiwork
with another capable of appreciating it." There was a moments
hesitation in Raffen's speech followed by an encouraging gesture
from Pravo. "The astonished creature looked upon the vastness of
time, space, void, living, and nonliving. In response, the creature
uttered what was probably the first word, though it is almost
certain that this creature possessed no vocal abilities as we know
them. And this first word, this first independent thought, was
'Squarg', or so that is the sound which man has given that word. It
stands for many things. It symbolizes all the wonder and rapture
inherent in a glimpse of the entirety of reality, but at one and the
same time, it relates a certain feeling of pride and contempt,
hubris against the Creator. As if one were to say 'Is this the best
that you could do?' and 'Beware God, I am Man. These realms are mine
to do with as I please and I will do better.' There are other
nuances of course but these are even more difficult to define. All
in all not a very complex creation myth. I hope you will forgive its
brevity and lack of plot," Raffen finished.
"No. No. It is fascinating and original. Unlike any that I've
heard before. A major contribution for my book. How did you come by
it? Some nonhuman work?" Pravo asked in apparent euphoria.
"Perhaps. I first read it in a book called The King in Yellow
though I've seen it elsewhere since," Raffen replied.
"The King in Yellow!?...hmph.. Yes, I've heard of the book,
though I've never seen a copy. I'd almost attributed its existence
as a myth itself what with the remarkable rumors that surround it."
Raffen nodded. "It is said that few survive a perusal with their
sanity fully intact. It has been said to have been the doom of many
great minds."
"Yes, that is true," Raffen affirmed, lost in thought.
"It was written by an artist, I believe," Pravo offered.
"Yes... It has been and will be written by many artists
individually," Raffen replied, his voice trailing off in volume.
"Pardon, I didn't quite hear that. It's becoming dreadfully
noisy in here. Perhaps we could step outside." Pravo pointed toward
the balcony.
"It is little better out there. But yes, let's." Both exited to
the dark balacony which overlooked a street crowded with celebrating
townspeople.
"About the origin of the book," Pravo began.
"It was written by an artist/poet who was attempting to define
and codify a system of creative motifs and symbols which are common
to all cultures. Metaphors and images which transcend all cultures
and all peoples. It is these primal truths which are said to drive
men mad," Raffen said in a serious tone.
"You seem quite sound and you've read the book." Pravo attempted
weak humor.
"I sometimes wonder..."
Stunned into silence for a moment, Pravo said finally "I am
quite anxious to read the book myself, perhaps you have it at hand?"
"No. My copy is in a safe place very far away. Very far..."
Again Raffen trailed off.
"That is unfortunate. Still, I will do my best to locate a copy
here in Dargon." Pravo seemed somewhat irritated and unsettled by
Raffen's tone.
"Any intellect with the ability and the desire to read the book
will eventually locate it," Raffen offered somewhat mysteriously.
The scholar chuckled weakly. "Then I have some hope... I
think..." Very unsettled, Pravo looked deeply at Raffen who stared
off across the festivities below.
A rather plain looking, middle-aged matron stepped out onto the
balcony and expressed her desire to dance with Pravo before the
musicians departed. Pravo could hardly refuse.
"I hope that we will get a chance to speak again," Pravo said as
they drifted apart, possibly relieved by the interruption.
"I am certain that we will," Raffen replied, uncertain whether
he was heard over the buzz of the company. Seeing that the ball was
nearly at an end, Raffen decided to make his excuses and depart.
Atros felt no guilt for assuming Raffen Yeggent's identity even
though it had required slaying Raffen. The two had met along the
road to Dargon and had remained traveling companions for several
days. Atros had been wary of this relationship from the start,
particularly since he wanted to severe his ties with the city of
Magnus. It might prove difficult later if a witness existed who
could attest to the specifics of his journey. But the somewhat
lonely Raffen had forced himself on Atros and Atros hadn't pressed
the issue. Raffen had been a talkative sort describing in detail his
background, recent travels, business matters, and future plans.
Atros did his best to remain noncommital to Raffen's occasionally
probing questions but it grew to be strenuously difficult at times.
Still, Atros felt so refreshed and contented by virtue on the
continued use of the nepenthe that he had almost enjoyed the verbal
fencing at times.
Atros had sensed almost immediately that Raffen wasn't what one
might call a highly scrupulous individual. Raffen's main pursuit in
life it seemed lay in acquiring wealth. His scruples, if they
existed at all, didn't seem to interfere. Hence, Atros wasn't
particularly surprised by the interest Raffen had shown in his
collection of rare books. This wariness had cost Raffen his life and
saved Atros his own. Raffen had sought to slay Atros in his sleep
but hadn't anticipated a prepared defense. Atros had made quick work
of him, only later realizing the opportunity which Raffen had
afforded him. Raffen had mentioned that he had never visited Dargon
previously nor was anyone there capable of recognizing him. Atros
immediately saw the potential profits in assuming Raffen's business
dealings at the fair but hadn't anticipated being propelled into
courtly life.
Had Atros known of the notoriety involved, he might have chosen
to act otherwise. Atros knew that he could not maintain the disguise
for long. The continued use of the drug, and the peaceful sleep it
offered, had allowed him to lead an almost normal existence. His
distinctive nervous twitching had ceased, but only for so long as
his supply remained. Thus, he had let it be known that he would
depart after the fairs though he anticipated settling in Dargon for
some time. The facial talc was a convenient affectation to help
reduce the possibility of being recognized latter. But still, he
feared discovery because he knew he possessed many unconscious
mannerisms which were difficult to conceal without concerted effort.
He tried to make the best of the situation and enjoy a holiday at
court, a priviledge seldom enjoyed by many.
The street festival was still in full force when Atros left
Dargon Keep on his way to the bordering house in which he was
residing. He wound his way through the narrow, winding streets
filled with indentured servant and aristocrat alike. Each receiving
shares of revelry according to their temperment rather than their
social standing. Here at least was a Dionysian revelry which
contrasted sharply against the austere courtly celebration.
Celebrants in grotesque animal masks and other more bizarre
customing danced in wild revelry to the tune of frenzied music and
racous laughter. Body paints and large, fluttering banners lent
colouring to the normally drab streets and alley ways. Prostitutes,
both amateur and professional, fronged and cajoled the crowd. Cheap
alcohol was the prevalent intoxicant though Atros observed other
more questionable substances being huckstered in the darker corners
of the street. Anything and everything could be had in abundance. It
seemed that a delicious romp was being had by all.
Atros did not view the excessive crowding and noise as an
annoyance. He enjoyed becoming one with the organism of the crowd;
to allow himself to become lost in the fusion of opposing emotional
forces of the gathering. For a time he could let the mood of the
crowd become all, loosing his own worries, fears, and regrets. As any
such gathering, with its loud noises, bright sights, and wild
dancing, its surface was coloured by great gaiety and joy. These
were things to be cherished and saved, hoarded for harder times: the
soft glow of happy faces, the energy of youth, and the vitality of
age. But Atros' strong empathic ability soon penetrated this surface.
Beneath lay darker forces: tensions, deep emotional needs, and
emptiness. These people had come to escape some emptiness which they
could not fill in their day to day lives. They came to forget the
mundane realities of their world for a time and indulge in their
fantasies. But by doing so they brought these emptinesses with them.
Atros sensed that few, if any, were really happy or content with
their lives. All sought release from their confinements, to become
more than themselves if just for a short interval. And to some
measure they were successful. They achieved through strong drink,
orgasmic dancing, casual flirtations, or narcotics what could not be
won in mediocrity. Atros did not judge them for this; he knew
himself to have much worse faults and difficulties. But he could not
avoid feeling a certain unescapible sadness. This fused with the
gaiety to create an overwhelming bitter-sweet atmosphere for Atros.
Atros was so involved with the mood of the crowd that he didn't
notice the prescence of his old acquaintance the alchemist until he
was quite near.
"Gilman! Alive!" Atros' shout was drowned out in the hubbub. He
quickly darted into a nearby entry way which he found to be occupied
by a young couple who obviously resented the intrusion.
In the safety of the darkness Atros began to mutter to himself,
causing some concern in the two youths who soon left Atros to
himself. "Gilman alive....impossible....I don't make mistakes like
that. He was certainly dead. The wound was fatal....No man lives
after loosing that much blood."
Atros glanced out the archway to see Gilman walking rapidly away
apparently scanning the crowd. Atros' hope that he had mistaken a
similar man for Gilman quickly faded. It was the same bedraggled
gray hair peppered with black; the same loping gate as well. Atros
was certain that he'd seen Gilman wearing that course woolen frock
before as well. Even the momentary glimpse of the man's shoes
confirmed that Gilman was alive and in Dargon.
Atros could think of only one explanation for the normally
sedentary Gilman to come to Dargon. He must know or suspect that
Atros was here. His prescence in the crowd was now easily
explainable. How better to find a man in Dargon than to attend a
festival with the better part of the city's visitors and population
in attendance? But had Gilman seen him? As Atros wiped his sweaty
brow and his fingers came away covered with white talc, he realized
that Gilman could not have recognized him. His fearful reaction had
been foolish. Once more Atros glanced out but could not locate
Gilman in the crowd. Atros mentally whipped himself for not
following Gilman immediately as he strode out into the street to
begin the search.
If Gilman were truely searching for him, why had he come alone?
He must realize how outmatched he was. Atros would have anticipated
two or three armed bodyguards accompanying Gilman at the very least.
Nor had Atros believed that Gilman would go to such lengths to seek
him out personally. Gilman just wasn't the vengeful type or so Atros
had believed. But Gilman was alone, which obviously meant something,
though Atros didn't know what that was. It suddenly occurred to him
that perhaps following Gilman hadn't been a wise idea. Perhaps
Gilman had set himself up as bait to draw Atros into some sort of
trap or ambush. Since it was unlikely that he could find him in any
event, Atros gave up the search.
Atros walked home using an indirect route and checking often for
followers, but there were none. As he walked he considered Gilman's
survival. Perhaps the apprentices had arrived much earlier than
Atros had expected and somehow rescued the old man. This seemed
unlikely though Atros spent a few moments worrying that he had been
seen. Not that that really mattered now that the victim was alive.
Besides, even if Gilman had received some sort of aid in time, he
didn't seem to be suffering from his wound. He appeared as whole and
sound as any time Atros had seen him in the past. If anything he
seemed more healthy. Atros considered further. He had read of
alchemical preparations said to restore health to the nearly dead or
to quicken the dead, but he had thought these well beyound the
abilities of Gilman. Gilman might have obtained something of this
sort during his career and his apprentices might have administered
it to him. Atros had one further worry. It was said that one who
imbibed a special preparation of the Philospher's Stone, the secret
ingredient and goal of the highest forms of alchemy, would enjoy a
greatly extended life and would be very resistant to death by
mishap. If Gilman had done this, not only had he thereby survived
Atros' previous attempt on his life, but he would also survive any
getsequent. Invulnerable enemies came near to heading Atros' list of
undesirable possessions. One thing was for certain, all was not well.
-Joseph Curwen
Dawn Watch
The stream was peaceful, the approaching dawn dimly lighting it.
A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, and frogs peeped quietly in the
marshes nearby.
Eli Barel was asleep in his house nearby. He slept the deep
sleep of a man who had worked hard, and would soon work hard again.
He and his eldest son had worked until evening to put a roof on
Widow Rachel's house, and with the light they would start to cut her
some wood to last her through the winter.
Had he been awake he might have heard the sound of the frogs,
but certainly not the sound of the stream, shielded as it was by the
fifty foot drop over the limestone cliff.
The peace of the stream was rudely broken by the rough sounds of
hooves. There was a stirring of the underbrush, and a horseman and
mount stepped out of the tall grass on the far side of the stream.
As he crossed the water, muddying it, he looked up at the face of
the cliff. A band of twenty or so men, all roughly clad and
unshaven, followed him across. At least three bore the angry marks
of a skull branded on their foreheads, the marks of condemned men.
Most carried swords at their sides, and some had bows slung over
their shoulders. All had a predatory air to them.
As soon as he was in the shadow of the cliff, the leader turned
to face the others, his arm raised for silence.
"At the top this cliff is the first of many houses. In those
houses are groveling vapor-worshippers! There is no one to protect
them, and they will not fight! Take any booty you want, but don't
burn anything. Kill everyone! We will leave no survivors!" He
punctuated the last with a dark scowl.
"What of the women? We were promised women!" A deep muttering
rose from the assembled men. A lecherous grin broke across the
leader's face.
"I didn't say how you had to kill them. It's been a long time
since I've had an infidel's wife!"
Mocking laughter was his only reply. Suddenly one of the raiders
in the back gave a shout, and pointed up.
The leader swiveled in his seat. He looked to the top of the
cliff. There stood a man, holding a staff. He was clothed all in
white, and his face was set with an angry look. He glared at the
cutthroats below with an air of authority that gave even the leader
pause. The murders only paused a moment, though.
Those of the raiders who had bows grabbed them, but before any
could raise them the figure leaned forward, and struck the end of
the rod on the ground, a foot or so short of the cliff edge.
The moment it struck the ground shook. All but two of the
raider's horses fell to the ground. At the same moment, a huge slab
of limestone calved off the face of the cliff. It crumbled as it
fell, causing an avalanche. For a few long moments, rock and dust
poured from the face of the cliff. Then the stream was at peace once
more. Where horses had stood only moments before, there now stood a
pile of rubble.
Eli Barel awoke. His bed still shook slightly. A tremor? Eli
pondered the thought. They were not common, but he had experienced
them before. Nothing more followed, so he relaxed. Slept in today,
he thought. The sun is almost up.
He arose, leaving his wife to groan to herself. He dressed, and
walked out of the house and down the path as he had for over sixty
years. He followed the path as it lead toward the stream. Then,
noticing something different, he left it as it turned down into the
woods, and rather walked up the slope toward the cliff.
He walked up to the edge, and looked over at the pile of rock.
A rockslide, he thought. Levy might like to see this.
He was about to turn to walk back down when the early morning
light caught a reflection. Getting down on his knees, he examined a
dark vein of rock as it ran almost from the cliff edge halfway down
the cliff. As he knelt there his eyes widened. He reached forth his
hand, and with a small effort, wrenched a chunk of rock loose. He
held it up to the light. Even in the morning's dimness, he could see
the metal running through the granite.
"Gold. Gold! GOLD! Everybody! We've got gold on our land!"
Getting to his feet, Eli ran back to the house.
For the last time that day, peace once more fell on the stream.
-Jim Owens
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FOUR NUMBER FOUR
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
X-Editorial
Well, everyone, here is the last spring issue. Summer is quickly
approaching even our northern clime, and school is something best
left forgotten until September. The summer volume (five) will
continue to be produced, and we will try to keep the Dargon project
going, despite the loss (for the summer) of some of our best
authors. Some of the issues will be Dargon issues, while some will
contain more traditional items. One note of special interest is that
there will be a special gaming issue this summer. I'd like to
solicit articles from gamers out there, particularly ones who have
dabbled in designing their own games. The issue will concentrate on
giving exposure to games BITNETters have designed and the hows and
whys of roleplaying game design. If anyone is interested in
contributing, ship me a note as soon as possible.
The volume past has been a great success, and I'd like to thank
both the readers and the authors who have made the Dargon Project
possible. One of the major purposes I have intended for FSFnet has
been to get amateur fantasy and science fiction authors together to
compare styles, to begin friendships and correspondances, and to
expose them to a truely diverse readership to give them an idea of
what the public desires in fantasy fiction. The Dargon Project has
not only been a boon for readership, but it has brought amateur
authors together in a productive setting. Perhaps I'm going
overboard to think that FSFnet is one of the most productive
non-computer oriented BITNET organizations. Thank you, one and all,
for your interest as readers, and a very very special thank you to
the authors for joining together to bring this about.
Well, before I can think of something else silly to say, I'd
best introduce this issue, the last of volume four. You will find in
here three related stories, and the resolution of some question
marks. We'll be looking for you with 5-1 real soon.
-Orny
Ur-Baal Magic
A Ticklish Situation
Aardvard Factotum's disembodied mind was trapped, unable to
return to its rightful place. In the midst of his panic, however,
Aardvard suddenly felt something wrenching at his spirit, pulling
him home. No longer confined by the four walls of Griswald Brutsam's
room, his mind once again flew over the battlement of Dargon Keep,
across the countryside and back toward his home on the outskirts of
the city. He was drawn by an unknown force.
Aardvard opened his eyes and chuckled. Nothing was funny about
his situation, however. Aardvard's mind, after all, had been through
a good deal of excitement. Through the use of Banewood's essence of
Ur-Baal, it had left his body and travelled to Dargon Keep, where it
became trapped in the private chambers of Griswald Brutsam,
physician to Lord Clifton. Still, Aardvard couldn't stop laughing.
And when he looked down the length of his body, he saw the reason --
Banewood, the Shaman, stood at his bare feet, tickling them with a
goose feather.
"Laughter -- one of the best ways to reunite a body with one's
wayward mind," sniggered Banewood. "I warned you about going too
far, didn't I?" he chided.
"Never mind," said Factotum as he jumped to his feet. He quickly
sat back down again, putting his hands to his head. Aardvard gently
rubbed his temples. His head throbbed from the aftereffects of the
essence of Ur-Baal, the potion that had put him through this
adventure. "Something terrible is going to happen if we can't stop it."
"What do you mean?" asked Banewood.
"Griswald Brutsam, the personal physician to Lord Clifton, is
plotting to assassinate him."
Aardvard told the Shaman about the conversation between Griswald
Brutsam and Lek Pyle, their conspiracy to assassinate Lord Clifton.
"The Lord of Dargon Keep is standing in the way of Baranur's plans to
control all trade with the distant island of Bichu."
"I have an idea," said Banewood, "Listen..." Banewood whispered
his plan to Aardvard. Factotum's face became a study in moods,
changing from puzzlement to astonishment, and then to amusement.
At first, Aardvard stared at Banewood with disbelief. Then he
slapped his friend on the back and doubled over in laughter.
"You crazy Shaman! I think it just might work," exclaimed Aardvard.
Stupefaction
In the morning, Aardvard pulled some of his gold from its secret
hiding place, and together, he and Banewood put on their cloaks and
left for the herb seller's home.
By noon, Banewood and Aardvard found themselves outside of the
old herb seller's hut. The doorway was dark, and it appeared as if
nobody was home. Soon, however, they heard the sound of humming. An
old woman's head peered through the doorway, a kerchief covered most
of her gray head. It was the kind that most peasant women wore.
"Come in, come in. Always open for business," the old woman said.
Banewood and Aardvard followed the old woman inside. As their
eyes grew accustomed to the dark, they could see her wares: dried
herbs, stalks and roots hung from the walls and rafters.
"She keeps it dark, because the light diminishes the potency of
the herbs." Banewood whispered to Aardvard.
"Quite so, quite so," cackled the old crone, her hearing
obviously much sharper than one would have guessed. "What can a
simple herb gatherer do for you?"
"Let's see..." said Banewood. "First I need some Dragonswort root."
The old woman pulled a piece of root from a large pile and
placed it before the shaman. "Done."
"Next, I'd like a stinkwort, the whole plant."
"Heh? What's that?" Asked the old woman.
Banewood began to described a stinkwort plant to the crone: "A
large, whitish root; round yellow-green stalk; about five feet high;
large, white funnel-shaped flowers; prickly fruit..."
"Oh," she interrupted, "you mean a nightshade." Gingerly, the
old woman used two fingers to pull a nightshade plant down from the
rafters. She set it before them.
"A Galangal root," added Banewood.
"What's a nice boy like you need an aphrodisiac for?" The old
woman smiled a toothless grin -- she bagged her second husband with
a Galangal root.
"It's for a friend." Banewood lied. "And a henbane plant, too.
There's one over there." He pointed to a particularly green weed
near the corner.
"That's my last one," said the old woman. "I'm not sure if I can
let it go this late in the season."
Banewood looked at Aardvard Factotum, who reached into his cloak
and produced a little bag full of gold Baranur marks. He spilled
them into a little pile on the table. The gold glimmered in the dark.
The old woman gulped. Regaining her control, however, she
hedged: "I couldn't ask less than four marks for the plant. I have a
starving daughter to feed."
"Four marks!" protested the physician. "It's not even worth one!"
"Three marks" said the old woman, her lips drawn in a straight
line. "Food is very expensive, in case you haven't noticed."
"Two," said Factotum. "Take it or leave it."
"All right," said the old lady. "I'll keep the plant."
Factotum pulled at Banewood's robe. "Come on, let's get out of
here. I know of another place where we can get this stuff."
"Okay, okay." Said the old woman. "So my daughter goes without
dessert tonight. Three marks."
"Two marks," the physician corrected her.
"Yes, I'm sorry. You're right -- two marks."
"One more thing," added Banewood. "Do you have many mushrooms?"
"I have a few," the old woman lied. She was the biggest supplier
of mushrooms in the district.
"I'm not sure if this one grows around here," said Banewood. He
described a mushroom to the woman: "Red cap covered with white
warts, grows under pines and birch..."
"Fly agaric!" snorted the old woman. "Soaked in milk, we use it
to stupefy flies."
"That's the one. How fresh are they?"
The old woman reached under her table and pulled out a box full
of the little, red beauties. "Just picked 'em yesterday -- how many
would you like?"
"Several will do," he said. "I wish to stupefy some flies, too."
Aardvard paid the old woman more money than he would have wished
to. They left with their purchases. Walking away from the hut,
Aardvard counted his remaining gold.
"I'm surprised that the old woman's teeth are gone." He said. "I
thought sharks grew their teeth back!"
Aardvard's eye caught sight of a buxom young girl in her late
teens. She was bearing a bundle of herbs toward the old woman's hut.
He elbowed Banewood, who was also staring at the same delicious sight.
Banewood laughed. "Poor girl... no doubt she'll go to bed
without dessert again."
-Roman Olynyk
Calls of Courtesy
Normally Atros arose slowly from his nepenthe drugged sleep but
adrenaline remarkably quickened the process this day. It's not
everyday that one finds a corpse practically draped over your bed. I
wasn't that corpses weren't familiar to Atros, but Atros didn't
appreciate them popping up in his sleep. He quickly rolled out into
prone position dirk in hand, but no opponent presented himself. He
was quite alone in his rented room with everything exactly as he had
left it the night before, with the exception of the dead man of course.
It was Thad, a man Atros had known for many years though he
wasn't particularly proud of the relationship. Thad had been a
graduate of a slum in some city, which Thad had declined to mention.
He'd learned at an early age that violence was a saleable commodity
and had marketed his natural talent for it quite successfully. He'd
gone from bully to strong arm to assassin all the while becoming
increasingly belligerent and decreasingly likable. What with Thad's
wandering from one city to the next, it was eventual that he and
Atros would cross paths. At first Atros had nearly fell in with him
as a kindred spirit, a fellow survivor who often traveled in the
same circles. But the relationship had cooled after Atros had seen
some of the results of Thad's recent labors. Atros didn't disapprove
of assassins but unlike Thad's employers Atros felt that Thad let
his brutality get in the way of his work. Thad's calling card had
become the gruesome state in which he left his victims, and
sometimes their families.
But Thad had been successful as a hired killer. He could
virtually guarantee results and had never been caught in the act by
anyone, until perhaps last night. Nor had Thad ever betrayed the
identity of his employers. It was sure that many, both the guilty
and the innocent, would rest easier once they heard of Thad's
demise. Not that Atros would allow that to happen for sometime. He
began to attend to the body while the early morning streets were
still sparsely populated. Fortunately, whomever had slain Thad was
much easier to clean up after than Thad himself. The most puzzling
part of the whole matter was how a man as large as Thad could have
his neck snapped without any signs of a struggle.
Later that day, Atros stood just outside the entryway to his
boarding house. He yawned and had to shuffle his position several
times while leaning against the cobble stone wall to prevent from
drifting off. For someone accustom to going without sleep for days
on end, this was a bit disconcerting. Atros wondered if perhaps the
drugs he utilized were too strong even a man of his own will power.
He had noticed that it was becoming progressingly more difficult to
remain alert, a difficulty that he could hardly afford in his
position. He was just resolving to start weaning himself off the
nepenthe when the person he had been awaiting rounded a distant corner.
He watched her as she approached apparently unaware of his
presence. She wore a coarse bit of grayish linen, that doubled as
both chemise and tunic, under a ratted surcoat probably fringed with
fur at one time. She was short and somewhat dark in complexion
especially on her hands which were small but rough. Her light brown,
and lately unwashed, hair was cut short with straight banes lying
across half her forehead. All in all, she was rather plain looking,
almost masculine at first sight.
"Atros...." finally recognizing him in spite of his new
wardrobe, Darla called out as she rushed forward to greet him.
"Call me Raffen!" Atros cut her off, his voice a harsh whisper.
"Though that may shortly change as well." With a piercing look,
Atros cut short the conversation until they were safely in his room.
"How many names may one man have!?!" Darla seemed confused,
unsettled, and somewhat hurt.
"As many as it takes to keep him safe. You've brought the
books," Atros said businesslike.
"Yes, I have them here in Dargon. They are quite safe." Darla
assured him.
"Good. I am very grateful. I've missed them," Atros said. Darla
winced though Atros didn't notice.
"Bringing them wasn't difficult. You've done much for me in the
past."
"You can consider that debt settled." Atros said in monotone.
"I don't think so. I owe you my life." Darla said testing Atros.
"If that's the way you want it, perhaps you'll be able to pay in
kind," Atros lilted a bit.
"You're in some sort of trouble?" Darla asked sounding concerned.
"There has been an attempt on my life. I anticipate more." Atros
said perhaps a bit teasingly.
"Who?" Darla asked.
"Do you remember a particularly brutal overgrown street waif
named Thad?"
"I could never understand why you would associate with him."
Darla pronounced almost interrupting his question.
"He was dangerous but had his uses."
"Was?... You killed him?" Darla asked tentatively.
"No, he died in the attempt but not by my hand."
"Whose then?" Darla said a bit exasperated that she had to do so
much coaxing to get simple answers.
"I know little more about it than you." Perhaps sensing Darla's
impatience, Atros quickly explained the events of the morning.
"You were lucky." Darla seemed somewhat relieved.
"It seems too unlikely to be unintentional... Thad dying while I
was totally helpless." Atros gazed off as though he were only
thinking aloud.
"Thad had many enemies. Perhaps one caught up with him." Darla's
suggestion drew Atros' attention for a moment.
"You don't think that Thad was incredibly careful while on a
job? It would have been very difficult to surprise him. And who
could have broken his neck with apparent ease? Also, why let me
live? Why not take the opportunity to rob me, or Thad for that
matter? Why leave everything so sloppy? I could have been set up in
such a way that I would be certain to take the blame. As it was, it
was easy for me to straighten everything up." It was Atros who was
becoming impatient now.
"Perhaps they feared waking you." Darla suggested hopefully.
"Possibly.. But it just seems so unlikely..." Seeing nothing
further to be gained here, Atros said, "Our first concern, I
suppose, should be why Thad tried to kill me in the first place."
"You're certain that he was hired?" Darla asked.
"We didn't exactly part on amiable terms but Thad would never
have tried it without payment. And there was a good deal of money in
his pouch."
"So you expect whoever hired him to try again?" In spite of
Atros' opinion, Darla could be insightful.
"Yes, though they will delay a few days at least, waiting for
word from that or for me to get less wary."
"Any suspicions as to who put up the money?" Darla asked plainly.
"Probably Gilman. He's here in town and I think he's looking for
me." Atros suggested offhandly.
"Oh yes! I've traveled all this way and forgotten to tell you. I
checked into things while I was in Magnus picking up your books.
They aren't looking for you. No report of any crime. And Gilman,
apparently unharmed, put his business in the hands of his employees
and left Magnus shortly after you did."
"I suspected something like that. Still can't understand how
Gilman survived. He was assuredly dead."
"That's what I thought you meant in your letter but I decided
that I misunderstood."
"I've got to teach you to read and write. I don't like having
others read my messages." Atros seemed annoyed.
"But you worded the letter so cleverly that no one could
understand it but me. Besides the friend I got to read it to me is
trustworthy." Darla tried to reassure him.
"Yes but my 'clever wording' does add some confusion and I
couldn't relay many details." Atros said, still being difficult.
"Enough details. I understood enough to come here and to bring
your books." Darla was becoming a bit annoyed herself.
"Yes you did and again I thank you. But I have another favor to
ask." Atros thought it best to settle things.
"Name it." Darla said straightforwardly.
"The drugs that I am using cause me to sleep very deeply.
Possibly Thad knew this and decided to strike at night. If Thad
knew, then his employers probably know. I need a bodyguard I can
trust at night."
"No problem. I really need a place to stay anyway. I'm low on
funds and know few people in Dargon." Perhaps Darla hid a smile.
"That's fine. We'll live off Thad's ill-gotten gains though we
may have to lie low so as not to attract attention. No more nights
at court." Atros said trailing off, as was often his habit.
"Nights at court!?! You've been to court!?! During the
festival?" Darla appeared surprised and jealous.
"Yes, but I didn't really enjoy it. Besides the wardrobe is too
expensive and uncomfortable. Have to see a friend and return some
borrowed clothing. And tell him that I must leave Dargon."
"You are planning to stay, aren't you?" Darla was concerned.
"Yes, there is something here for me." Darla gave him a
quizzical expression. "Just a notion," Atros said dismissing it. "I
have a few errands to attend to. Why don't you get all of your
things and get settled. I'll return with something expensive for
dinner in a couple of hours. Oh, perhaps you best not get too
settled. We'll have to find some other place to stay tomorrow. I'd
have done so today, but I was waiting for your arrival. We'd best be
very careful tonight." Both Atros and Darla departed for the
respective errands.
When more than a couple of hours had passed and Atros hadn't
returned, Darla became concerned. But not knowing the city well nor
anything about Atros' plans for the afternoon, she delayed for some
time before deciding to go searching for him. It was well that she
did, because Atros returned as she was heading for the door. She
didn't mention his lateness nor did Atros volunteer much
information, but true to his word Atros did provide the most
delicious meal that Darla had eaten in sometime. After the late
repast, Atros gathered a few of the books that Darla had retrieved
and began jotting notes in one of his journals. When Darla asked him
of this, he replied only that he was pursuing an idea. He advised
her to sleep so that she might be rested for her vigil, but Darla
was content to watch him and listen to the soft, irregular
scratching noises of the long quill pen. After some time of this she
drifted off.
Some hours later Darla awoke to find Atros still at his labors.
He seemed to be quite weary though happy, saying that he thought he
was onto some new discovery though he left its nature a mystery.
Darla was only able to convince Atros that he needed sleep by
suggesting that he might think clearer after a few hours rest. Atros
acquiesced begrudgingly and took a dose of the nepenthe to settle to
sleep for the remainder of the night.
Truthfully, Darla only understood a small fraction of what she
encountered in Atros' books. Many were in languages or codes unknown
to her. Most were replete with obscure references and complicated
arguments which would take a lifetime of study to understand. Even
in those that were not, Darla's reading skills often fell far short
of complete understanding.
Sometime ago she had gone through many of these books before
uncovering Atros' dream journal. In it he kept all from his dreams
which he did not wish to forget. Even though these were his good
memories, Darla quickly grew to understand why Atros fought so hard
to escape his nocturnal visions. Often times his hand was shaky and
his thoughts overcome by emotion as he struggled to quickly record
what were sometimes an entire lifetime in his dream before the
memories passed away from him. Darla often wondered if destroying
this journal was not the best thing she could do for Atros. It
occurred to her that the good memories, which are recalled a
thousand times with infinite sadness and longing, might be much more
tortuous than the bad memories, which one can learn to forget or
avoid. But it wasn't hers to judge and she feared Atros' anger.
After reading this journal that first time nearly a year ago,
Darla began to understand why Atros kept everyone at a safe
distance. The book recounted lifetimes which Atros had experienced
in dreaming. Oftentimes he had no recollection of any life beyond
the dream. As far as that individual was concerned the dream was his
complete universe. These dreams were often the most painful for
Atros, because for a time he could experience peace. But the
collected recollections of dozens of lifetimes weighed heavy on
Atros soul and no one could remove that weight.
Darla turned to the finger smudged pages of one dream entry near
the beginning of the journal and began to read this tragedy once
more. There were other dreams, other lives, much like this, but this
was the most tragic because in it Atros had been the most happy. In
this dream, Atros bore a name and spoke a language which were
unpronounceable to Darla. He was a tall, kind man who enjoyed life's
simplicities in an age where others took them for granted. In time he
found love. A beautiful young author, she was called Narya. After a
lengthy and romantic courtship, they married. They settled in a
small cottage in a secluded valley filled with wildlife, prefering
their own company to that of anyone about them. The house contained
hundreds of fantastic devices which made life easier or provided
entertainment for the couple. They lived quietly and happily
together and wrote many successful books. In time they had two
children: a daughter and a son. One day just as his son was first
learning to walk unsupported, Atros awoke and was permanently torn
from the happiness that he had found in a single night's dream.
Never able to return to that happy life, Atros thereafter bore
its memories as a curse. His anger grew but he could find no one to
blame. In his daily studies he sought to forever escape the dreaming
which had become so painful to him, regardless of the content of the
dreams. Atros had also developed a lingering doubt that this life
too might only be a dream, from which he might be snatched at any
moment. Thus, he forbore pleasure and love so that he might not
regret their loss when he awoke. His fear of this life being a dream
had slowly pervaded all his waking thoughts and actions until he had
succeeded in fashioning an existence in which there was little
cherishable.
Darla understood this, at least in part. It made little
difference to her whether his dreams were somehow real, because
Atros believed them to be real, which was far more important to her
than any philosophical consideration. She had tried to help Atros.
Slowly, carefully she had pierced his barriers and had succeeded in
gaining some of his trust and friendship. But her hold to this
position was tenuous. She realized that Atros often used little
barbs in order to drive her from him, not because he disliked her
but because he cared for her too much. She also sensed the contempt
which Atros expressed in subtle ways for nearly everyone about him
at one time or another, but she knew that it was only his way of
coping with the pain at times. Perhaps he envied others who could
lead an untroubled life. Darla wondered how he managed as well as he
did despite all the frustration and anger within him.
As she left off reading that passage, almost of their own
volition, her hands turned to the dedication, which Atros had at
sometime scribbled on the inside of the front cover. She stared at
what he had written there until the moistening of her eyes made it
impossible to continue. He had written:
I've loved many and burried a few,
But in all my search found nary a clue.
The secret of life it seems
Lies forgotten in my dreams
Forever separating one from two.
The Hands of a Healer
Griswald Brutsam, physician and mystic healer to Lord Clifton
Dargon, gently closed the door to his chambers and made his way from
the keep. He had served the Lord of Dargon for many years. Having
dedicated his life to the mystic pursuits of healing, his skills
were very much in demand. Still, he had maintained a modest life,
secreting himself with his studies within the keep and seeing to the
health of his liege. And now he was a party to a plot to assassinate
Lord Dargon.
He pulled his cloak close about himself and made his way towards
the port, the seedier section of town. The evening was cold but
clear, and the stars shone bright above the dark shadows of the
port. Brutsam occasionally came across citizens, stragglers from the
festival, still revelling nearly a week after the festival had
ended. After a short time, he came to one of the few lit buildings
in this section of town. He pulled the cowl above him and stepped
into the Inn of the Hungry Shark.
The entry corridor led on the right to the bar and common room,
and on the left to a stairway to the rooms above. Griswald dreaded
being recognized by the people in the common room, but they seemed
to be completely involved in what amounted to a contest to see you
could bellow the most obnoxious saying the loudest. It was unlikely
that anyone saw him as he turned towards the stairs, save perhaps
the innkeep.
Brutsam climbed the stairs slowly and quietly. He halted in the
corridor at the top, pausing. After a moment, he stepped towards one
of many closed doors in the hall. He knocked. And again. And waited.
The door was opened by Lek Pyle, the man who had recruited
Griswald into this insane plot. Pyle quickly brought Griswald within
the room and closed the door behind him. "What's the problem?"
The aging physician shrugged off his cloak and stood before the
warmth of the hearth a moment before replying. "Nothing's happened.
The assassin you hired is missing."
"Thad? He wouldn't run out on a job. He's a scoundrel, though."
"What are we going to do? Do you think he was caught? I'm sure
if he did then he'll have told all about your plot..."
"No, not Thad. His reputation has it that he's one of the best
in his business, though his methods aren't the most subtle."
Griswald was visibly agitated, not able to sit. "Well, where is
he? Would he try to get more money by selling us out?"
Pyle, seeing the fear in Brutsam's eyes, sneered. "He might
have, but might just as easily simply skipped town. Still, that's
not Thad's style. He's a scum, but he's a brute - he enjoys the jobs
people give him, the more violent the better. He's not likely to
get caught or to just leave the job, even when he is paid in advance."
"You seem sure of that, but then where is he, and what are we
going to do?"
"We must proceed with our scheme. It matters little whether Thad
was found out or not." The merchant from Baranur gazed into the fire
thoughtfully. "We will simply have to proceed with another scheme..."
-Orny
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FIVE NUMBER ONE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Complete Game Design Orny
Origin of a "PBM" Game Stephen Tihor
Nuclear Autumn Joseph Curwen
ELFQUEST Supplement Review Richard Jervis
A National Gaming Organization Mike Barbre
X-Editorial
Well, hello, and welcome to the roleplaying game and other
assorted miscellany issue of FSFnet! Included in this issue you will
find some interesting gaming-related articles, including an article
by a gentleman who has designed a rather extensive PBM game. There
are also a few odd tidbits, including an extra story by Joseph
Curwen. Issue VOL5N02 will be out very soon after you receive this
issue, and will return to the Dargon project with some more
excellent fantasy fiction by BITNET authors. I'd also like to
mention that we might be losing some of our Dargon authors, and
would like to encourage readers who dabble in writing to try their
hand at writing a Dargon story. It is, after all, a writing project
for the authors, and an excellent writing exercise.
As for news, there is some. New books are appearing left and
right, as well as reprints, so I would suggest that people check
several bookstores for their favorite authors, and perhaps some new
ones. Also, I highly recommend the Bowie/Henson movie "Labyrinth".
Although the plot is a little bit contrived, the remainder of the
film is well worth the admission price. Bowie was highly bearable in
his role as Goblin King, and Henson created some effects that really
shake you up. I would go see the movie twice or three times simply
to appreciate the action. Excellent film.
But on to the meat of the matter, an issue dedicated to the fine
art of roleplaying gaming. Enjoy, and we'll see you in Dargon in a
couple weeks!
-Orny
Complete Game Design
There are four aspects of every roleplaying game that must be
properly coordinated and supervised by the gamemaster to result in a
successful game or campaign. In this short article I shall attempt
to share some of what I have learned in my gamemastering experiences.
The first and most basic step in any game is choosing what game
rules system to use. There are virtually countless rules systems
available commercially, and most gamemasters feel that they are
sufficient for their purposes. Some gamemasters decide that the
rules are acceptable with minor modifications. A few gamemasters
eventually undertake to create their own rule systems. All
gamemasters, however must choose between these options, and I have
developed some criteria by which gamemasters may choose the systems
they use. Firstly, the gamemaster should know what he wants from the
system, weighing elements he desires to incorporate and elements he
wishes to avoid. Special attention should be given to the tradeoff
between realism and playability. Finally, the best way to understand
the shortcomings and strengths of a game is to playtest it.
Playtesting is one of the strongest tools of the game designer, and
is the proving grounds for the system. Overall, an intelligent
choice of game systems, be they commercially available or
self-designed, is a critical point in game design.
The second aspect of a game which must be addressed is the game
locality and environment. THis includes the layout of the land,
geographical features, maps, towns, NPCs, and so forth. The best
policy to create an environment is to start small. Often gamemasters
start out by drawing entire continents, and run into trouble when
play concentrates on a smaller scale. Detailed maps are excellent
tools, and accomplish the dual purposes of arousing player interest
and avoiding the creation of generic "areas" that lack in detail.
Thirdly is scenario design; the adventure. When designing an
adventure, keep the players interest in mind. Bring the party
together in a logical and believable manner. As soon as is
convenient, grab their interest by giving them a major event to
think over. For example, they find out that several people have
disappeared from their town. This will give the players something to
think about and a purpose to unite them. As the major plot builds
up, throw in minor subplots (ie they find out that the trusted
sheriff is a werewolf), leading up to the climax of the major plot.
For each adventure, there is a time to think and a time to act, and
your players should not be confused as to which is which. A balance
of "think'n'sweat" and "hack'n'slash" will keep everyone happy.
During each session your players should feel a sense of achievement
or gain, as well as some doubt at the mess they've gotten themselves
into. The purpose of the game is to make your players feel some of
the emotions of their characters, and to suspend their disbelief
just enough. A well designed scenario is a major factor in this.
The final point is not an aspect of the game, but of the
gamemaster. As gamemaster, you must carefully implement the game
system, the environment, and the scenario to have a successful game.
Your performance in actually running the game can make a
badly-designed game exciting, or a well-designed game a flop. THe
first thing to remember is to know the game system. Having to
constantly page through rules detracts from the players enjoyment of
the game, and is rather unprofessional. Keeping things moving is
very important. Waiting for the players to stumble upon a key clue
is futile and aggravating for the players. It is also important to
not be predictable in what you do. Players who know what you will do
are bored players. Finally, make the players play the roles of their
characters. That's what roleplaying is all about.
A careful management of the game system, the campaign, the
scenario, and your gamemastering style will result in successful
all-around game design. Each aspect has its pitfalls, which must be
learned to be avoided. I hope that sharing my gamemastering
experiences are of use to you in yours.
-Orny
Origin of a "PBM" game
I have been involved in fantasy gaming and, to a lesser extent,
wargaming since the late 60s when I started dropping by the old SPI
offices in New York for their Friday night playtest sessions. A
number of my friends also playtested for SPI and some of them, such
as Greg Costikyan, went on to become professional game designers. It
is only natural to want to design one's own game after seeing so
much happen in this environment, but I always found the heavily
competitive style and the WW II orientation of traditional wargaming
uncomfortable.
With the arrival of D&D in late 1974 I found a medium in which I
was comfortable working, and have been involved in running various
rolegames ever since. Edi Birsan, another NY area gamer with a more
wargaming bias, changed his campaign from face to face to a fantasy
wargame/miniatures campaign (reversing the evolutionary path of D&D)
which many NY area players found interesting. Unfortunately it had a
strong flavor of gamesmaster intervention which was generally felt to
be a "bad thing."
Most of my effort (and that of our group) went into evolving our
local rules systems first from D&D and the later our own design in a
project for SPI, part of which was eventually degenerated into their
RPG, Dragonquest. The idea of a "play by mail" style game in a
fantasy envrionment continued to intrigue me. Last summer a couple
of my friends who were playing in a number of commercial PBM games
suggested that it would be interesting to do our own game. The idea
immediately appealed to me but I felt that it had to be designed for
computer moderation from the begining. After a couple of
brainstorming sessions we agreed on a number of game principles:
Each player would BE a single character in the world
Every character or unit could only control up to FIVE
other characters, units, or provinces, but those
characters or units could control up to FIVE other
characters, or units, or provinces, etc
No control would be perfect and permanent but we are
playing a fantasy game, not Computer Illuminati, so it
would not be easy to seize control of a fifth of player's
entire hierarchy of control
While a unit remained loyal then command and control would
be perfect (telepathy is a wonderful spell)
Each character would have skills which could be improved
over time and new skills could be learned
The game would be set in an Earth-like world where the
technology was that of the middle ages, magic worked, and
intelligent species other than humanity existed.
The basic turn would be one month
A person, unit, stack of units, or province could execute
one order per month
A lone rider on horse back could cover four provinces in
one month if not attacked
The game would be entirely computer moderatable with no
human intervention in the adjudication of individual
orders needed (i.e. no special orders; if it's worth doing
it's worth making a part of the program)
There is limited information about the world, the actions
of other players, and the exact values of the various skills
More information could be discovered in the course of play
The multi-player diplomatic aspects and limited
information would provide the major initial challenges
A player need not fight for "world domination" to enjoy
playing; movement and combat should be credible for both
armies and small parties of adventurers
The wargaming aspects would be done first since they would
draw more people into the game
New rules modules and thus activities and playing styles
will be added transparently
New players can join at any time
People and places are basically the same things and many
of the same options apply to both, thus you can control
a city directly and it in turn may have mercenary units
working for it.
It turned out that I was the only one of the designers in a
position to code extensively so I ended up writing the entire 12k
lines of C. I chose "portably written" C rather than LISP as the
implementation language to insure that the game would be very
portable, there would be adequate fast implementations available for
the top of the line microcomputers on which the game would
eventually have to live if it worked well enough to move it beyond a
hobby project. My general goal would be for it to expand to the
point that it can be run be a NY area game company as a "for-profit"
project and I can stop having to run the turns myself and
concentrate on development.
This winter I felt the program was solid enough that I started
collecting local playtesters. The first six turns were run weekly
but as people gradually came to want longer turn deadlines we moved
to biweekly turns. Then people wanted more actions so I moved the
basic action from units of a month with four weekly movement/combat
phases to units of a week, with some actions taking more than one
unit. The underlying implementation of time was designed to to
handle very small quantums of action since I felt uncomfortable with
large turns containing many smaller phases and more comfortable with
actions taking place in continuous time. Breaking the monolithic
month required only changing a couple of constants.
With the move to a longer turnaround it became possible to have
players not within shouting distance and I solicited some additional
playtesters using the Usenet newsgroup net.games.frp. We currently
have 21 active playerships and perhaps 14 semi-active ones. Many of
the more active players are network players since they have faster
communications than even some of the "face-to-face" players do. It
has been interesting watching the flow of message from player to
player as initally everyone took advantage of the anonymity of
messages sent though the gamesmaster and the newsletter rather than
simply exchanging phone numbers and addresses. In the last few turns
the communications rate has climbed steadily as one player seized
the capitol and others began aligning themselves against his
position. As I send this off the Game is turning the year counter
over. People are now writing orders for the first "lune" of the
second year of play. One effect of the continuing nature of the
playtest is that players continue to join the game as time goes on.
To adjust for the inital position effect the starting resources a
player was given increased steadily over the first seven turns to
compensate for not being able to submit moves for the earlier turns.
Some players are also being placed on a second land mass to separate
them from then rather messy war starting on the mainland until they
get their sea legs, as it were. (Most players take a couple of turns
to get the feel for how things are done.)
Lately my efforts have been divided fairly evenly between
expanding the world by adding additional places and NPCs; adding
documentation such as lore sheets on provinces, players, and skills;
and, expanding the basic game options by adding additional uses for
skills, enhancing the underlying economic model and sections of the
game that are only now being used (the first player ship on the high
seas prompted me to finish the "Storms at Sea module", and add new
major modules. The current big project is the Heroic Adventures,
random encounter sequences which present options for actions and
support for attacking Dragons with one Hero rather than one Legion.
We lost a few players when the spring term ended at several
schools. It is time to add a some additional players with stable
network access. If anyone wants to contact me I can be reached at:
UUCPnet: {ihnp4,seismo,...}!cmcl2!tihor
ARPAnet: TIHOR@NYU-ACF1 or TIHOR@NYU
BITnet: TIHOR@NYUACF
Copies of the setup package are available on request but are
fairly lengthy to send over UUCP links. They can be picked up via
anonymous FTP from NYU.ARPA (or NYU.EDU) as ~ftp/pub/tihor/rules.
The current newsletter is .../tihor/newsletter and is included with
setups. The costs for network turns are negligable so there is no
charge for people getting their turns in person or by e-mail but it
is recommended that most network players send me a couple of SASEs
for hand written responses if they include an ad in the T'NYC Times
(the newsletter) which solicit responses since some players will be
giving me handwritten replies.
-Stephen Tihor
Nuclear Autumn
In the last days of a decadent race, the eternal children sought
what tawdry pleasures they could, well knowing but never realizing
that their time was nearly at an end. These were the Glorious Days,
filled with all the myth and wonder of Man's devising. And myth and
wonder there were. So much so that a man might live out his entire
life, which could no longer be adequately measured in years, without
perceiving even the slightest hint of the cold realities which had
faced their historical predecessors. No pleasure palace of Kubla
Khan could compare with the vast panorama of delusion in which Man
had enfolded himself. In truth, the commonalities of such an
existence would have caused even the most tainted of Sultanates to
blush. But of course, the act of blushing itself had grown to be
only the vaguest of myths, half-heartedly sought by countless
numbers of pleasure seekers who were incapable of conceiving of any
emotion leading to its expression. Life had reached the bounds of
Man's finite imagination, but still the populace desired more.
It was inevitable. The sensual pleasures had been exploited to
their fullest. The intellectual pleasures had long since been
abandoned as requiring such great an effort for such small returns.
Looking back across those final years, one recognizes the odious
progression of those dissatisfied with the ability to define one's
own existence with such precision. One sees a steady growth in the
numbers of those who desired hardships and death, and those who
wished to savor the things that the society constructed by their
forefathers had forbidden them. Perhaps it all arose naturally from
the destructive instinct in Man, which while carefully channeled by
society into acceptable forms could only achieve the palest of
expressions. Society had done its best to compromise with this
force, providing more and more outlets of outre expression which
would have shocked any sane individual of another age. But the
attractions of the forbidden were felt in much greater proportions
by those unused to any form of self-discipline. There could be no
compromise.
Small sects of discontents arose and grew in number until they
encompassed the greater part of the entire population. They were
dissatisfied with mechanized life and sought refuge in artificial
wildernesses, harkening back onto the mythical days of their
ancestors when Man vied directly with Nature in continuous combat.
But it was not enough, as as they knew that they were in an
instant's communication with great mechanized forces capable of
easily overcoming any task, there could be no full appreciation of
the struggle to survive. As long as any man had access to such
devices, their day to day victories in the "Wilderness" shown shallow.
And so after a long period of fruitless pursuit, an unspoken
resolution formed in the minds of each and every man. Man must be
freed from his devices, freed to struggle once more in a world where
the combat was meaningful, a world with obstacles worthy of
challenging Man once again. But turning off the machines would not
be enough, not so long as they could be reactivated. To free Man
would require that society and its machines were totally and
irrevocably destroyed. This presented Man's first real challenge in
centuries for the devices of Man's society had been constructed to
withstand any mishap unscathed. They could not be averted from their
continuous and ever present functioning.
Man puzzled long over this dilemma without solution, until one
day a very unfashionable elder, who had chosen to seek pleasure in
the lost knowledge of Man's history, struck upon a forgotten record.
It seemed that in the days long before civilization, Man had done
violence unto himself in massive numbers. The very concept was at
once unbelievable and exciting to these souls trapped into passivity
by their societial machine. But even more than this, it presented
hope. In some forgotten era of the race, Man had constructed engines
capable of destruction well beyond even their own comprehension.
Man's fear had caused these engines to go unused and unremembered
but not untended. As was the practice of all the Great Builders,
these engines of violence were perpetually maintenanced by machines
which would last until Armageddon.
Here at last was a solution. There was no discussion. They were
driven by their desperation, knowing there was nothing to lose.
Resolutely, the masses uncovered the engines of destruction and set
them about their inevitable course. They awaited hopeful of their
outcome, hopeful of escape.
And Man looked upon a new day....a new beginning.
-Joseph Curwen
ELFQUEST the Roleplaying Game (tm)
Companion I and The Sea Elves Review
This was intended to be a short review of the new gaming aids
for Elfquest players by Chaosium, but in discussion with others I
found that the one thing all of us seem to miss was an extended
table of Contents or an index of sorts. Personally I lean too
heavily on such things when learning a new game, from lack of
familiarity or laziness or just for some semblance of speed when
trying to involve others in my scenario.
When the Companion came out in August I had hoped for a
compendium of sorts, or perhaps a gamemasters guide to tables and a
quick reference outline for character generation. While it was full
of information both expected and desired, there was no index. So I
made my own. At the end of this article I'll list the list of "Poor
Richard's Index". This is by no means exhaustive or complete, as I
was only attempting to narrow down the areas of info. A complete
listing would include the Two manuals, the Companion, the Sea
Elves, references to the Quest , the Fanclub, and anything else one
might find useful. That is a tall order when the original idea was to
shorten reference time, not expand it.
Podium aside, I'll get onto the review at hand. Firstly the
Elfquest Companion opens with some updates to the game made
necessary by issues 19 and 20 of Elfquest in an errata section. For
example, the modification of the rule about shaping dead wood made
necessary by Redlance's actions, and information about the gas
bombs used by Ol' Maggotty.
Also, the stats for 17 more characters from the quest are
included, but 'Rotsap and splinters in me hand! No new soul-names!'
The section on Finding an Elfname is useful... my basic rule is if
you don' t pick one, One will be given.... "Help with Elf design" is
interesting, I nicknamed it "How to draw elves the Pini way." It
gives some filling out for NPC's as well as being a good guide-line
for undecided characters. "Wolf Ecology" is a comparative study of
the wolves on "The World of Two-moons" and those of Terrestrial ilk.
I think this should be "must" reading for players and Gamemasters
alike to help with role-playing and to help dispel some
misconceptions about wolves. The Wolfhaven Holt, a divergent branch
of wolfriders, gives some good ideas for Holt development in your
game. A pseudo-history is included, and the module; "The Dying
River" is meant to be played by a branch of Wolfhaven elves. (This
doesn't preclude others, it's merely a suggestion.) The Second
Module, "Fire Flight" is for several Plains elves. "The Sea Elves" is
a complete culture supplement for Elfquest based on the concept that
some High ones fled from the humans only to run into the ocean. They
colonized several islands with the help of dolphin like creatures
known as wave-dancers. The supplement is divided into sections on
history, the islands and the creatures who inhabit them. We are
given five new powers and three excellent modules. "Stormcoming
Hunt" is a race against time and tide, "Littlesmoke Island"
provides a backdrop for exploration of heretofore undiscovered
islands, and "Assault of Smalltower Island" presents a different
view of elves, in the role of pirates! I'll not say a lot more about
the modules so as not to spoil the surprises, except that they look
real nice and that there's more to them than their names imply. The
Elfquest Companion I and The Sea Elves are available from Chaosium,
INC. Box 6302-eqc, Albany CA 94706-0302 for about $6.00.
-Richard Jervis
POOR RICHARD'S ELF INDEX FOR Elfquest (tm)
(Sections are caps, tables are marked with a dash, and
Characters are in quotes. Numbers suffixed with an 's' represent
selections in The Sea Elves.)
Age: 2d10 x 2d6
Recognition: age/10 on 1d100
Recognized mate alive? POW x 5 on 1d100
Roll Basic stats: page 19
Dmg Bonus: If STR + SIZ >= 25....
Experience Bonus: INT/2
Hit Points: (CON + SIZ)/2
Magic Points: POW
Strike Rank Mod: Table on Page 20
Special Attributes: Max of 2 rolls on table (23)
Previous Exp Tot Basic Stats X # on Age factor chart (page 21.)*Basic
Stats can be increased (except INT or SIZ)
Initial Skills: Table on 21
Talent Roll: 1D100
Weapon use: Table on 58
Launching a National University Gaming Organization
My name is Mike Barbre and I am the Vice President of the
University Gamers Unlimited at the University of Missouri in St.
Louis. I am sending you all this note in the hope that you will feel
as I do. It is time to begin a national organization for gaming
among the universities of the world. This can help each of us in
many ways. I will list some of the benefits below;
A list of people who share your gaming interests.
When budgeting time arrives at the universities,
belonging to a national organization is a big plus.
I will work to get each member a standing discount at the
various companies who make our favorite games.
(idea) a newsletter put out annually.
(idea) a newsletter of the highest quality containing just
advertising from our favorite companies (I like looking at ads)
and anything else we can think of.
Ok, your saying what will it cost? Answer: nothing more than
your groups address. If I get enough of a response I will make up a
form letter along with a signup sheet to be copied and provided to
each member of your groups. Each member (hope) would fill out and
return the signup sheet. By doing so I will add the names to a
universal gaming database. Using the miracle of SAS I will then make
a 'phone book' and send it to everyone. Generally this would be a
forum of gamers, with the benefits of a university. If you are
interested at all please send me a note, and if possible provide the
address (on campus) of your favorite gaming organization. I thank
you for your time and hope to hear from you soon.
Mike Barbre
University Gamers Unlimited
250 University Center, UMSL
8001 Natural Bridge Road
St. Louis, MO. 63121
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FIVE NUMBER TWO
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Spirit of the Wood: 2 Rich Jervis
The Glory of Adventuring Ovis
Respect thy Elders: 1 Orny
Ceda the Executioner: 1 Joel Slatis
X-Editorial
Well, I told you that 5-2 would be right on the heels of 5-1!
Had it not been for the fact that our 3705 burned in flames, this
file might have actually made it on time! As for 5-3, Jeanne Dixon
has said that it will be out the second weekend in August, so watch
your reader queues!
Actually, to tell you the truth, we've managed to lure three
unknowing and unsuspecting amateur authors into the Dargon Project,
and they're cooking up stories faster than I can print them! 5-3 is
actually all set to go out, save that I have to finidh writing *my*
story for that issue! And it promises to be an excellent issue, with
stories from myself and each of the three new authors. But I'll let
you wait for that.
This issue contains the beginnings of two serials, one a Dargon
story (my own, in three parts), the other an unrelated piece by Joel
Slatis, one of the three new authors. Stuffed in around the edges
are a short story by Ovis, another new author, and part two of Rich
Jervis' "Spirit of the Wood". Two other points and then on to the
issue. Firstly, due to extremely poor timing, the day I sent out
FSFNET 5-1, the userid of one of the contributors changed. If you
are interested in contacting the person who was advertising the
national gaming organization, the userid is now C4898002@UMSLVMA,
rather than S4898002. Or was it the other way round? Finally, I'd
like to welcome the new members, and remind everyone once more to
keep spreading the word about FSFnet. It is, as I've been saying all
along, your zine, not mine. Enjoy!
-Orny
Spirit of the Wood: Chapter Two
Loric had no chance to reply to Oldsir's query because their
dialog was interrupted a the high whistling call from below them.
Oldsir looked down and said to himself "So soon..." "Loric the call
has been given. You must go below and stand on the ground with your
friends. I wish you luck."
Loric looked at his grandfather and then closed the distance
between them. He hugged the old man fiercely and said "If it means
your time of death has come closer, I won't go! "
"Here now, is that the voice of a Tolorion I hear? Are you so
strong that you can wrestle with time itself? My time has come, but
so has yours But do not let the fate of an old man deter you from
doing your best! I will be watching you as all of your tribe will,
to see that honor is maintained and that the Spirit of the Wood is
not broken. Now go, son of my son. And may the dew never settle on
your brow!" With that blessing Oldsir turned and leaped off the
porch of his house and deftly caught a vine some yards below. Before
Loric could call out to him he was lost from sight.
"Thank you Oldsir," He said softly, "Goodbye,Grandfather." He
barely heard the second sounding of the call and threw himself off
the platform with a vengeance. He went downward recklessly, allowing
the bare minimum margin for safety. He hit the ground hard and
lightly bruised, but in one piece. Without a glance at the gathered
downlander's he strode to the center of the circle where they had
gathered and stood with head held high and body erect. Determined
that his Grandfather's last wish would be granted.
Loric tried to stay aloof from the others, hoping to keep his
anger fired, but the excited conversation around him kept intruding
on his thoughts.
"Going for it again, eh Hiram? Maybe you'll get to the top of
the Home-tree this time."
"Go jump Jakul,I made the Tree-climbing test, it was the
Net-walking that did me in last time."
"You were lucky then, if you'd made that they would have thrown
you into the Pit. My brother Yione was there for three days before
they dragged him out. He still won't talk about that one but I think
they used snakes on him, he never did like them."
"Snakes I don't mind, but there's worse. They say there's always
one test you can't pass. And then there's always the Shreaving. Hey
there's Loric. Loric! What's in the pit eh? Snakes or spiders or
just a few wild dogs to gnaw your bones! Hah-hah!"
Loric looked at his friends and smiled thinly. "Whatever it is,
it couldn't be as mean as you two! I still remember the time you two
put that bee-comb in my sister's bed and the ant's all but carried
her off! I couldn't catch you then, but maybe after today, you'll
not be so fast?
I think a tree-crab could walk away with what's left of you
after the test and no one would notice."
"Jakul we made a mistake even speaking to this one, he's
obviously the first test; to see how long we'll stand here before
stringing him up by his toes!"
Hiram made a feint towards Loric which he dodged and then
grabbed His friends arm and pressed his thumb into the wrist. The
scene was on the verge of becoming a tussle when the third sounding
of the Call was made and the late arrivals noisily joined the trio
in the council circle. Under his breath Hiram asked, "What's up your
tree Loric, you used to take that guff and pass it out fresh?" Loric
looked side-ways at his friend. "Sorry, Hiram. It's just that my
grandfather has had his second vision."
Hiram stepped back and then asked "Did he tell you what it was?"
"No, only that his time had come...and mine too! Shhh! Dernhelm
is looking at you--turn around!" Loric spun his friend around to
face his uncle. He waited for the silence to spread to all present,
even the young children were silent. Somehow feeling the intensity
of the moment.
"Know you children of the Village in the Trees, what is the
benefit of the Arborskill?"
Loric and the others replied as one; "Yes, my chief. my eyes and
the eyes of my tribe, my hands and the hands of my tribe, my heart
and the heart, ears, and tongue of my tribe will become keener, and I
will know the joy of life from the Spirit of the Wood. I will
adapt,and my tribe will live.
I will take the offerings of the Wood, and make new and better
things things for the living. The Arborskill honors and protects,
and the seasons change."
"What do you need to achieve the Arborskill?"
"My Kesh-blade, my chief."
"Only this?"
"My wits , my chief."
"This is all?"
"And my song , My chief,and my hands."
"Do you have these four things?"
"I have them, my chief, My wits are as keen as my blase and my
hands are as strong as my song. My song is strong, my chief!"
"Then show your tribe what you know. What is the first craft of
the Arborskill?"
"The first craft of the Arborskill is the Lashing."
At this loric looked about him. In the circle were poles he was
to use as a rope walk, but there was no grass gathered to plait into
a lashing.
Realizing that the cane fields were a long-run away and the reed
marshes even further than that, several of the boys waved to their
families and sprinted off into the woods. Loric started out
muttering under his breath. He has went only a short distance when
he stopped. This can't be right! he thought. It will take most of
the day just to gather the grass and return with it, and there's
more tests after this one!
Loric looked back at the circle of logs where the tribe sat
silently. There were more logs than usual around the fire pit,
leaving several unoccupied or with only one person to a log. The new
logs were still dark with bark and the scent came to Loric as he
walked back into the circle.
The acrid smell of Liamas trees greeted him. Of Course!
Adaption! Loric had been taught how to plait grass and vines but
there was a no reason he couldn't do the same with the fibrous bark
of the Liamas tree.
He ran across the clearing to where his sister sat with several
of the other young women.
"Loric I see no grass for you to weave, perhaps you intend to
weave the air into a rope?"
Loric was stung by his sister's words but caught the twinkle in
her eye that meant to Loric that he must be close to an answer.
Formally he stood before his sister and said:
"I ask that you give up your seat my sister, so that your brother
may become a man."
Silsia gave up a cheer. "Ai-ya! Ai-Ya! Little Loric would be a
man and make his sister stand!" She laughed and stood by her friends.
"Come sisters, we must move for near-man Loric who already knows
how to act like a man!"
Loric drew his knife from it's sheaf and started cutting the
bark from the log in long strips.
-Rich Jervis
The Glory of Adventuring
"So this is how it will all end," thought Glanaril as he sank
slowly to a sitting position against the cold, black cave wall. "We
were all so tough, so grown up and ready to make names for
ourselves, so wrong..."
Glanaril knew he didn't have long, the hideous beast's claws
were so covered with filth that the poison on them could kill an
ogre. Unfortunately he had taken more than a scrape in the fight
with it. It had come upon them only minutes ago, a time when they
had been the most famous adventurers in the world (or would be soon,
after they managed to kill Lothgar the Black and rescue all those
lonely, misguided gold rilks). The horrible guardian beast had not
sneaked up on them, no, it had come straight at them, slowly,
allowing them plenty of time to ready spells and form an attack
plan. They had smelled it coming long before they met it. Oh, but
once they met it )) it became a living death machine. Granted the
beast was very large, but one beast against a party of well equipped
adventurers, ha ha )) no problem. Glanaril smiled grimly as he
remembered his thoughts as he handled his trusty spear.
It wouldn't be long now, the pain was growing, working its way
up from the horrible gash he has received in his side. His armor was
like butter before the thing's claws.
Glanaril glanced about him at the remains of his party. Katrina,
a pretty spellcaster, lay in a heap against the far wall. She had
been concentrating on a spell and had not avoided the beast's
backswipe with its great foreleg and she'd been tossed against the
jagged stone wall as easily as a man swats a fly. Carly, a hobbit
thief, was now unrecognizable as such. He had tried to maneuver to a
position behind the thing so that he might hamstring it. Just as
he'd raised his dagger to do so, the beast had taken a step back and
placed its great hind leg right on top of him. So much for crippling
it. Harth died trying to help Katrina. He had seen Katrina go down
and rushed to help her, thinking that the three fighters could keep
the beast at bay while he cast a spell of healing. He was wrong.
Harth turned his back on the beast and bent over Katrina to begin
his work and so did not see the great claw coming which ripped down
his back and pulled him back into the jaws of its owner. The other
two fighters, Jaron and Jakon, were thrown into one another with
force enough to kill them both, the reason they were unable to keep
Harth safe.
And Glanaril had seen them all die as he stood there, too
stunned to believe that all his friends had died in less than two
minutes. Then the thing had turned to him and lunged directly
towards him. Glanaril set his spear against the wall to protect him.
But he had missed. The spear had scored a hit in the right shoulder
of the creature, not enough to cause it to blink. It came on,
pushing the spear into its shoulder, and took a swipe at him. It did
not miss. He was already against the wall and had no place to go, he
took the full force of the claw and went sprawling sideways, knowing
that this was it. He awoke shortly thereafter. Looking around told
him that the beast had gone. His spear lay in the middle of the
cave, broken in two.
"So much for fame and glory," he thought, "our whole party
killed by a common black bear, and not even close to Lothgar's
stronghold, not even close..." And the darkness closed in.
-Ovis
Respect thy Elders: Chapter One
Kite bounded up the granite stairs to the portals of Winthrop
Keep. Winthrop was a small holding, perhaps a dozen leagues
southwest of Dargon. Recently, Kite, an aspiring young lord of the
house of Talador, a wealthy duchy south of Winthrop, was engaged to
Pecora, the only child of the ruler of Winthrop. But this sunny
morning, Kite had received a message from Mistress Izetta, Pecora's
woman-in-waiting and nursemaid of many years, asking him to come at
once to Winthrop Keep. It seemed that Pecora had fallen ill, but the
note had revealed little more.
Kite walked quickly through the halls he knew so well. He had
often visited Pecora during their courtship, and had cherished each
moment within these walls. Yet he strode to Pecora's room quickly,
and without any emotion more evident than concern. At last he came
to the door to her chambers, and rapped anxiously. After a moment,
an older woman quietly opened the door and bade Kite enter.
He entered into a spacious and well-decorated lounge area. He
hardly noticed as the woman guided him to a seat. "What is wrong,
Mistress Izetta?"
"Pecora is ill. Last night she went weak and pale as a ghost.
She is not well, milord. Come speak to her." With that, she led him
to the bedchamber, where Pecora lay. She did not see Kite until he
had knelt beside her. She tried to speak, but could not, but Kite
could see her words in her questioning eyes.
"I am here, love. It will be all right. I promise." He kissed
her forehead, and she closed her eyes. He stood, and the two
silently returned to the entry.
After a few moments, Izetta spoke. "Milord, I have done what I
can for her, but I have seen this disease before, many years ago,
when we lived in the south. It was my mother." Kite knew by the
servant's downcast eyes that her mother had not survived.
"Is there anything you can do?" he asked, futilely, seeing the
weariness in her eyes.
"I have done all I can. Yet there may be something you can do,
if you have a strong heart. I remember when my mother was dying, my
father saying that an Elder would possess the knowledge to help her.
He sent friends to seek an Elder named Isentraum, but none believed
him, and he would not leave my mother. Do you know of the Elders?"
"I have heard the tales, but I thought the Elders were all dead.
The legends say they lived hundreds of years ago!"
The woman smiled. "And so they did, and still do, for the Elders
know far more than any nursemaids or even great lords. If you can
find an Elder, he will know how to save Pecora, for I know not."
"Yet where shall I look? The Elders all are said to have lived
far from other people, or in secret places."
"If you ride southwest, you will pass many villages, and after
several days come upon a great lake. This is where my father sent
men to search for the Elder Isentraum. Look there, and godspeed."
After a moment of hesitation, Kite stood. The anxiety he had
fought to contain finally had an outlet, and there was hope that
Pecora would be healed. He would search for the Elder.
Kite wrapped his cloak tightly around him, but the rain soaked
through, chilling him as his horse slowly plodded up the slope of
the valley where Winthrop was nestled. To keep his cheer up, he talked
to Dagley, his horse.
"Well, Dag, this is it. The quest has begun. But it isn't much
of a quest, eh? Here we are, trudging out of town in the rain. This
isn't one of those quests the minstrels will sing about, that's a
certainty; the hero, plodding along on his soggy mount, watches his
sword rust in the scabbard because all the monsters are inside where
it is dry and won't come out to fight!" The horse turned his head,
looking at Kite, who tried to fathom what the horse might say if he
could speak.
Eventually they reached the ridge above the valley, and Kite
turned to view the town below. After a few silent moments he turned
the horse and headed off towards the west, silent and contemplative.
-Orny
Ceda the Executioner: Chapter One
A tall lonely figure dressed in black strode confidently through
the Desert of the Hidden Army (or Grobsts D'arbos Desert as some
prefer to call it.)
It had been called that ever since the High King of Grandydyr
rode through leading a vast army to battle some 10,000 years earlier.
Grobst D'arbo was high king of the biggest country of his time.
He controlled a massive army of strong men who were all battle
trained, well equipped and fearless. They were crossing the waste in
the area that Ceda now rode when, as the tale goes, one of the
routine scouts rode up ahead of the troops as usual, to survey the
surrounding area for scouts of the opposing forces.
That night, after a thorough search of the area, the scout
returned and to his horror found the entire army of 500,000 men dead
and the king lying at the head of the troops, still alive. The scout
jumped from his horse and ran to the fallen king who told him a
message. The message, however, has long since been forgotten (for
about 1000 years) but it is said that the message is of grave
importance to the entire world in the years to come.
The kings head fell back into the hands of the shocked scout who
lay the king down gently on the ground. Then the scout stood up to
look upon his fallen majesty who, by some unknown force, now lay
dead at his feet. Then a peculiar thing happened: the kings body
seemed to melt and change. The horrified scout watched as the body
of the king altered into that of a tree. The scout could hardly
believe what had happened and he stood gazing upon the tree until he
fainted from the sun.
Some time after that, the opposing army drew near and the scout
was found lying in the shade of the tree. The army of Grandydyr was
no where to be seen and they were never heard from again. The scout
, before his execution at the hands of his captors, told them what
had taken place, then he died by decapitation, but the story lived
on. And to this day, people who wish to travel are warned of the
Desert of the Hidden Army, for it is foretold that one day, a
certain weary traveler will find it.
This, however, was just a child's fairy tale and thought to be
mendacious, for almost none of the numerous people that cross though
the gigantic wasteland ever come across the tree of Grobst D'arbo
and no one really ever believed the story that they told... if they
lived to tell it.
It was this tree that Ceda was now approaching and he looked at
the surrounding desert for any possible source of water, but as far
as the eye could see, and even beyond that, there was nothing but
the golden sand upon which he now strode.
The area around the tree was littered with dead bodies. Most of
them were now nothing more than bleached bones, but one or two were
still clad, dead only for about 3 months, all from deep wounds. Ceda
looked at them in disgust but then forgot about them as he
contemplated the tree, having previously thought that it was but a
tale of children.
The story echoed in his head for sometime as he made his way
through the sand. The only thing besides him and his wingless dragon
mount, Melgon, was the single tree; not even insects lived in the
Desert of the Hidden Army and only seldomly did birds venture in to
feast on a dead animal.
The tree itself was not particularly tall and didn't look very
healthy for that matter. It was about the height of Ceda and only
some of the leaves that now grew on it were green. The roots stuck
out of the ground in an odd fashion and seemed to be warped in some
peculiar way that Ceda did not notice.
He stopped to look at it as they passed and Melgon swung his
head around to see why they had stopped. Unable to look at the tree
because of the heavy armor that reached from the dragons head to the
base of it tail, it shifted its body around and slowly glanced up at
the phenomenon. Ceda, amused by this sorcerers work, knowing a
little sorcery himself, he advanced on the tree until the reins of
his mount pulled tightly at his hand.
"Come on, Melgon, this thing won't harm you, fear not." He
tugged again at the reins, but this time harder and in turn, the
dragon strengthened his foothold. Obvious that the dragon would go
no further in the direction of the tree, he dropped the reins and
continued towards it alone.
Even as he approached, the tree sensed that Ceda had no good
intentions and began to shake as if it was warning him to come no
closer. It was almost as if a wind were blowing the tree but Ceda
could feel nothing of this wind and neither could his wingless
dragon mount, Melgon. The closer that Ceda drew, the stronger the
wind blew. Melgon began to back away as the wind grew even stronger.
"Stay, Melgon," came Ceda's voice fiercely as he turned at the
dragon. The only answer that he received was a low growl as the
dragon halted.
He reached the tree and the wind grew greater, and all of a
sudden, the gusts focussed of Ceda pushing him back by surprise. His
long black hair flew back to reveal a handsome face with piercing
black eyes, a short, straight nose, tight thin lips and a firm chin.
The gusts of wind knocked Ceda off balance and he was momentarily
pushed back before he again struggled to get to the tree. Finally
after five long hard steps, he had reached it again and he lifted
his hand to touch one of it's leaves, his long black cape waving
wildly under the force of the wind. The wind grew stronger as he
grasp a leaf of the growth. Then he pulled at it with all his might
and it came off into his hand. Then the wind stopped. Ceda threw
himself against the trunk of the tree. Then a noise which startled
Ceda for a moment swam through the hot desert air but he relaxed as
he recognized the low pitched moaning as a dragon laugh.
He glanced menacingly at Melgon who was still laughing and a
smile crossed his lips. He picked himself up and walked back to his
dragon mount.
"There, you see? It's nothing more than a little magic, that is
all. Methinks the old kings' wizardry must be weakening over the
years... or perhaps the old king was not as strong as I had
expected." He opened his hand and examined the leaf.
It seemed to crumble in his hand and turned to dust. A worried
expression crossed Ceda's face as the wind started again and blew
the dust up into his eyes momentarily blinding him.
Then, simultaneously, four figures appeared around the warrior
as if they had come from the very sand itself. Their swords drawn,
their expressions covered by the shadows of the hoods which hung
loosely about their heads. Only two gleaming balls of fire were
visible beneath the hoods. They wore robes down to their feet and
wore gauntlets to shield their hands.
"Who are you to question the power of Grobst D'arbo, High king
of Grandydyr?" the voice came from within Ceda's head.
Ceda's hand raced for the hilt of his sword, the wind still
blowing at him from all directions. He raised it to strike at the
nearest of the advancing force and swung. The wind changed course
and blew the sword harmlessly down missing his opponent.
The attacker swung at Ceda's head and seeing the on coming
strike, the warrior raised his sword to parry and again the wind
changed course. The blade was almost blown out of his grasp, but he
held on with all his strength to defend against the assault.
Ceda, seeing that the fight would lead to nothing but certain
death, jumped to his mount and fought against the wind to ride out
beyond the reach of the kings sorcerous winds and warriors.
They had gone fifty dragons lengths when the wind ceased and
they could ride unhampered. After a short period Ceda looked back to
see if the tree was still in sight and if the four demons had yet
returned to the underworld. The worried expression returned to his
face as he saw the four riding devil spawn steeds with crimson
colored fire coming from their nostrils with every breath. The
horses were catching up to him and he cursed himself for tempting
the dead kings spirit.
Ceda bent down low on his mount and spurred it on faster
realizing the full extent of the danger. If he were killed by the
demons sent after him, his soul would be damned to serve the dead
king in a state of half death and half life for all eternity.
He reached down into the saddle where his spell book was and
pulled at it. It came out and almost as quickly fell from his hand
to the ground.
"Slow, Melgon. I must retrieve the book if we are to survive."
The dragon growled in disapproval as he slowed and turned to the
book, but Ceda was already upon it looking for the spell in which he
needed to escape his pursuers.
He marvelled at the tenacity of the oncoming demons as he
invoked the rune he had found that would aid him in escaping danger:
"When at a time that I may fall
Bring forth the winds, L'amron
To aid my call...
Naar akbles gah dee
Hegwray sde urngen tse dooh, L'amron
Faeer sforen cha haben..."
First in his language and then in the language of the Wind God.
Black smoke rose into the shallow desert air and seemed to clump
together as if something had sucked it all into a great hovering
mass. Ceda glanced back at the on coming attackers as the smoke
filled the sky. Then a large figure of black smoke loomed over him
with a face far darker than those that dwell in the most dreadful of
the caves of Arnmere.
"Why have you summoned me from my most restful sleep, mortal?"
The black smoke undulating as he talked.
"I have summoned you to aid me in my foray with these demons,
Lord," he replied as he cast another glance at the oncoming attackers.
"I am, as they are, under the rule of the Lord Ileiruon and
cannot aid thee without incurring his wrath upon myself as a result,
mortal. Fare thee well." The wind sent the smoke swirling in all
directions and at once the Wind Lord was gone.
Ceda drew his sword and stood waiting the few remaining seconds
for the demons as his mount retreated a safe distance to survey the
battle. As the riders approached, the steeds upon which they rode
began to waver and finally disappeared as they reached their quarry.
The demons dropped to the ground from where they had sat on their
hellborn mounts and at once set upon Ceda.
This time, their was no devil wind to hinder him as he fought
the attackers and with ease he defended himself. Ceda parried one of
the swings made by the attacker and disarmed him as a result. Then
with lightning quickness he lifted his sword up to unveil the face
of one of his opponents and in doing so revealed a fleshless being.
All that remained in place of a head was a skull with two crimson
balls of light for eyes.
All the clothes worn by the attackers at once withered to dust
as Ceda was left fighting the living dead. Four odd looking
skeletons were before him and were advancing on their prey, the
foremost wearing upon his bleached skull a richly designed crown
inlaid with rare Malthoogian gems. This one was at least twice the
size of the other three.
Ceda attacked the crowned figure and as he struck under the same
defenses of it's sword, the bones came apart and fell to the sand in
pieces. The warrior formed a wry smile and turned to face the three
remaining opponents. But, even as he turned, the fourth quickly,
magically reassembled itself and resumed the battle.
Ceda looked on in utter horror as his hosts reassembled itself
after every blow, realizing that if he didn't think of a way to
defeat his foe, it would defeat him.
Then the solution to beating the wizardry came to him. He turned
sharply avoiding the trust of one of the smaller demons and swung at
it before it regained its balance, Ceda hit it hard knocking it into
a pile of bones. Then with lightning speed, he grabbed at the odd
skull dropped it into his pouch. Then it's bones seemed to dry up
and wither into nothingness as Ceda fought on.
The other two fell easily to Ceda's blade and he deposited the
other two skulls into his pouch. Now all that was left was the
largest of the demons; The fire glowed in its eyes like two red stars.
"Now, you die!" It hissed and swung down at Ceda's head.
Ceda parried the thrust and swung under the skeletons sword. It
blocked and jabbed for Ceda's head and he had to jump back to avoid
being pierced through his neck. Then he lounged at the skeleton
tearing its bony arm off and its sword with it. Then the skeleton
was easily defeated by Ceda's blade. He swung so that the side of
the blade hit turning the massive demon to a pile of milk white
bone. As he reached to get the the crown, the demon had time to
reform and before he knew it, it was already on its feet and
advancing on him.
"The crown," it said, its eyes gleaming brightly. "Give it to me."
Ceda swung at the skeleton again and hit it, then hit the skull.
And the skeleton crumbled.
Then the voice returned to his mind and said: "Beware not to let
the skulls lose, for my demons will get you," and the voice laughed.
Then it was gone from his head.
Ceda remembered the warning and he looked into the pouch. The
eyes of the demons had lost their fire, as if they had died. Ceda
knew of the danger that would be released if they ever broke free
and decided to keep them in case he found use for them.
Then he turned his attention to the crown. It would be worth a
lot of gold in any of a dozen cities . He rubbed it a little,
polishing it, and added it to his pouch on the saddle.
Then he had a long drink before he continued on his way thought
the desert.
A dark figure approached the westward gate of the city of
Pheeng'Am. He did not ride the strange wingless dragon mount that
walked next to him. He looked odd as he approached the gate, for
dragons were very rare and those that were wingless were legendary
at best.
When they arrived at the gate, one of the city guards, a Giant
from Weuyrt, the land of forests, (where the caves of Arnmere lie:
the home of the feared orcs and hobgoblins) approached them.
"What business have you in the city of Pheeng'Am?" his burly
voice made all in the area turn to give ear to the conversation.
"I am Ceda of No-Al Ben (a small country north of Grobst's
desert from which Ceda had come,)" he said proudly before
continuing. "I wish to enter the city for I have traveled the desert
and am in need of food and shelter before I can continue on. Can you
perhaps tell me where the nearest inn is?" Ceda tried to look
innocent, he knew that the guards seldom admit those who look like
they were there for foul purposes, as was the nature of Ceda.
"What is your purpose for traveling this land?" he persisted.
"I seek am as a hired sword where I might find work." The talk
was beginning to annoy him, but he knew that there was nothing that
he could do if he wanted to enter the city unharmed.
"You?!? A hired sword? What's the world coming to?" The giant
mocked him, but he knew the giant was testing his ability to
withhold his temper, so he ignored this. The other guards laughed.
"Be the world as it may, I wish to enter the city." Ceda
re-stated this with a slight tone of anger in it.
The giant thought about this for a minute and then said: "Very
well now, you may pass, but be weary of the laws of the city lest I
have to find and slay you myself. Go now."
Relieved, Ceda continued past the giant and into the city.
Pheeng'Am was one of the biggest cities in the land of Ruirse
which bordered the Desert of Grobst. Its large populace was due
largely to the fact that it bordered the desert. All people
traveling through usually went there before continuing on there way.
The Desert separated the two largest countries from one another and
south of that were the Sarshirian mountains which was virtually
impossible to get through safely because they were inhabited by
evilly aligned creatures.
Ceda, now in the city, headed for the nearest tavern to get a
drink. He disliked talking with people which is what he would have
to do in the tavern, but he had to meet someone there.
Once in the tavern, Ceda got himself a skin of Ruirsian wine and
sat down at one of the empty tables in the back so that his face
fell into the shadow of the walls.
Many people were in the tavern, some drunk, some just walking
about but Ceda looked for just one of them: an elf by the name of
Rincraw that was to pay him for the service of assassinating Berk,
the mighty king of the people of Caffthorn.
Then he saw him sitting at the bar with a wooden cup of wine in
his hand talking to another elf. Ceda got up, walked over to him and
tapped him lightly on the shoulder. The elf turned quickly and his
hand flew to his sword, but he relaxed when he saw who it was.
"Greetings, Ceda, we have been expecting you, and a job well
done to you! I believe we owe you this," he handed the warrior a
sack full of gold coins and offered Ceda a drink of his wine.
"No thanks," he took the sack and made his way to the door.
Feeling the crown in his pouch as he added the sack of gold, he
thought a minute about how to get the most money for it and returned
to the elf.
"Have you ever seen Grobst's tree while in the desert?" he asked
the elf slowly thinking about what he was going to say to him.
"No, but I've heard rumors, I don't even know if it still lives
or even stands for that matter. Why, have you news of it?"
"I have. I also thought of it as but a tale until 4 days ago
when I accidentally came upon it. All around it was littered with
men's bones and mayhap a fresh body or two that the birds have not
gotten to yet. The strange thing was that it blew at me with the
force of the strongest of winds when I approached. Then I was set
upon by minions of hell and the leader wore this:" he withdrew the
crown which reflected the light of the candles with an eery red
glow. "I had to slay them to live but they fought with the technique
of that found only in the king of Grandydyr's greatest ancient heros".
The elf looked at his companion who was also confused. "And you
say that the leader bore this crown?" he looked at the it. "We shall
give word of this to our king and I shall inform you of his
bidding." He glanced at his companion, Quendell. "We ride for the
port of Dhernis tomorrow, and then on to the Learis Islands. In the
meanwhile, make merry and enjoy the wine." He laughed and took a sip.
Ceda finished his wine and left the tavern. He felt good from
the wine and decided that he would walk around for a while before
going back to the tavern to rent a room, so he untied his dragon
mount and with him, set off through the city.
While passing through one of the many alleys of the city, four
large men approached Ceda, who was, at this time, quite intoxicated.
The larger of the men coming foreword.
"Give us your gold and we won't kill you," his voice was cold.
He withdrew a large knife from his side and showed Ceda the blade.
Ceda knew he could do nothing in his drunken state and turned to
his dragon mount who was now ready to attack. "Down," he whispered
into the dragons ear. "I have a much better way."
"Hurry or I'll kill you and find it myself," warned the man.
"Here it is," Ceda replied pulling out of his pouch the largest
of the strange looking skulls and dropping it to the ground.
The skull at once grew to it's full size and looked at Ceda.
"Give me the crown!" It hissed.
"They have it," Ceda pointed at the advancing men as the
skeleton turned to face them, its fiery eyes dimly lighting the alley.
As the demon advanced on its new target, Ceda led the dragon
away and resumed his walk through the city. "It won't find us now
unless it stops to ask for directions," Ceda laughed. The sound of
men screaming came from the passage where he had just been and he
chuckled again.
As Ceda walked through the large area in the center of the city
square, he notice a small bench carved from rock put there for
festivals that sometimes took place in the city on the kings
birthday or on certain holidays. He decided to sit there for a while
and relax for he was tired and the effects of the wine were wearing
off. He put his hands down on his knees and in turn, his head down
on his hands and gradually fell into a mild slumber.
"Greetings, Ceda," was the voice that next roused him. He looked
up at the source to discover a tall woman with long blond hair tied
in the back. She wore common garb and had no weapon
"You know me?" he looked up questioningly at her, his head hurt
and his voice was weak.
"I know of you, I have wanted to meet you for a long time." She
sat with him now and he could smell the perfume which she wore. It
smelled good and he took a long breath. "Mayhap we could go
someplace more private than this. She looked at him and smiled
displaying a number of black and green rotting teeth.
"So be it." He stood up, the pain in his head was beginning to
fade now as they made their way back to the tavern and got
themselves a room.
They were now in the room and she looked at him for a moment
without saying anything, then she started to undress. Ceda now
understood what she had meant and also took off his clothes.
They both looked at one another. She had a magnificently built
body with perfect legs and large breasts. She took the binding off
her hair and it rolled down to meet her shoulders. She was beautiful.
Ceda moved closer to her. He could feel her hot breath against
his chest and he grabbed her and set her gently on the bed on her
back. His hand now gently caressed her large breasts and she gave a
soft moan of approval. Then he reached over and blew out the candle
at the side of the bed.
The next morning the sun came in through the cracks in the stone
wall and woke Ceda. He looked around but the woman was not in the
room. He got dressed and went down stairs to the tavern where the
bar keeper was polishing the crystal cups that he used for the
nobility of the city.
"Greetings, sir," he said with a jolly look on his face.
"Greetings to you to," Ceda replied. "Have you seen the woman
that I came in with last night?"
"Can't say that I have, but if I see her, I'll let you know."
The bar keeper smiled.
"Thanks," he said as he left the bar for his room.
Ceda entered his room and gathered his things into a pile. He
opened his pouch and noticed that the crown was not there. He looked
on the cold stone floor to make sure he had not lost it and then got
all his things and left the inn. He walked around The city asking
people if they had seen her and he cursed himself for not asking her
for here name.
No one in the city seemed to know where she had gone, but the
giants at the city gate knew who she was and they new her name also
(for a small bag of gold that Ceda had given them.)
The giants said that she had left for the city of Caahah and
that it had only been a few hours before. They also said that the
needed to hire swords, for there was a demon lose in the city that
was killing both man and beast shouting about a crown of some sort.
Ceda turned this job down.
He raced back to Melgon who stood ready for him. He put his
sword in its place on right of the saddle of the dragon mount and
then rode out of the city away from it and the desert in search of
the woman called Viamea and the valuable crown she had stolen.
On the side of the city that did not border the desert, the
wilderness was relaxing as Ceda the Warrior rode by. He planned to
catch Viamea before she reached the city lest he have to explain why
he was chasing her to the city guards. He was passing a stream now
and slowed his dragon mount to refill his skin pouch with water;
aside from this, his ride was uneventful.
The next day he had reached the city and still he saw no sign of
the woman. He decided to go into the city and look for her in any
case, reasoning that she may have had a faster horse than he thought.
When he got into the city, he went to a tavern, rented a room
and waited for nightfall.
That night Ceda went through all the taverns until at last he
saw her sitting in a corner talking with another man. Ceda made his
way through the people and grabbed her by the arm.
"Come, demonwoman, I want a word with you." His voice drowned
out by the other people in the bar so that only she and her
companion could hear.
"She's with me," the man across the table stood up to face Ceda.
He was tall but stood an inch under Ceda's height and not as bulky.
"Not any more," he pulled at her harder this time wrenching her
from her seat.
"No!" she yelled and a few people turned to stare. The man now
reached for his sword and swung at Ceda grazing his left forearm.
Ceda threw her at the floor and grabbed at his sword to parry the
next attack by the man. Then he jabbed. The sword slid in between
two of the mans ribs and he lumped to the floor. By this time there
was a crowd in the tavern watching and Ceda wiped his sword on the
mans garments and replaced at his side. Then he faced the woman who
now sat crying against a wall. He grabbed her hair and dragged her
outside and back to the room he had previously rented.
"Now, where is the crown that you took from my pouch! I want
it." He looked into her face and saw that she was now crying even
more than before.
"I don't know where it is now, I was paid to take it by two
elves. Please don't kill me, I didn't know it meant that much to
you," she put her head into her hands and cried again.
"Where are they now?" he asked. She did not answer so he grabbed
her hair and pulled it up until he could see her face. "Where are
they now?" he said again.
"They rode out of the city gate to the North East towards the
Port of Dhernis. Please don't kill me." she replaced her hands over
her face.
Ceda got up and closed the door putting the bar in place. he
walked back to the woman and took her by the hair. She looked up
into his eyes and he smiled at her.
"Are you sure?" His voice was now calm.
"Yes."
"Good," he smiled.
Two hours later, a tall man dressed in black opened the door to
his room in one of the more popular inns and departed for the port
of Dhernis. In the room in several pieces lay the body of a woman.
-Joel Slatis
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FIVE NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
*Kittara Comes to Town Ovis
Ceda the Executioner: 2 Joel Slatis
*Respect thy Elders: 2 Orny
*A New Life John White
Date: 082486 Dist: 155
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the huge, wide, vast,
double-sized issue of FSFnet! This is a very special issue, as we
have some very special Dargon stories - the first stories from three
new authors. The first tale introduces us to Kittara, and the events
that surround her arrival in Dargon. The second story is part 2 of
Joel Slatis' Ceda story (which is, for now, unrelated to the Dargon
project). The third yarn is part two of my own tale about Kite and
Pecora, and their time of trial. And the issue ends with a
king-sized epic by John White, introducing us to Je'en, a very
captivating and deep character who also has been seen hanging around
Dargon Port.
I will cut this short, due to the size of this issue, and simply
state the things I always seem to be saying in these editorials:
welcome to the new members; spread the word to your friends about
FSFnet; if you want to write, mail me; and, finally, enjoy!
-Orny
Kittara Comes to Town
Her name was Kittara Ponterisso, but most folks that knew her
usually called her Crossbow Kitty. She was an expert shot with any
kind of crossbow, because she had to be. Her skill with the crossbow
put food on the table and kept a roof over her head. Kittara's skill
was such that it was easy for her to find work as a bodyguard or a
hunter. Kittara came to Dargon with a purpose. She had been paid to
put her skills to use against a wealthy merchant, a merchant who had
enemies in this world, a merchant who called himself Yan the Yellow
(most people called him Yan the Yellowbellied).
Yan had a son, but he didn't know it. It was this son who had
hired Kittara to find Yan and use her skills to bring about "...a
more equal distribution of wealth," Yan's son had said. Well, that
was fine with her as long as she was paid. What she knew of her
employer was next to nothing, simply the fact that he was the
unknown son of this merchant, and that he wanted his father's wealth
which, according to law, he would receive as inheritance should his
father meet an untimely death. A crossbow bolt was considered an
untimely death.
Kittara was used to larger cities, but didn't mind Dargon for
its size. Dargon was a suitable place to work although it mean more
effort on her part to blend in with the residents. In a town of this
size strangers were often noticed, she would have to take up
residence for a while at least, probably after she had earned her
payment. Yes, that would do. She would pretend that she was the
widowed wife of a royal soldier. Her husband had taught her to
handle a crossbow when they had lived on the frontier, a skill which
was necessary there to protect oneself from bandits and other
nasties. She would be looking for a place to settle down where life
was not so dangerous.
The journey here from the capital had been uneventful. Kittara
was looking forward to the excitement which her mission would bring.
How many times had she gone on similar assignments? Many indeed, but
each still had its own feeling of thrill, each could be her last.
She thought about what she must accomplish. She must locate this
merchant and then watch him, learn his ways. A man could not protect
his life all of the time, thus he must be vulnerable to death sooner
or later.
Although a crossbow quarrel in the throat did not look natural,
there were other ways of disguising a person's cause of demise. Yan
was a merchant with ships, his house was on a cliff facing the sea.
A plan was rapidly becoming clear. Get the merchant to stand on the
edge of the cliff while his ships sailed out, then put a bolt in his
back and he would topple into the sea where his body could be found
(or what remained of it after the sharks had finished feasting) and
turned into the proper authorities. Yan's son could be informed of
the death and he could show up with proof that Yan was his father
and that he was entitled to the proper inheritance.
Kittara rode into town on her faithful Randy, a horse which had
served her for the last three years. Randy was a retired light
cavalry horse, retired because he had been stolen by her from a
scout who had tried to have his way with her. She didn't care that
the scout had been a royal messenger. He wasn't the first soldier to
receive a present from the delivery end of Old Henry, her crossbow.
A few eyes turned in Kittara's direction, but they did not
stare. There were more important and exciting things to see and do
on this last day of the festival than watch some dull woman on a
plodding horse. Kittara did look rather dull, she was not prepared
for the festivities and was tired from her journey. Randy was also
tired and plodded along in hopes that his master would provide him
with a nice bed and food. Kittara scanned the festive crowd and the
buildings along the street looking for a place to stay for the
night. Perhaps she could get a few hours of sleep and then join the
fun; it had been such a long time since she had enjoyed herself.
Presently her glance presented her with a choice: The Hungry Shark
Inn or the Inn of the Panther. Since the Inn of the Panther was a
bit closer she headed for it, praying that it still had a room.
Kittara slid from her saddle, tied Randy to the hitchin' rack,
and entered the brightly lit common room of the Inn. The room was
crowded with people of all ages who were busy celebrating the last
day of their festival. Kittara went over to the bar and asked for a
room. She was given the last room in the inn, she was told, and
should be thankful that she had found one. It cost her a more than
triple what she would normally have considered fair but it was not a
bad room. It was a small private room at the end of the short
hallway on the third floor of the building, roughly furnished, but
suitable for her present needs. She left the room, locking it behind
her, and went to retrieve her saddlebags and care for Randy. Kittara
took Randy to the Inn's small stable, settled him down for the
night, and headed back for a few hours of sleep.
Kittara awoke several hours later with the pain of hunger in her
gut. She rose, donned some fresh clothes and headed down to see if
there was anything left to eat. The festivities were still going on,
but at a more subdued level as those too drunk to make merry had
passed out, and those who were still merry were busy drinking. She
got a plate of food from the bar and headed for a side table where
she might be alone; Kittara would not be comfortable until she had
gotten to know some of the townsfolk, a problem she would begin work
on tomorrow after a good night's sleep.
Kittara finished her dinner and sat back against the cushioned
wall)bench and watched the people of Dargon. There were all types:
poor, rich, merchants, craftsmen, apprentices, masters, warriors,
clerics, thieves, old, young, and in)between. As she took a sip of
her wine she noticed the inn's namesake. Above the fireplace was a
mounted stuffed head of a huge panther. The beast's eyes stared out
over the festive crowd as if they were hungry and resentful,
resentful of being stuck on a wall instead of out in the wilds where
they belonged. Kittara shivered, the head gave her a strange
feeling. She would have to hear the story of the panther, as there
surely must be one connected with so large a beast.
Kittara was not aware of the man until he was standing behind
the chair opposite her bench. He was a short man, dressed in strange
blue and white patterned clothing. He had short black hair and
carried a beautiful pair of swords which were of the kind easterners
often fought with. She had heard stories of weapons such as these,
stories which described them as being so sharp that they would slice
a fresh leaf, floating on a slow moving stream current with only the
slightest touch. She did not feel at all comfortable without Old
Henry. Her boot knife would never do to defend herself should she
need to.
The man smiled and said, "Hellro, may I be pleased to join you?"
Kittara nodded, thinking that the strange)looking foreigner
might also be new to town. The man turned towards the door and held
up a hand to attract the serving wench in order that he might order
a drink when suddenly the huge chandelier that had been hanging over
the common room came crashing down. The chandelier was a great wheel
holding many candles ) it smashed into the middle of the room
crushing several people, destroying tables and benches, and causing
alcohol to burst into flame. People panicked and ran hither and
thither shouting, trying to help, or trying to pilfer what they
could. The little man leaped to his feet without a glance a Kittara
and rushed headlong into the chaos. Kittara grabbed a forgotten
cloak and started beating at some of the flames which were coming
her way. She thanked her god that she had not been any closer to the
center of the room.
It took several hours for order to be restored to the Inn of the
Panther. Luckily the fire had only caused minor damage and the town
guard had arrived quickly so that the pilfering losses were also
slight. Jann, the Innkeeper, had come rushing in from the festival
to see what the problem was in his inn. Jann had noticed Kittara
beating the flames and, upon discovering that she was staying in the
inn, had offered her free room and board for as long as she needed
it in thanks for her efforts. The incident would cost the inn some
business, but the innkeeper was thankful that no one had been killed
in the incident and promised one and all that he would be open again
the following night. Kittara thanked Jann for his offer and climbed
the stairs to her room. Sleep was not long in coming this night and
Kittara faded off into a dreamless slumber. She wondered who had
melted the chain that the chandelier had hung from.
-Ovis
Ceda the Executioner: Chapter Two
Three weeks later Ceda arrived in Dhernis. The city was built
after the fall of the Grandydyrian empire (which was soon after the
strange disappearance of their army in the desert.)
Grandydyr had at one point ruled the world except for the small
islands that lay between the two worldly continents of Cergaan to
the South and Beehnerne to the North. The Island were not populated
largely because of the frequent volcanic eruptions and earth quakes
which devastated the small them until about the time of the that the
empire was defeated and fell.
Until that time, the elves had been living on the Southern
continent of Cergaan (This was not the continent that the desert lay
and Ceda now rode). When the Islands had at last become safe to live
on 10,000 years ago, the elves had moved most of the population
there because it was more secluded and easier to defend. They left
some elves on the continent to maintain a stronghold and since then,
It has grown into a large City populated and run by the elves. The
rest of the continent has been long since forgotten. To this day, no
one but the elves have ever seen the insides of the City of Elves
(as it is called).
Dhernis was also populated mostly by elves. They were mostly in
business for themselves as sailors to and from the Islands of
Learis, but some chose to be mercenaries or just to leave and find
work in other cities throughout the continent.
The city was very busy and there would be almost no chance of
finding Rincraw in the city if he was by chance still there, so he
didn't bother to get a room. That evening Ceda found a sailor who
would permit him to sail back to the Islands with him and also bring
Melgon along for a small price and they left the following morning.
Ceda had slept on the ship that night and he felt very refreshed
when he finally awoke the next morning. They were now sailing
through the open seas towards the Learis Islands where the elves
dwell and the crown was being kept.
The crown would be in the palace and Ceda thought all day about
how he would gain entry to it without anyone knowing. This however
was not Ceda's chief concern for he was an assassin and had to get
into more heavily guarded places than this before. The thing that
most worried him was the problem of getting the crown and escaping
the islands before it was discovered missing.
Dusk came and Ceda went to sleep for the morrow would bring the
Learis Islands and he must rest.
When Ceda woke the next morning, The Islands tall volcanoes
outlines were already visible from the ship. They were so tall that
the tips of them were hidden amongst the clouds. That night they
would dock and the adventure would begin.
The night came quickly and Ceda told the captain to pull into
the harbor of the largest of the 8 isles called Perstanie where the
palace was and dock. The ship glided through the water and at last
Ceda was on land again.
Ceda gave the captain of the ship a small amount of gold and
told him to wait all night if need be for him to return. The captain
nodded and Ceda left the ship for the palace where the crown was
almost certain to be.
The streets were now empty as the night was about half over,
only now and again would the city guards pass by and until they were
gone, Melgon and Ceda hid in the shadows.
The palace now stood before them, its large gate made from some
magical material that lighted the entire area around it. Ceda had
been in the castle many times before because of some of the business
that he had done with the King of the elves. He stood some distance
away from the gate and watched the guards walk up and down the area.
Then he turned walked the other direction away from the gate around
the castle to where it was darker and there were less guards. He
counted the guards and watched as they walked by a final time before
he hoisted himself onto Melgon's back and climbed up the back of its
neck while it picked itself up on its hind legs. Ceda stood on his
dragon mounts long snout and looked down; it was about 12 feet to
the ground and another 2 feet from Ceda's head to the top of the wall.
He jumped up and grasp the top of the wall pulling himself up.
Then he sat for a moment checking that the guards had not heard him
and then continued on to the wall and down the stairs to the palace
grounds. He was in.
Then Ceda made his way to Rincraw's room knocking out the guard
that stood outside and entered.
He went slowly over to the bed and sat down next to it. He
couldn't see and would have to hope that he could feel where the
elf's mouth was before it had time to scream. Ceda didn't even want
to think about what would happen if he was not sleeping alone, but
knew that if he didn't get Rincraw, he would never find the crown.
His thoughts were beginning to annoy him, so he put them out of his
mind. Then he sprang up onto the bed.
Ceda felt one figure under his body and he grabbed for its
mouth. He got it before it had time to scream.
"Good," he said to himself and checked for another person in the
bed. There was no one. By this time the person was squirming and
trying to scream but could not.
"Now Rincraw, I get a chance to repay you for your treachery!"
He tightened his grip on the neck of the elf, but something bothered
him. The elf's skin was soft and smooth, not like that of a male,
but of a-- "By all the lords of Tavaar!" He exclaimed. "You are a
woman!" His voice just loud enough to here.
She tried to speak but could not because of Ceda's hand.
"I'll let you speak, but if you yell for help, I'll not die
alone." He tried to see into here eyes but could not.
He felt her nod and he withdrew his hand from her mouth.
"I am Miratia, Rincraw's wife," she said, trying to see his face.
"Where is he, I have a score to settle with him."
"I know not, for I also seek vengeance upon him."
Ceda looked harder to see her face but could not. Without light
to see her eyes, he could not be sure if she was telling the truth.
"Then we have a common goal," he said. "Where is he?"
"Neither do I know that, he never returned from Pheeng'Am."
"He didn't return?" Ceda grew angered. "Then the wench lied!"
"What?"
"Nothing."
Ceda thought about how he would get out now and finally said to
the elf: "Miratia of Perstanie, do you wish to accompany me to the
great city of Pheeng'Am to find your husband and take your vengeance
upon him?"
"I do."
"Then come now in haste, but quietly," he cautioned.
They got up and left the room. The guard was still where he left
him and all was good. Then Miratia screamed and ran towards one of
the buildings. Ceda started for the wall but the guards were already
upon him before he could get there, so he drew his sword and tried
to fight though them, but Miratia was calling for more guards.
"Tavaar!" he mumbled and lowered his weapon. Then he was led off
and put in a small damp cell in a cave under the castle.
Morning came and Ceda was awakened by two burly looking elves
and led back up to the court of the palace in chains. The king of
the elves sat in the back of the room on a raised platform, all
around the room at regular intervals were armored men and the rest
of the room was filled with nobles and subjects that were just
standing talking with one another while some elven women danced in
the center.
Now the room was quite. Everyone looked at Ceda except for the
women who kept dancing as if nothing was happening.
The king looked over to the women and clapped his hands and at
once they left the room. Then Ceda was led into the room to where
the dancers had been. Still no one spoke but everyone's attention
was focused on the king.
"Greetings Ceda of No-Al Ben, what brings you to my kingdom
again?" Everyone laughed except Ceda who was not at all pleased with
the current turn of events. The king got up and stepped down to
where Ceda stood, his richly colored robe dragged along the smooth
stone floor. "Why I have not had you executed yet I do not know. Is
there anything you wish, now that you stand before me?"
"My argument is not with you King Rackins, but with your servant
Rincraw, who stole Grobst D'arbo's crown from me." Ceda said this
loudly so that all the room heard quite clearly.
The king glanced at one of the other elves who shook his head at
the King. "And, Ceda of No-Al Ben, where did you get such a crown?"
The king mocked.
Ceda told the room his story and at once all the people were
talking about at and arguing whether he spoke the truth. The king
walked to the other elf and spoke with him for a moment quietly,
then he returned.
"Can you prove this?" The king asked as the room again quieted.
"I can not...," he started but remembered the skulls. "I can
prove what you ask," he said. "But I must get to my dragon mount for
what I need."
The king looked at one of the guards at the door and he nodded.
"What is it you require, Ceda of No-Al Ben? We've already found him."
"There is a pouch on the side of the saddle, in it are three
skulls, bring one here."
A messenger soon returned with one of the strange looking skulls
and gave it to Ceda.
"Now look, King of the Elves," he placed the skull in the kings
hand and looked up.
The king examined the skull and looked at Ceda, Then he laughed.
"You play games with me, Ceda of No-Al Ben," he said as he through
the skull to the floor.
"No!" Ceda tried to catch it but the chains held him back and
before anyone knew what had happened, the skeleton stood before them
with his sword in his hand.
Two of the Guards leapt forward and one fell dead from the
skeletons sword. The other swung and hit the skeleton in the
backbone tearing it apart. They all stood and watched thinking the
trouble was over as it came apart into separate bone except for Ceda
who kicked the skull.
"Get the skull," he shouted and the skull flew towards the
already reforming bones only to be caught by the king.
Ceda relaxed. The king looked at Ceda and then back at the weird
looking skull which he now held. The sword and boned were now
nothing more than dust on the floor and the room at one became calm.
The guard that had been killed was taken away and they resumed talk.
"It is a dangerous toy that you keep, Ceda, but one that saved
your life." The king told the guards to take his chains off. Then
they went to the king private chamber with the third elf and talked.
The third elf's names was Merth; he was a wizard and was one of
the closest friends of the king. His worldly experience was far
greater than some of the best warriors in the known world, and this
also added to his usefulness to the king. This for the most part was
why the elf was with them while they talked.
"Well Mirth," the king paused. "What do you think?"
The elf's voice was a high pitched wine at best, "This could
prove to be ample cause for Rincraw and Quendell to betray us if my
suspicions are correct.
Ceda looked curiously at Merth. "What suspicions?"
"I cannot say now, but if I'm to be sure, I must talk with
Sarve, the son of Tain, cousin to Tavaar the Great Overlord.
"You cannot speak of the gods themselves?" Asked the king. "Is
the matter that urgent?"
"the Great Army? Is that your thought?" Ceda interrupted
"Possibly, but it is of great importance that I Make haste to my
chamber. I will journey from there to their realm, for I have felt
that there was a break in the natural order of things."
The little elf got up and bowed low to the king. Then he left.
The king, still totally oblivious as to what had just happened,
looked at Ceda who's face was enigmatic.
"What was that about?"
"The Great Army may yet have it's day," Ceda said. "However I do
not yet understand how or why. This is the information that Merth
seeks from the gods."
"Then what can we do?"
"Wait."
Five days later, the meek elf opened the door from his chamber
and emerged. He was paler than usual and he look perhaps 10 years
older. He went down the stairs of the tower in which his room was
and into the main room of the castle where the king and Ceda sat and
talked as a few Elven women danced for the subjects that were also
in the room.
The king and Ceda both got up as he came in.
"Sit my faithful servant, for I have troubling news for you."
The kings voice was firm, "And you are in need of rest."
"I also carry news, news from the gods. They are displeased for
the King of grandydyr and his army may rise again."
"The Hidden Army may yet walk the earth again?" The Kings voice
changed to worry.
"Aye, my king."
"but why are the Gods not happy for this? How is it possible
that after all these years the, the Gods do not rejoice?" Ceda was
now very confused.
"Sit," said the little elf, Merth. "For this will take some time
to Explain."
The king nodded at a guard by the door to the room and clapped
his hands four times. "Be gone, everyone until later."
"Good," said Merth as they finally sat alone, now I can tell you
of what has happened." And the elf began.
"10,000 years ago, the army of Grobst D'arbo, King of Grandydyr,
left Grandydyr on a mission. This mission was to destroy all evil
that dwelt in the world, from the most southern tip of Cergaan to
the most northern tip of the country of Weuyrt on the northern
continent, or more correctly, any and all beings that were swore
alliance to the evil lords of Endillion.
"The army was the biggest one ever assembled in history and
could have easily completed its task except that the lords of
Endillion called on the Over Lord, Tavaar, to stop them, and they
were granted permission to destroy the army. The Lords of Endillion
sent the Army to Limbo and transformed Grobst D'arbo into a Tree
that would forever live in the desert wasteland.
"Tavaar was enraged by this punishment, he thought it unfitting
and deemed that one day, Grobst would again walk the earth, and it
is very possible that the day has come.
"Grobst may even now be free of his hell tree and be summoning
his army from limbo where they otherwise would live forever."
Ceda looked confused. "But if the army is to destroy all evil,
why were the gods not pleased?"
"They could not say, but they gave me a riddle from the Over
Lord, Tavaar. He toys with them and will not let them tell me openly.
"The riddle?" Ceda asked.
"It goes like this:"
"Black and White forever fight,
And Green is in in between.
But when blue comes in,
Then all is left astray.
And so will come
the night.
White will cover
Black will fight
Blue will help
And so will come
the night.
Ileiruon will come on
Deadly Mount,
Blue and grey will
join,
Sarve will not sit and
wait,
And so will come
the night.
When at last night falls,
Things will be as they were.
On the last night,
All things, know thee well.
And then will come the time
Of the blue and the grey.
And then and only then will
there be day.
Mayhap."
"But Sarve did leave me with a word of warning: If night will
live, only black will there be, as is in every night; white, blue,
grey and all other colors will go unnoticed." Merth looked at Ceda.
"I can not understand it, but it is bad."
"Mayhap I can stop Rincraw before he uses the crown?" asked Ceda.
"Mayhap, but I do not yet even understand why."
"And the riddle, must it go like this, or can we decipher it?"
"Sarve said that the Green Monks that may be of help in that
matter," Merth said. "And he told me how to reach them."
(The dwelling place of the Green monks has always been a secret
known only to the gods. The Green Monks are all knowing. Not even
Tavaar possesses the knowledge they have. It is for this reason that
Tavaar hates them and it is the same reason that he does not destroy
them. He's afraid of their power because he knows not its capability.)
"You know of the place of the Green Monks?" The king was amazed.
"I do, but It is only for Ceda to travel there."
"Where are they?"
"The..." Merth paused. "They dwell in a land only reached by
passing through the Caves of Arnmere."
"And you want me to go there?" Ceda laughed. "I would sooner go
to the Sharshirian mountain alone!" He laughed again. "You jest!"
Merths expression didn't change.
"You surely jest..." Ceda repeated.
Merths expression still didn't change.
"You surely jest.... ?"
"You must go, Ceda."
"Now you speak the truth, I must go; But not to Arnmere. I will
seek Rincraw." Ceda got up and left the room.
The king looked at Merth. "What will happen?"
"The answer lies in Weuyrt, where the caves lay."
Two days later, Ceda the Executioner set sail for the city of
Pheeng'Am in search of the elf, Rincraw and his partner, Quendell.
-Joel Slatis
Respect thy Elders: Chapter Two
Kite slowed his horse as he came upon the peasant village. After
several long days and nights of riding, he was weighted down with
weariness and worry. His trip had begun over a week ago, when his
fiancee, Pecora Winthrop, had fallen ill. Following the advice of
her nurse, mistress Izetta, Kite had ridden west, in search of an
Elder named Isentraum. The journey had not been easy, for it had
rained nearly every afternoon, and Kite's mind was heavy with worry
for his fiancee. Stopping at the crest of a hill, Kite regarded the
small hamlet below. There was no one about in the darkness, but the
lights of several wooden buildings shone warmly, and one large
building bore a weathered sign that was undoubtedly the crest of an
inn, though Kite could not make out the caricature from where his
horse stood.
Kite rode slowly into the village and tied up his horse, peeking
into the inn through a dirty, thick-glassed window. After a moment,
he stepped inside into a low, smoky room filled with peasants. A
great fireplace fogged the room with wood smoke, and several
customers turned to view the newcomer, then returned to their
draughts. Kite strode purposefully to the bar and requested a pint
of stout.
"Right away, milord," responded the barkeep, who, true to his
word, promptly brought Kite a stein, filled to the brim. Kite placed
a Scrod on the counter, which the barkeep quickly snatched away.
"Will there be anything else, milord?"
"Ah, yes, a room for the night... and... uh..."
"Yes, milord?" prompted the barkeep.
Kite pondered. He was in the area where mistress Izetta had said
to search for the Elder, but he had no idea where to begin to look.
Might as well ask someone, and who would be more likely to know than
a barkeep? "Can you tell me anything about a man named Isentraum?"
At the barkeep's reaction, Kite knew he had not asked the right
thing. "Well, milord, not... no, I'm afraid I can't. Ah, excuse me,
sir, let me see to your room..." The barkeep bustled off. It was
obvious that Kite had agitated the man. He turned his back to the
bar and looked around the room, but he found many nearby patrons had
their eyes on him. He made bold to face the group as a whole, but
suddenly a small, wiry man stepped up to him from behind.
"Now, sir," he began softly, as he turned Kite back to the bar.
"You mustn't go stomping about and hollering about old superstitions
in a town such as this. People don't take kindly to it. Now sit down
and drink your stout." After a moment, Kite complied, and soon
afterwards the barkeep returned with a set of keys to Kite's room.
The thin stranger leaned over to Kite and whispered, "Now shall we
go discuss this as it should be, behind a locked door?"
Kite, still rather bewildered, agreed and led the man to his room.
Having recovered his composure, Kite began to question the man.
"Now who are you, and why have you taken me aside like this?"
"My name," began the stranger, "is Palawan. I overheard your
question of the barkeeper, and wished to avoid any violence that
might have come from it. The people of this town are a very
suspicious and superstitious lot. Now," began Palawan, as he settled
in a chair, "why do you wish to find an Elder?"
"That is for me alone to know."
"Ah. Well, then, I fear it is for me alone to know where to find
the one called Isentraum." He made to get up, knowing how Kite's
would respond.
"Very well," Kite began. "I am betrothed to a lady of the House
of Winthrop. She has fallen ill, and I have been told that this
Elder may be able to help her."
"Do you love this girl?"
What kind of question was that? "Of course I do... very much."
"Aah. Then perhaps I can help you. I will guide you to where
this Isentraum lives, and I will present you to him. What follows is
up to him."
The path Palawan had chosen led across the north face of a small
mountain, and Kite found the going very difficult, but he
persevered. He wondered about the small, wiry Palawan. He was
obviously not one of the peasants of the village, but he seemed so
weak that he would not be able to make a fighter or messenger. The
previous evening they had talked while sitting by the fire. Palawan
seemed interested in every detail about Kite and Pecora, and how
Kite thought the Elder might be able to help him. Kite had also
listened as Palawan had told him of his late wife; it seemed to Kite
that Palawan was a very lonely man.
That afternoon, as they approached the crest of the mountain,
Palawan spoke with Kite. "The Elder lives just over this outcropping
of loose stone. It is very dangerous, so be careful."
The two began to climb the loose rock, but Palawan seemed to
make much better speed than Kite. Then Kite saw Palawan slide on a
loose rock, and come tumbling down the slope. Kite knew that the old
man would tumble to his death if he wasn't stopped. Kite danced
toward Palawan as he rolled, and tried to anchor himself. He caught
Palawan's arms and held fast. The old man looked at him with deep
bronze-green eyes and smiled, apparently unhurt, save for minor
scrapes and bruises, and a small wound on his right elbow. They
finished the ascent a little more slowly, and came upon a small hut.
The two approached the hut, and found a figure bent in a garden.
Kite scuffed his feet to make sure the man knew someone was there,
then he stopped. The man slowly stood, tentatively holding his lower
back, and turned. The man who faced him stood somewhat less than
Kite's height, and lank. His coarse black hair framed a long face
with deep, bronze-green eyes. Palawan walked over to the Elder, and
for a moment seemed to occupy the same space, before melding
entirely into the form of the Elder.
"Marquis Kite of the House of Talador, I am Isentraum. I know
the hows and whys of your coming, and I have seen the worthiness of
your soul. Know that am both able and willing to aid your fiancee,
and the price I request is small. There is a rare herb, known as
Elmin. You must bring me as much as you can. You may find it at the
home of a druid named Hartley, who lives outside the village of
Greenmont, two days north of here. Give him my regards. When you
return, I will see to your favor. Go now."
With that, the old man returned to his garden, but Kite couldn't
help but notice the wound on his right arm as he walked off in
search of Hartley the druid of Greenmont.
-Orny
A New Life
What does a Bard do when she can no longer sing?
Two years. Two years was a long time, but not long enough. Never
wouldn't be long enough. Two years since the incident...
It was really her fault. No matter how much she wanted to blame
someone else, the primary fault lay totally with Je'lanthra'en. If
only she hadn't been so proud, so sure her status would provide as
much protection as a full phalanx of Baranur's army. Bards were very
respected, but, in the black of night, where no one else could see,
even a Bard could be attacked.
Je'en had been in Magnus for an annual meeting of the College of
Bards. She had stayed out late one night, and, in deciding to take
the fastest way to her lodgings, had set her horse onto one of the
three "tunnels" that led thru the Fifth Quarter - the sometimes
called Thieves' Quarter: really the slums of the city. The "tunnels"
- the only properly-wide, glow-globe lighted, patrolled (if
irregularly) streets in that Quarter, the light creating a 'tunnel'
of safety thru the darkness and danger of that Quarter - were the
safest way thru the Fifth Quarter during the day. But, midway
between the dark of the night and the first light of day, nowhere
within the boundaries of the Fifth Quarter was safe. Je'en felt,
however, that her green cloak and hood, the silver-embossed leather
harp case on her back, and the harp on yellow on green of her
horse's trappings would ward off any evil-doers: not only was a Bard
the most respected non-Royalty possible, but there were rumors (not
unfounded) that some Bards could do magic! Je'en couldn't, but no
one else could know that. She felt herself so safe, that she didn't
even make sure her sword was limber in its sheath, and ready to draw
- in fact Leaf-killer was peace-bonded into its sheath because the
Inn she had been at had required that precaution.
Totally unconcerned with the shadows beyond the meager
illumination on the "tunnel" she had chosen, Je'en was caught off
guard by a shape that hurtled out of the darkness and knocked her
from her horse. She hit the ground hard, but managed (by luck) to
land on her attacker, so she was able to recover quicker than he.
She was on her feet, cloak back, and Leaf-killer out and ready, by
the time the man in tattered clothing (but a nice and shiny sword)
was able to face her. Unfortunately, he had some friends with him -
five to be exact. Self-protection was a skill all had to learn in
this semi-civilized world, and Je'en could protect herself, but not
as well as some (due mostly to the demands of her profession - she
spent more time perforce at singing and harping than at
sword-drill), and not well at all against six determined vagabonds,
attracted by her rich trappings, and emboldened by their numbers.
She put up a good fight - she actually incapacitated two of them,
killing at least one - but they knew what they were doing. She felt
an iron point score her cheek perilously near her right eye, and she
was temporarily blinded by frighteningly profuse blood. Then,
another sword scored on her leg, slicing into her thigh and buckling
it. And, almost simultaneously, another edge caught her under her
right bracer, cutting deeply into her right wrist, causing her to
drop Leaf-killer as she sank to the ground.
Helplessly unarmed, and weak from pain and blood-loss, Je'en
watched as her horse was looted of the few resaleable goods she had.
Irritated by the meager haul, the leader of the ruffians turned on
Je'en, and noticed her fine green cloak and the harp. She was
relieved of those, and the few items of personal jewelry she wore
(including the pendant of her Rank in the College), and it was
harder for her to see her harp, Soft-Winds, in the hands of the
thieves than the thought of her battle-loss was. Until the attention
of the leader was turned on her person.
"Pretty," said the leader. "A little more money from the
slavers, to make up for the trouble we've had wit' you." His leer
was pure evil.
"She'll take too much time, be too much trouble, Skar!" said one
of the survivors. "I know someone'll give us 5 Crowns for this 'ere
neck-chain - 'e needs it for a job 'e's got: 'personatin' a Singer,
it is. Five Crowns's more'n we'd get fer her and all the rest o' her
stuff, plus she killed Han, and probably Charet, too. Let's kill
'er, Skar! Real slow like, too."
Skar was a man of action, but he knew his men well enough to
listen to them. Five Crowns was more than the skinny girl would
fetch, and the fact that she was a Bard, a Singer in the slang,
could complicate matters. So, he decided. He drew his knife, and
knelt next to the ever weakening Je'en. Then, casually, he placed
the knife to her throat, and slashed quickly and cleanly.
The new pain pushed Je'en over the edge. As blackness closed
over her mind, she felt herself being dragged into the shadows at
the edge of the "tunnel", heard some rude comments about what they
were going to do to her before she cooled down too much, and then
there was an odd honking noise just before the blackness claimed her.
The 'honking' had been the Quarter's Early Warning System. It
signaled a patrol, and said it was close. Skar was forced to leave
Je'en behind, but he was long gone, with all the loot, by the time
the patrol found the wounded Bard.
The City Patrol, while in existence to keep order, also did its
best to help people in need, when such aid wasn't directly
dangerous. So, when Je'en's body was found, a stretcher was
fashioned, and four of the patrol escorted her to the nearest Healer.
Magnus, like most cities of the Realm, licensed its healers,
insuring a minimum level of competency in the healing craft. But,
some Healers bearing the gold-covered, city-seal-embossed, iechyd
leaf (a simple pain-alleviating remedy when boiled in water) in
their front windows were little more than potion-mixers, having no
magickal knowledge whatsoever. Of course, the Court had claim to the
best of the healers, but the other Healers thruout the city had no
rating other than the gold leaf of minimum ability. Advertising by
word of mouth generally led people to the best Healers, but the
Patrol didn't have time for such shopping around. The moved rapidly
thru the well lighted streets of the merchant quarter looking for
the nearest gold leaf they could find. Of course, had they known she
was a Bard, they would have made best speed to the Castle - a Bard
was 'royalty', and would be treated as such.
The healer living in the house they found was irritated at being
awakened in the middle of the night, but when he saw Je'en, he shut
up (after a short utterance in plea of aid) and went to work.
The healer, unfortunately, was a potion-mixer. He knew three
chants of healing: two to ease minor back-pain, and one to stop
bleeding in the head area - i.e. only one of particular use. But he
did know his herbs and potions, and he used his knowledge swiftly
and surely to save Je'en's life. But, he just didn't know enough of
the craft to return her to her former full health.
When her life was no longer in danger, she was taken to a
recovery-house. All but the most wealthy of healers operated from
their homes, which usually didn't have enough room to house patients
who required extended care. So, there were the Recovery-houses,
large dormitory-style hostels where patients could receive the care
necessary to help them to recover.
She wasn't there long. Only four days, during which time she was
unconscious, her body healing itself as best as it could with the
help of various potions prescribed by her Healer. When she woke up,
finding herself within the easily recognizable curtained-walled bed
of a recovery-house, she called out - painfully and not very loudly
- for an orderly. When one came, she said, "Rydw i Canur." The words
were barely recognizable, and they hurt her throat like swallowing
fire, but the peculiar resonance inherent in the almost-magical
phrase conveyed their meaning, and the orderly went hurrying after
someone in charge.
Shortly thereafter, she was transferred to the Castle, and the
care of the Royal Healer, Master Enowan. He immediatly set about
implementing further healing using the more powerful magicks at his
command, but he was too late to be must help. Once the body accepts
a pattern of health, it takes massive magic to change that pattern.
Most normal healing serves to help the body restore its normal
pattern. But in the case of traumatic injury, special healing is
necessary to force the body to survive, and thereby create a new
life-pattern. Such had been done to Je'en, and not even the skills
of Master Enowan could reverse the process now - it had been too
long, and Je'en's life pattern had accepted tha injury to her throat
and wrist as natural. Enowan was able to eradicate the scar on her
leg, but he could only smoothe out the scar on her face, make it a
little less ragged, and heal it as far as it would go. The damage to
her throat - her windpipe, and therefore her voice - was
irreparable, as was the damage to her wrist.
When she awoke from the healing sleep that master Enowan had
placed her in, she found herself in a private recovery room within
the Castle, with an apprentice healer attending her. As soon as she
was fully awake, the apprentice raced off to get Master Enowan.
While she was alone, Je'en tried out her voice and then her hand.
Her throat still burned a little, feeling a bit like an incipient
cold just lingering at the back of her throat and tickling her with
an unreachable itch. But, when she coughed to relieve the itch, it
set her whole throat to such aching that she strove to ignore the
minor discomfort to avoid the major pain.
When she looked at her hand, the only evidence of injury was a
small diamond of scar tissue at the center of both sides of her
wrist. But, when she tried to flex her fingers, she found that she
had almost no fine control over them - she could bend them all
together, but not one at a time. And, when she reached for the
pitcher at her bedside to pour herself a cup of water, once she was
able to grasp the handle, she found that she couldn't lift it. There
was absolutely no strength in her hand at all.
Totally dispirited, she sank back on her pillows to await the
Master healer, already afraid of what he would say.
Master Enowan arrived, smiling the false-and-not-very-reassuring
smile of a healer, and took her pulse at her throat and left wrist.
Then, after lifting her eyelids to look at her eyes, he crossed his
palms an inch above her chest, and closed his eyes. His hands began
to glow, and Je'en knew that he was examining her deeply, the way
only the best calibre of Healers could.
When his hands stopped glowing, Je'en said, "So, how am I,
Master Enowan?"
The healer opened his eyes, and said, "Alive, and as well as can
be expected."
"But, what about my...my voice, and my hand? Will they heal?"
"I'm afraid not, Je'en. The scar on your voice box will never be
gone, tho it will stop hurting shortly. And your hand will never be
as dextrous as it once was, tho it, too, will recover some. I...I'm
sorry, Je'en, but there wasn't anything more we could do. We tried..."
Je'en's eyes closed on her tears. She knew, somewhere deep down,
that she would never sing again. When she was pronounced fit, she
would go to the local College, and get tested, but she was sure she
would fail. And, when you've been one thing all your life, how do
you change?
Two weeks later, the verdict was in. She could no longer sing,
and her voice was deemed unsalvageable. She could no longer play,
and her hand was also deemed unsalvageable. The Masters of the
College ruled that she could remain a Bard if she so chose - but she
did not.
She stood in the anteroom waiting for the Hall of Ceremonies to
be prepared. The Ceremony of Leaving was seldom performed, and there
were special preparations to be made. She wore her finest tunic and
breeches, and a new green cloak, and Rank pendant. The sword at her
side wasn't Leaf-killer, and the harp on her back wasn't Soft-Winds,
but she would never see those artifacts again anyway. These
replacements had been given to her out of the stores of the College,
tho she would only be keeping the sword after today. It was a fine
weapon, well crafted without being showy, and she was glad to have
it (but it couldn't replace Leaf-killer, that had been in the family
since her father's father's father's mother's time). She was in all
ways prepared for the ceremony - her lines were memorized with a
Bard's meticulous skill, and she had steeled herself not to get
emotional (at least not under the eyes of the whole College).
Finally, two journeymen bards opened the great doors of the
Hall, and beckoned her to enter. She did so, and began walking down
the aisle formed by the huge, floor-to-ceiling Screens of Privacy -
intricately carven wooden screens that narrowed the vast hall to a
small lane that led from the doors to the Dias at the far end.
Behind the Screens, the whole College-in-attendance was gathered,
silent and mourning for the loss of a sister.
As Je'en walked the aisle, she looked up at the huge escutcheon
that hung behind the Dais. The blazon ran thru her mind - Vert, a
bend or, over all, a bard Harp, proper: the green background for
the World that was the Bard's home, the gold diagonal stripe for the
allegeance the College paid to the kingdom of Baranur, and the Harp
that signified their profession. She would miss being under the
protection of that proud coat-of-arms.
She reached the steps to the Dais, and mounted the leftward ones
as was proper (normally, the rightward steps accessed the dais, but
she was leaving, so it was reversed for her). The two journeymen
waited at the steps until she was on the Dais, then they turned, and
walked back down the aisle and out, closing the doors behind them.
Je'en was alone on the Dais save for the Master of the College
in Magnus, Master Heagn. The somewhat old man still had a fine voice
for all his years, and his hands were as sure as a new journeyman's
on his harp. He looked fondly on Je'en, and sadly, too. Tho Leavings
weren't totally unheard of, usually the Leaver was one who had made a
bad choice early in life, and found the College not quite right for
them, or something came up that changed their lives in a happy way,
and led them away from the College. The tragic nature of Je'en's
Leaving was accentuated by the fact that, in Heagn's estimation, she
had had the potential to one day become the Master of the College.
When the doors were closed, the Ceremony began. Je'en advanced
to the podium standing between herself and Master Heagn. On the
podium was the Crystal of Oathes, an Artifact as old as Bards
themselves, on which all promises within and to the College were
made. Je'en placed her hands on the conic, multi-faceted, clear
Crystal, and said, "Rydw i Canur," which meant 'I am a Bard' in the
ancient language of the first Bards ever. As the words' resonance
filled the chamber, she could feel the vibration travel down her
arms and into the Crystal, which, after a moment began to glow
softly, infusing her hands and arms with a pearly opalescence, and
soothing the ache that still lingered in her throat when she spoke.
Master Heagn then said, "Je'lanthra'en, Journeyman of the Eighth
Stave, you and I have met here to dissolve your allegiance to the
College of Bards. Is it your intention to continue with this course?"
Swallowing from more than the discomfort of her throat, Je'en
said, "Yes, Master Heagn."
"Then let it be known that Je'lanthra'en is leaving of her own
accord, and her own choice. Should circumstances change, or any aid
ever be needed, the doors of this College, and all other Colleges
united in the fellowship of all that is Bardic, shall not close
their doors unto you, and readmittance will never be barred from you.
"Now, return unto me the symbols of your former calling." Je'en
took her hands away from the Crystal, but they continued to glow.
She swiftly slipped off the harp's strap, and handed it to Master
Heagn. If it had been hers, as had Soft-Winds, she would have been
able to reclaim it from him after the ceremony, but she would leave
this one with the College. She next unfastened her cloak, and handed
it also to the Master Bard. And, lastly, she took off the chain that
bore her Rank. That Master Heagn also took, and Je'en returned her
hands to the Crystal.
"Now, say the words that will release you from your vows and set
you free of us and our ways," said Master Heagn.
Je'en hesitated, swallowed again, and finally said, "Didw i ddim
Canur." meaning 'I am not a Bard.' And the glow of the Crystal
faded, finally going out. She felt a slight push against her hands
as the Crystal emphasized her apartness now, and she lifted them
from its surface. Oddly, she didn't feel any different - but maybe
that was because she had long since accepted the fact that she was
leaving, and this was just the confirmation of that fact.
Master Heagn offered her his hand before bidding her farewell,
and as she descended the rightward stairs, those behind the Screens
began a minor key chant of parting that did more to bring on her
tears than the actual ceremony had. She was now, finally, on her
own, no longer a Bard, and no longer protected like one, either.
What was she to do?
Revenge was the first thing she thought of. Those six thieves
had ruined her entire life. Two had already paid for it, but there
were four more to catch, and torture, and eventually kill.
But, Je'en wasn't vengeful. Another might have taken out at
least a little frustration on that first healer who hadn't known
enough to save her life as it had been before the accident. But she
knew that it wasn't his fault, and she sent him a gold arm-band she
had been given once for stopping a revolt in one of the western
duchies by satirizing the upstart so well, and so scathingly, that
his followers all left him, laughing. The arm-band was enough
payment for a years worth of bone-setting, and ache-curing, and
ague-warding for a wealthy family, and the healer immediatly moved
into a better neighborhood (one not so close to the Fifth Quarter)
after thanking her for such a generous gift.
So, since revenge, as such, was really out of the question, she
decided to join the city guard, and help protect others from what
had happened to her. But there was one problem. She wasn't a very
skilled fighter, and what she knew applied to right-handed
techniques, which she could no longer use, of course.
She had heard about a training school outside a little village
to the northwest run by a retired adventurer who had quite a name as
both an adventurer and as a teacher. It was said that those who
survived his school were the best swordsmen around. His fee was high
enough that he wasn't inundated by students, and his policy of a one
week trial period to determine trainabilty, after which one could
be rejected without a refund, kept the idle rich from cluttering up
his practice yard.
Je'en had a lot of money - she had kept most of it at the
College in Magnus, and of course it had all been returned to her
when she left. So, hoping she had the talent to go with her money
and drive, she packed up and headed north-west. Besides, she
thought, even if I'm not accepted, I'll be two-thirds the way to
Dargon, where my brother Kroan, lives. I could always just keep on,
and pay him a visit - haven't seen him in years.
The School of Lord Sir Morion was quite impressive. It was set
ten miles from the village of Tench, in the forest that covered most
of the area. It looked like a citadel from the outside - massively
walled, with great square towers at each of the five corners, and a
huge ironwood drawbridge to span the fifty-foot deep, twenty-foot
wide chasm that surrounded it. The drawbridge was down, and the
portcullis up when Je'en arrived in the afternoon. The forest was
cleared for a mile on all sides of the citadel, and the clearing was
filled with activity - several neatly-planted fields were being
tended to; one of three oval tracks was being used to race horses,
and another hosted a foot race. Elsewhere, there were roped-off
squares wherein two, and sometimes more, people fenced with wooden
swords, and all manner of other weapons. From the number of people
around that she could see, Je'en hoped that Sir Morion's school
wasn't filled.
She stopped by one of the roped enclosures, and watched the two
people fencing within. They seemed very good as judged by her
knowledge: they at least put on a good show. Finally, one of them,
in all-black armor with a very stylised gryphon painted on the
breastplate and wicked-looking silver trim around the eyeslits of
his helm, executed a slashing backhand that caught his opponent in
the side. Action stopped, and then the one in tattered blue slumped
across the other's sword as if slain. He layed on the ground for a
minute, then rolled over and sat up, took the hand offered him, and
got helped to his feet. Both men removed their helms and began
discussing the finer points of the battle.
Je'en caught the attention of one of the similarly armored young
men around the ring, and asked, "Where can I find Sir Morion, please?"
"O, din tye know? Tha' one, in ta black. Tha's t'Lord o' tis
place, miss. An' t'oter one, tha's Ironfist. Goin to graduate soon,
'e is. Real soon. Gonna miss 'im, too. Come on, lemme int'r'duce you
to 'em both. Foller me, now, quick. Tey get away and a' talking, tey
won't be back 'fore supper."
Je'en followed the rather jovial, if hard to understand, fellow
over to where the two combatants were talking away while two younger
men removed their armor. Je'en's guide stepped right up to them, and
said, "Hey, 'Fist, Bull, great match, eh? I bet you'll beat the Bull
before ya leave, 'Fist - i know ya can do it! Yer gettin' beter
every day! O, hey guys, this here little lady was askin' after ya,
Bull. I'll leave ya to 'er: almost my turn in the ring. Bye, now."
"Take care, Kyle," said the man who was still wearing black even
tho his armor was all in a neat little pile at his feet. "And watch
March's third-return: remember the counter I showed you." He turned
to Je'en and said, "Hello. My name is Morion, but most of my
students call me Bull. How do you do."
Je'en shook his hand, and gazed at the man. He was tall, and
full-bodied, with broad shoulders, and a thick chest, arms and legs.
His hair was raven-black, his face handsomely aristocratic, and he
had the oddest eyes she had ever seen - they were ice-grey, so light
that there seemed to be something wrong with them.
She said, "I'm fine, Sir." Her throat had ceased hurting by now,
but her voice was still a bit gravelly, and she still swallowed
a lot. "I was wondering whether you have room for one more student in
your school, Sir. I...I have had to leave by previous profession,
and I thought perhaps I could be a guardsman, or a mercenary, or
something, now.
Morion looked at Je'en carefully. She was rather tall for a
girl, and she was in rather better condition than average. She
obviously wasn't some maid, or tavern-girl, out to make something of
herself. And then there was that terrible scar across her face. She
had a history, and a reason to come here. "You know the rules?"
"One week trial, fee in advance and non-refundable."
"Yes. Well, if you have the money to spend, I'll take you in.
Either Ironfist here, or myself will work with you each day, and you
will know whether we will let you stay seven days from now. I'll
show you to your temporary quarters - if you'll follow me?"
The next week wasn't what she had been hoping for. She had
practiced while traveling from Magnus, trying to get used to using
her left hand to fence with, but it hadn't been easy. And, she
appeared truly clumsy when she was sparring, especially since either
Ironfist or Morion was usually her partner. She refused to explain
anything about herself to them, tho, at least before she was
accepted, and so they let her try to fight with what was obviously
her off hand. But, she did her best at everything she was told to
do, and that included some of the other work around the school, as
well as running, jumping, climbing, and horse-back riding (which she
was rather good at, even left handed).
By the end of her trial period, she was sure she would be
heading on to Dargon the next day, minus about half of her
accumulated wealth. She hoped there were plenty of jobs for an
unskilled wench in Dargon - she didn't want to live on her savings,
and they wouldn't last all that long, anyway.
Still, she was out in her practice armor and wooden sword, a
wooden shield strapped to her arm in such a way that her wrist
didn't come into play when moving it, and faced off against Sir
Morion (she couldn't bring herself to call the man Bull - it just
didn't fit him, tho she was sure that he had a good reason for
keeping such a nickname). She had learned a few things in her week,
and she wasn't quite so clumsy anymore. She had a good stance, and a
good grip on the sword, as well as one good power-shot that was,
unfortunately, all too easily blocked.
They sparred, her sword-and-shield against Morion's single-sword
(at which he was a master). She held her own, tho Morion was keeping
his attacks down to a good novice level. She kept her eyes on his
sword, and not on the distraction of his helm and its decoration,
and she moved her whole body in response to his movements - the
"rooted" technique was for superior strength or skill, and speed was
one of her advantages. By the end of the match, she was sweating
(tho Morion was as dry as an old bone) but feeling very good about
herself, and how she had done.
She removed her helm, and, more slowly, the rest of her armor
(she didn't rate personal squires). As she did, she saw Morion, out
of his armor, Ironfist, and the ten other farthest along students
come her way. 'This is it - time to get told to leave' she thought,
and her good feelings vanished like smoke in a good wind.
Morion stopped before her, and the others gathered around her.
He said, "Je'lanthra'en, you have been here your seven days. What do
you think of your performance in that time?"
Je'en said, "Sir, I really cannot answer that. Firstly, I am
rather too prejudiced to judge my own fitness, and secondly, I am no
judge of skill in any case. I...I think that I tried hard, but...was
probably not good enough to be taught here."
Morion wore a thoughtful expression thruout Je'en's little
speech, and he said when she was finished, "Well, judge or not, some
of what you said is true. You did try hard. And, we are judges, and
we all think that you may someday make a very fine fighter, and an
even better one if you train here, with us."
Je'en's elation was echoed in Morion's twinkling eyes as she
jumped up and down, and flung her arms around him. After being
hugged for a long time, he disentangled himself from her, and said,
"Put those things back on - you're doing first and second drill for
at least two hours: we've got to strengthen up that left arm of
yours. Go, get busy, you're my pupil now, and I don't like
slackards!" There was no sting in his voice, tho, and neither of
their smiles lessened a bit as he helped her back into her armor.
The first thing she did, once she was accepted, was have a suit
of practice armor made for her. She did that for two reasons -
first, the loaner set she had been using, while adequate protection,
didn't fit very well, and looked really silly; and second, she had
an obstacle to overcome aside from her awkwardness: one of pity. All
during her trial week, only Ironfist and Morion had treated her as
an equal, testing her fairly and objectively. The other students,
after seeing the scar on her face, and the way clumsy way she used
her left hand, began to feel sorry for her, and treated her very
gently, like china. So she decided to build for herself an image
that would make the others forget about her disabilities. Thus: her
new armor, flashy-green, ornamented, daunting in aspect, and another
addition - a silver half-face mask to match the one on her helm, and
which she never removed except to sleep (and only when alone). It
didn't take long for the students to replace the 'poor thing' image
she had with that of the formidable 'Green Blade' (as she came to be
known, which was sometimes shortened to 'Greeny').
And so the months passed, almost unnoticed. She was finding that
learning to fight was hard, but also exciting. And, once she got
used to using her left hand (which did take a while), she was good
at it. She became Morion's star pupil, and the darling of the
school. There were few women in training there, but that didn't
affect her status - rather she attracted a following of the same
type as Ironfist had: people who were inspired by her ability, and
wished her well for it.
There was more to do than fight, too. There was the other
training; physical fitness, riding, and such, skills to compliment
that of the sword (or other chosen weapon). There were the chores -
tending the garden that helped feed the school, keeping the citadel
clean and in good repair, keeping the practice armor and weapons in
good repair, too. And, aside from work, there was fun, too. She
learned some games, and listened to stories that the others told
(tho she steadfastly refused to tell any of her own). She learned
that the citadel was the ancestral home of Lord Morion, and that its
name was Pentamorlo. Many were the tales of that House, and, tho she
burned to tell some that only she seemed to know, she kept to her
resolve not to, fearing to venture anywhere near the realm of Barddom.
Of all the people - teachers, students, and servants - at
Morion's school, she told only three her full story. Two were
Morion, and Ironfist, and she told them for their kindness to her,
and so that they would know her well enough to trust her, and maybe
to like her. Both were sympathetic to her pain and sorrow, without
being pitying. The third was a young man named Timirin, who was
usually called Oak. He had been Ironfist's student, and was near
'Fist's equal when she arrived. Came the time for Ironfist to
graduate, Oak sort of took his place. He took over teaching Je'en,
going at her own pace, but never going easy. In time, they grew
close, as she never had to anyone as a Bard, who usually felt too
far removed from other people, and too busy to cultivate a
relationship with fellow Bards. But, she was free of that, and
Timirin was handsome, intelligent, and an excellent swordsman. It
was easy to fall in love with him, if love it was. And, one night
when they were alone in one of the towers, and he began to get a
little over eager, she told him her story. If that had been meant to
scare him off; it failed. They became faster friends, then lovers.
But, they were not in love. Eventually, it was time for Oak to
leave, and there wasn't enough between them to persuade Je'en to go
away with him. He had helped her immensely, tho, giving her
confidence in herself as her skill grew, and she thanked him for
that, and then said farewell.
She was a very fast learner. By the end of her first year, her
reflexes had been retrained, and her left hand was now as capable as
had been her right. She had all the basic moves of sword-and-shield
and single-sword combat drilled into her until they were second
nature. And she had begun to learn special defenses and attacks -
those things that lifted an ordinary fighter into the realm of the
special. She learned the 'rooted' technique, wherein one planted
oneself in one spot, and tried to draw strength from the earth
itself to protect and to attack. She also learned the 'lightning'
technique, where one stayed in one place as little as possible. That
was a variation of what she had originally learned, but there were
subtleties that turned mere swiftness of foot into deadly force. And
there were other techniques, some named for a phenomenon of nature
that they resembled, some named for the person who invented it, or
made it famous. Some were strictly for defense, some only for
attack, some for certain special conditions, some to be used at all
times, even with other styles and techniques. She also learned to
use several other weapons well, tho not expertly - mace, staff,
polearm: she was limited in the use of two handed weapons, of
course, and a second hand weapon as well, which was why she
concentrated on the simple sword, and shield. Eventually, the shield
had to go, because of the time it took to put it on properly with
her bad hand, so she became even more expert in single sword. By the
time she ws ready to graduate, she could hold her own in single
combat, even against Morion's famed double-sworded 'Windmill', and
in a melee, alone against up to three, and more if she had someone
or something to protect her back. All in all, in just under two
years, she had become a most accomplished Swordswoman, and when she
graduated form Morion's school, she went with all honors, and the
well wishing of all in Pentamorlo.
Before she left, she discussed her plans with Morion. She told
him that she intended to return to Magnus, and join the city guard.
Morion said, "That is a noble idea, but perhaps not a good one. You
have spent months here creating for yourself a new life, and have
been very successful, too. Magnus can only hold bad memories."
"What else is there, then?" she asked.
"Well, for starters, you could stay here and teach."
Je'en smiled, and shook her head.
"Okay, okay. I know it gets a little dull around here, and you
want to do something with your youth. Why don't you go visit your
brother in Dargon? That is a good city for adventure - you could
join its guard, or hire out with a caravan, or on an exploring ship.
There's plenty to do in a frontier city like Dargon. And, if you
find nothing, well, you'll have had a nice visit with family, and
you can move on, even back to Magnus. But give something different a
try, first. It'll be good for you."
And, Je'en took his advice. When the ceremony of her graduation
was over, she mounted her packed and ready horse, and rode away from
Pentamorlo to the northwest, and Dargon.
-John White
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SIX NUMBER ONE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
For the Pot Jim Owens
*Spirit of the Wood: 3 Rich Jervis
Father's Fugue Jim Owens
*Respect thy Elders: 3 Orny
Date: 100686 Dist: 166
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Greetings, and welcome to the first issue of volume 6 of FSFnet!
I am your host, Mr. Pourke, and he is Fattoo...
Ah, yeah. Sorry about that. You know, school and all. The first
(serious) order of business is to welcome the new subscribers. Keep
spreading the word! Secondly, I'm once again attempting to organize
BITNET Diplomacy games, and anyone interested should get in touch
with me before yesterday. Thirdly, I'd like to make a comment about
another fanzine. GateWays is an Arpa fanzine, and is available by
sending mail to CHUQ%PLAID@SUN.ARPA. Finally, I'd must say that
since school is back, so are several of our best authors, and I'm
*sure* (right guys?) they will be more productive than ever.
Well, I must keep this short. Thanks to everyone for being so
patient. On to the good stuff...
-Orny
For The Pot
Wolf climbed slowly up the hill. The hill was gentle, but Wolf
had been walking all day, and while he wasn't tired, he wasn't
exactly fresh either. As he walked he thought of the village he had
just come from, and the destruction his quarry had caused back
there. It had attacked several people's herds, killing or wounding
over one hundred animals in the tight flocks. Before that it had
performed similar deeds in several villages in a roughly straight
line extending for many miles. The toll in dead animals was high. He
felt no anger at that, only empathy for the owners at having lost so
much. He did not blame his prey; it was its nature to kill.
Nonetheless, it was a danger, and had to be destroyed.
He topped the gentle rise, and looked out at the plain that
spread for hundreds of miles behind him. He then looked across the
top of the hill. An old road ran across the top of the hill in a
shallow depression. Tall grass blurred its outline. He remembered
coming this way once before, in his travels, and he came this way in
hopes of catching up with his target. It had not been traveling in
this direction when it had left the village, but its path would
cross the road after several miles, if it traveled straight, and
when it did it would follow the road to him. To be sure, however, he
carefully examined the road. The tracks would be faint, but he was
good at tracking; he would find them, if they were there. He hoped
he wouldn't find any. He groaned when, after a few minutes, he found
traces in the earth; it had beaten him to t he hill. He followed the
tracks, trying to figure out where it would have gone after it left
the hill. He tried to think like his prey.
The hill was part of an outcropping that rose up out of the
plain to form a ridge running several miles to the right as he
looked along the tracks. The hill was a reentrant, near one end. The
old road ran down the other side of the hill, and skirted around the
near end of the ridge a few miles distant. His prey would follow the
road around the ridge. If he could get over the ridge, he could wait
on the road ahead of his quarry, and set an ambush for it.
Wolf's thoughts drifted as he jogged across the saddle toward
the ridge. He thought how nice it would be to be home, watching his
corn grow, watching his flocks grow, watching his children grow. How
he missed his wife! Wolf often wondered if he shouldn't have learned
a different way to put meat on the table. He hardly ever got to see
his family. He had spent the last half of his life living out of a
backpack. He ran as he thought, hardly heeding where he was going.
He had no need to fear. There were few large animals in the area. He
was hunting the only thing that would hurt him.
Soon he was scrambling down a small rockslide to where the old
road was visible beneath years of dead grass. He made a quick
survey: no tracks. He was finally ahead of it. He glanced in the
direction it would be coming from. The ridge had another reentrant
here, and the road curved out of sight a few hundred yards away. He
quickly set his trap, and hid in the grass to wait for his prey.
As he lay, he counted. He had made five kills in the past year.
Hunters were not plentiful in these peaceful years after the last
blowup, and nobody wanted their son to be a hunter. The random
killers were few and far between anymore, and the occupation of
hunter was a dangerous one. Often a hunter would get called off to a
far village, never to return. Another factor was that no one really
wanted a neighbor who's occupation was such a violent one. It was a
bad influence for the children. The job needed to be done, however,
and the bounty was always enough to pay for the things the house
needed, and perhaps a few things the wife wanted, but didn't really
need. Soon he would have to think about getting Greta, his eldest
daughter, a few baubles to teach her the appreciation of feminine
values. Luxury items were expensive in the village he lived in.
Fortunately, as the prey became scarcer, the reward became higher.
He planned to make a good deal selling this catch, if he got it.
A faint sound brought him out of his musings. He had planted the
trap at the very end of the reentrant, just on his side. He was as
far from it as the trip cord would allow. The sound grew louder. It
deepened, and then he saw his prey come around the bend.
Grey plates glinted dully, while tank treads spun almost
silently, barely marking the ground. The noise he had heard was
coming from the ancient drive unit. Blue smoke, almost invisible,
blew fast out an exhaust port. The flat turret pointed straight
ahead, its recently fired gun showing considerable rust. Several
scanning devices protruded from the remote's surface. One was
smashed, possibly by an ill-fated hunter who hadn't aimed carefully
enough. Wolfgang wasn't taking any chances. It rolled in front of
the concealed weapons, and he squeezed hard on the firing device.
Piezoelectric crystals sent a burst of voltage down the line, and
two flashes of flame answered. Two rockets leaped the short distance
from the roadside to the side of where they seemed to disintegrate
into handfuls of dust, which blew away in a sudden wind. Actually
they had fired armor piercing warheads through the plate. Wolf
pulled the wire out of the trigger and shoved in a backup, but there
was no need. The tank rolled a short distance, and then the engine
stopped, dead.
Wolf waited, but the tank remained motionless. He got up, dusted
himself off, and walked over to the carcass. He opened the access
hatch, and examined the damage. His timing had been perfect. The
missiles had destroyed the main controller, while basically leaving
the rest of the device intact, ripe for salvage by a parts-hungry
world. He closed the hatch, laser-sealed it, and burned his brand
into the side of the tank, in plain view. He then turned and started
the long but pleasant walk back to his family.
-Jim Owens
Spirit of the Wood: Chapter Three
Loric thought it was strange to return to the empty hut that up
until this morning he shared with his grandfather. He looked at the
lifeless structure and felt the shadows of despair creep upon his
heart. There was no real use in becoming a man, he thought bitterly,
for even if he could do everything that the elders wanted of him, it
still wouldn't bring back Oldsir!
"I passed the ropemaking and firestarting tests today," he
thought to himself, "even made my own evening meal from a rock snake
that I found under one of the logs. But what good is it? I began
this day a boy with a family; I end it a near-man with little
family, and in three day's time, even my sister won't acknowledge me
as kin." Loric decided that being a man was lonely work. He entered
the hut, and for a moment he started, thinking he saw Oldsir's
shadow on the wall where the cooking fire always cast it this time
of day. He could hear the floor creak as his grandfather rocked back
on his heels, satisfied that the coals were banked just right. He
would turn like a sighted man, and give Loric a wink and toss his
head toward the table and say something like "Shuck-ears and crabs,
burnt the way you like 'em." Then he would join Loric and talk into
the night until Loric's head started to droop, then he would stretch
mightily and admonish Loric for keeping an old man up so long. After
that Loric could hear him moving about stepping out now and then for
a sniff of air. Loric realized he had never seen his grandfather
asleep at any point in his life, and with a pang, he realized he
never would.
"Oldsir, I always liked your shuck-ears, nobody could burn them
like you!" With a sob and tear-filled eyes, Loric ran to his hammock
and fell weeping into it.
The next day, Loric was put into the Pit. He was given the rope
he had made the day before and made to watch as a fist-sized rock
was dropped in. It fell and made a splat at the bottom. "Aiee,"
thought Loric, "there's no snakes in there, it full of the Domai,
the cave fungus that eats you alive!"
He started to back up and found he was surrounded by villagers.
The other end of his rope was tied to a rock and then Dernhelm
motioned him forward. He leaned outward and looked down into the
darkness. The dark gave no secrets away, and he wondered if he
shouldn't refuse this test. It would mean going back in defeat and
trying again when he felt he could pass, but what was the point in
that? He would just return to this spot and he knew he couldn't go
on then, either. No, it would be better to face this now with the
teachings of his grandfather fresh in his memory.
He shook with the thought of what awaited him below, but he
straddled the rope and walked himself down into the darkness. He was
very cautious, feeling and looking below him and then up at the
expressionless faces above him. He had gotten about halfway to the
end of his rope when he felt something below him. It was a sudden
shock to him when he felt his rope being cut from above. He let go
of the rope and balled himself for the impact into the fungus, but
came up short and found that the bottom was only a foot more below
him. The bottom made of clay and there was a bit of water seeping
into the corner. The rock Loric had seen thrown in had hit this and
made him think he was going to be eaten alive! He laughed a bit at
his fear and sat down on the floor to think his way out of the hole.
He tested the walls to see if he could carve foot-holds in it but
the soft clay walls gave no support. He found he could put his toes
in a hold, and they would slide right out. There was no way he was
going to trust his neck to that!
He examined his rope as best he could from the pit floor; the
other end was still tied to the rock, but it had been cut half
through. This was a puzzler, thought Loric. If he wasn't supposed
to climb out on the rope, why hadn't they cut it all the way, or
just taken it up behind him? He tested it and knew it would not hold
all of his weight, and he tried several times to pitch the other end
up and lasso the rock it was attached to.
Finally he got a good throw and tugged on this. It seemed to
hold, then he noticed to his horror that the rock was sliding in the
clay. At this rate it would fall on his head long before he had made
it out of the pit. Dejectedly he snapped the rope and flipped his
lasso off the rock. He sat down and noticed that the water had
puddled up a bit in the corner. He tested it and found it drinkable,
and cleared an area where he could get an unmuddied drink. With his
nose a scarce inch from the water, he could almost see the water rise.
Maybe this was his way out! He used his kesh-knife to dig at the
spot where the fresh water was coming in, and was rewarded by a
squirt of water that soon became a small fountain-like stream. He
drank a long swallow and laughed at his success as his feet were soon
covered by the cold torrent. He would surprise them all! He would
rise to the top without any effort at all, letting the water work for
him! He danced in the mud, and threw gobbets of clay and mud out the
opening overhead hoping to tag someone watching.
He howled and enjoyed the echoing sound of his own voice.
Passerbys would think that he had been taken by madness, but he
didn't care! All the childhood fears of the Pit had fallen away and
he felt exalted.
"Bring on the Domai, bring on the mistle-thratch, I fear them
not! Oooowwwwwwl!" He howled again and it was quite some time before
he noticed that the flow of water had slowed. The water came only to
his knees and after marking the wall a few times, and gauging how
long it took it to climb the wall, he realized that it would be a
long time indeed for the water to lift him even a small bit. He
looked up and tried to figure how much daylight he had left.
He knew no one would bring him a meal, that no one would bring
light or even speak to him. He was on his own and had to get out on
his own. There's got to be a way! He felt in the water and pulled up
the rock. He frustratedly pitched it up at the opening. A rain of
clay and dirt was all the reward he got for his effort. "Everything I
do make things worse!" He moaned inwardly as he dodged the rock's
return. Crunch! This wasn't going to do. If he stood in this water
all night, he would die of the shudders before they would come back
to find him. He didn't even have a place to lie now! Silently
cursing himself, he leaned against the wall and tried to gather his
wits. It was small wonder Hiram's brother had come out of this test
blubbering, he had probably done the same thing and gotten sick.
They had finally brought him out after three days! "Three days,"
moaned Loric, "I'll be water-rotted by then! What would my
grandfather tell me to do? First keep your head. Okay," thought
Loric. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.
"Now, instead of thinking about what you don't have, think about
what you've got. Fine, what have I got? A pit into the ground, a
knee-deep puddle of water, and one end of a rope. What is it you are
trying to do? Say it! I'm trying to get out of this puddle and back
on dry land. This isn't going like it should," thought Loric, "but
I'll finish anyway."
"Is there another way of looking at your problem? How are similar
problems solved? Well, in a way it's like crossing a stream with no
one on the other side. To cross a stream you put a stout stick at
the end of your rope, and toss it across to some forked tree or
outcropping and test it for fastness. Then you anchor the other end
and you hang on it, feet toward the opposite side and work yourself
across. Fasten the other side and make it secure for the rest of the
party, or the return trip."
Loric remembered seeing this demonstrated and remembered that
the man who went across first had made the far tree sag into the
river. He had gotten quite a drenching before tieing enough
twist-knots into the rope to take the slack up.
Some of the streams nearby were home to animals that would think
nothing of making a meal out of a crossing man. Now, said Oldsir's
voice in Loric's head. Look at your problem again. "Hmm, I have the
same problem, I want to get a man to the other side. I already have
one end tied off, but it slips. I need to tie the other end, and
take some of the weight off the other end so that it won't slip
loose. Time to try some different things."
Loric felt around in the water until he found the rock again. He
tied the loose end of the rope to it and then swung it about in the
cramped space he had. It seemed every time he pitched his rock up to
the ground, it would slide along and then fall back in. It was
getting harder to see it coming back down as the slanting evening
rays marked time on the walls of his prison. The thought of some
unseen observer watching his efforts made him doubly frustrated each
time the rope and rock back came down. "You haven't beaten me yet!"
He thought savagely. He knew somewhere up there someone was watching
to make sure that no one aided him in this test. Probably sitting on
a lianas log and smoking oxy root! Loric hoped he hit them with the
mud he had thrown earlier, if not with this rock! "Maybe I did,
there was one throw where the rock had seemed to have gotten wedged,
but not well enough to hold."
I can't get a good grip on anything up there! What do you do
when your anchor slips? You anchor it to a stake, and achor the
stake with lots of pegs. Maybe I can get something to catch if I put
several loops on the end of this rope and toss it over to where I
thought it had caught!
Loric quickly cut several lengths from the rope and made four
loops in the end of it. It reminded him of a tangle foot vine. Which
is just what he needed now! Now where was that spot? It was probably
a log set out there for the watchers, but it would do if it caught.
He had no idea where the spot was, so he marked a slash on the wall
and started pitching.
Each time the stone came back he would throw a little to the
left of it. Once or twice he thought he had found it, but had only
managed to pull a limb or some brush into the pit on top of him.
This was a disappointment, but he added it to his 'anchor' and
worked steadily on. When he was just opposite of where the rope was
tied, he succeeded in catching onto something. It gave a little and
then held fast.
Now he had a line on both ends, and wondered if he shouldn't
pull the rock down and try the same thing with the other side. No,
there was another thing he remembered from his grandfather's
teachings and it was that luck was a fickle spirit and you could
easily send it flying away from you if you asked too much. Loric
knew he still needed a good bit of luck for the climb out. No, I'll
not ask so much from the luck spirits, I'll just use the
half-severed end as little as I can, keeping it taught as I climb so
if this end comes loose, I have a chance to brace before I fall back
in. A chance for what, I don't know, I hope I don't find out.
Perhaps that's asking too much from luck also. I'll be trusting my
neck to the hidden anchor, and it could slip at any time. I know the
other will slip, but I can see it and tell when it's going to give
way. The best course then is to use a bit of each, cinching it up as
I go, like the man crossing the stream. Each moment requires the
judgement of a new moment, as Oldsir used to say.
Loric said a quick prayer to the Spirit of the Wood to keep luck
from fleeing, and started out by working out an equal length from
both ropes. This accomplished, he sat on the knot, trying to judge
the moment of the rock falling and the fraying of the rope. It
creaked ominously, but seemed to hold. Loric looked down at the
water that was still seeping into the pit. At least that water and
mud will help break my fall, a little. He had the rope looped under
his bottom and over his shoulder. He lifted his weight off the rope
and put a twist in the rope over his head. Then he slipped his body
out of the sling in the bottom and pulled it up with his feet
through the twist.
He wormed his feet up and then sat his weight on the new loop
made by his efforts. He marked the wall and then repeated his
efforts. This was slow work! He watched with concern the rope on the
rock. Whatever he had anchored the other end to seemed to hold, so
he planned to switch all of his weight to it should the rope give so
it wouldn't snap abruptly. Half a dozen loops and Loric realized he
couldn't keep this up. The rope was so tangled and knotted that he
wouldn't be able to slip it through any more. He stood on the knot
and thought a bit, then held himself up by his arms, he flipped the
rope around with his feet, and managed to clamp it under his arm. He
brought the two ropes together and grabbed the rope with the his
teeth and made a loop a round one arm. then pulled it through again
with his teeth. Doubled over, he inched up and got his toes into the
knot and slowly put his weight on it. He couldn't believe he managed
that and looked up at the rope.
He was shocked by the amount of fraying that his acrobatics had
caused. Now he was within a man's height of the top, but he realized
that one more attempt like this was more than the rope would take.
It was one more than he had in him, anyway.
"Think Loric! What do you have to work with? Nothing I'm not
using, My whole body aches from just hanging here, and there's
nothing else up here but empty space and me! I don't have a use for
my kesh-knife, I don't want to cut anything..."
"Do I? Can I tie another knot and then cut a length of rope off
the bottom and pitch it over the rock?" Loric knew that as soon as
he thought it, it was impossible; the rope would sever before he
got the first knot tied. "I might as well cut it now and get it over
with!" Loric drew his knife and held it in one hand as he used the
other to pull up on his braced rope taking some of the tension off
the severing rope.
"It would be simple," thought Loric, "all I have to do is let go
with this hand and the jerk would cause that rope up there to snap
and I'll fly into the other wall and then down into the muddy water
below. I wonder how many bones I'll break? Maybe I'll just be
knocked out and drown in the water below. Maybe the slam into the
wall would be hard enough to knock me out? I wouldn't even know it
when hit the bottom. No one would blame me, I've tried to get out,
and I can't! There's always a test you can't pass right?" It was not
the way of Loric's people to give up, but they were not immune to
despair. Loric looked up and watched the slow fraying of the rope,
now seconds away from separating. He looked at the kesh-knife he
carried, it had a long history, and had been made from kesh-wood
three generations before and passed down from father to son. "To me,"
thought Loric. "I'll never pass it on now." He leaned out and started
slicing the knife into the clay walls of the pit. "If I can't pass it
on, at least I can see to it that it isn't damaged in my fall." If he
could strike some kesh-root the properties within his knife would
hold it fast. "The men that would free it later would know that I had
honored the memory of all it's owners by not letting it lie with me
when I died. If it fell too, it would be burned on my burial pyre,
and that would be a loss more grievous than that of a near-man who
failed his tests!"
With that Loric thrust blindly into the wall and felt the knife
bite and hold. It melded to the living kesh-root and held fast. He
grasped the handle and pulled himself over to it. It took all his
weight and did not move. The rope he hung from gave way and he
slipped downward. He made a quick shift of weight and a mad grab for
the kesh knife as the rope fell into the pit below. His slight frame
shook with the effort to get one arm over the handle and the other
gripping the hilt. His toes dug and dug in the clay wall but could
find no purchase. Hardly daring to breathe, he slid his hand over as
far as he could without touching the cutting edge of the knife. Then
he brought one knee up and rested it on the handle. The gnarled grip
bit his skin mercilessly, but he held out.
"Oh Spirit!" thought Loric, "perhaps you have use for me yet!"
With one hand, he creeped up the wall and tried to judge how far
from the top he was. He couldn't guess so he finally looked up. He
was relieved to find that he was close enough to stand up and reach
the opening. That wouldn't be easy; it was almost dark now, and the
opening was dim and unclear. Not easy, but not impossible either.
Loric had balanced on thinner limbs when he was younger, but now he
was fatigued and rattled. He bit his lip against the pain and stood
on one foot. He looked for something to grip but had to settle for
knotting his fingers in the grass. He hefted up his other leg and
rolled onto the turf. He gazed up at the dark canopy of the forest
and moaned at the wave of pain that hit him.
Every strained muscle and scraped shin made itself known to him,
but his thoughts were on the pit. He looked at the one remaining
piece of rope and saw that he had not caught a log as he had thought
but the watcher who had been sitting on it.
All this time he had been silently sitting with a loop of rope
over his head and around one shoulder. He sat motionless as stone,
lest he somehow interfere with Loric's trial. Loric recognized the
villager as Minial, a man about his sister's age who was trained in
the art of vining and knotting. As Loric hobbled over to him, he
winked and rubbed his neck where the vine had rubbed it raw.
"You best be thankful that I'm as stout as I am, or we would
both have greeted the Spirit before our time. I wanted to start you
over, but Dernhelm wouldn't let me. As far as he was concerned I was
a knot on a log." He stood and clasped Loric on the shoulder.
"A knot who is thirsty and wants a bit of octli."
He led Loric back to the village, and talked with him almost as
he would any other man. "Almost," thought Loric happily, "Almost!"
-Rich Jervis
Father's Fugue
Timmy watched the water roll down the shallow slope, cutting
dark channels in the dust. The fat tip finally reached the bottom,
where it settled down into a brown blob. Timmy watched it for a
moment, then tipped the bottle and poured some more water after it.
He had been playing in the dust for about an hour, a remarkable
feat for the active young boy. His hands still carried a few red
smears, residue of the tomatoes he had helped his mother can. He had
hurried to finish his share of the work, so that he could get out
into the bright sunshine. Now he stooped lower to stare at something
he saw shining under the stream of water he was pouring. He played
the stream of water around, until the edges of the shiny piece of
metal could be seen. He dropped the bottle and dug the shiny yellow
disk out of the mud. He examined it, and then gravely washed it off.
Images could be seen on it's surface. He stood up and ran towards
the house.
As he ran, Timmy passed a man leaning against a light post. The
man smiled at the young child, who dashed past, totally oblivious to
the world. Timmy raced up the front steps of his house and into the
foyer, where Mr. Johnson stood rubbing stain on an old clock.
"Dad! Dad! Dad!"
The elder Johnson stooped down. Timmy was his first child, and
Mr. Johnson enjoyed watching the boy.
"What is it Timmy?"
"Look what I found!" Timmy held up the coin. Mr. Johnson
immediately recognized the shape, and the material. He smiled wisely.
"It's a coin, Timmy. People used to use them for money."
At the sound of the past tense, Timmy's eyes lit up.
"Can I take it and show Grandpa?!"
Mr. Johnson paused. "O.K., but go right there, don't stop at all."
"Yessir!" Timmy was already halfway down the steps. He ran down
the sidewalk, away from the house, away from the sand lot, toward
the alley that was the shortcut to Grandpa's house. His short legs
got him there in what seemed like a short time, and he turned down
the alley. He ran through the dimness towards the light at the far
end. He had made it part way there when a glint of light caught his
eye. Visions of coins filled his mind. He turned back, his father's
command forgotten. The light turned out to be a bottle in a pile of
trash, but to Timmy's treasure-hunting eye, the junk pile had
promise. He started pushing it around, uncovering more glass, paper,
bits of wood and metal, but no coins. He pocketed the gold coin, and
really got down to his search.
"Timmy!"
Timmy jumped up guiltily. Mr. Johnson's form stood framed
against the light at the mouth of the alley.
"I told you not to stop! Now get moving!"
"Yessir!" Timmy turned back to his original task, fearful of his
father's wrath. He ran down the alley, and out onto the street,
where he found his grandfather sitting on a porch, ready to receive
the precious gift from afar.
Mr. Johnson watched until Timmy turned the corner, then turned
to look up the street to where a rowdy group of unkept youths stood.
He had seen them coming up the street, and had gotten nervous about
his only child being out of adult supervision. Having seen Timmy
step safely out into the light, he turned back to his house.
Manual watched Mr. Johnson close the door to his house. He
glanced back up the street at the youths. Feeling unaccountably and
suddenly uncomfortable, they turned back down the street and soon
disappeared around a corner. Manual turned back to his task.
Manual stood across from an old abandoned store. The ancient
glass doors were patched with plywood and tape, but footprints in
the dirt outside lead in, and not out. Manual didn't need to see
them to know what was going on inside, but it was always nice to
have independant confirmation.
Manual turned, and watched a white van turn a corner far up the
street. It drew near, and pulled up beside the streetlight Manual
leaned on. Four men got out, wearing uniforms as white as Manual's
turtleneck pullover and neatly pressed slacks. The driver approached
Manual, followed by the other three.
"Here we are. What now, Michael?" He glanced around nervously.
"Follow me. It'll be all right."
With that simple instruction Manual walked across the street and
up to the old store front. The door opened silently for him. Inside
a thick layer of dust held clear footprints. They all formed a path
that entered a dark doorway. Manual followed the path.
Manual stepped into the dark doorway. He turned to face the
guard he had seen from outside the windowless building. The guard,
startled by the silent intruder, leveled his automatic at Manual.
Before the guard could pull the trigger Manual had snatched it
easily away. Manual grabbed the guard by the lapels and lifted him
effortlessly off the ground.
"What you're planning in here is wrong. You must stop." Manual
said it as if he were discussing the weather.
The white clad men stepped into view behind Manual. The guard's
eyes widened further. He snatched a knife from his belt. Manual
tossed the automatic to one of the other men, and grabbed the knife
by the blade. There was a small sharp sound, and then Manual opened
his hand and allowed several metal fragments drop to the floor. They
bounced, but made no sound.
"Tell you what. Why don't you sleep on it." Manual set the guard
down. The man blinked. He opened his mouth, as if to shout. He then
closed his eyes, and slid to the floor. Manual turned to the others.
"Two of you take him out to the wagon. The other two come with me."
Manual and the other two traced the footprints to a thick metal
door. Manual pushed it open. It opened into what had been a walk-in
freezer. Now it more resembled a barracks. Maps hung over dirty
cots, and rifles were leaning against the walls. The image was
further enhanced by the three sleeping forms by a table. Manual
walked up, bent down, and lifted two up to his shoulders.
"You two get the other one and meet me outside." With that he
walked out.
The two men looked at each other, and at Agent Michael's
retreating back.
"What does he need us for?" One of the two asked as he stooped
to lift the sleeping rebel.
"I guess someone had to bring the wagon."
They carried the insurgent out of the building. Manual met them
at the door, and carried their load the rest of the way to the van.
Their criminal cargo loaded, the four climbed back into the van.
Manual stepped up the the driver's door.
"I'll hold them asleep until you get them in custody."
"Uh,... yeah. O.K., Michael." The man kicked the van into gear,
made a U-turn, and drove off.
Manual looked toward the Johnson's house. He could see Timmy,
who had returned from Grandpa's, and Mr. Johnson prepare a place on
the mantel for the gold coin. Manual smiled at their ignorance of
the danger they had been living with. Manual wondered briefly what
they would think if they knew what had just happened. He then shook
his head, rejoicing that they didn't have to know.
Out in the reaches of space, beyond even Manual's searching
vision, a spaceman carefully placed a critical control pivot into
the ships main thrust unit. The space suited man sighed with relief
when it clicked safely into place. He carefully closed up the access
panel, then pushed himself down and away from the ship's hull. He
struck the planetoid's hard surface, crouched, and then leaped back
up towards the netting slung around the open hatch far above his
head. As he drifted higher and higher, he breathed a silent prayer
of thanks that the ship had been near a fairly large mass when the
pivot broke. Repairing it had been difficult, but the task would
have been impossible without some orienting force, and without the
drive to spin the ship or provide thrust, the only force available
had been gravity.
Once inside, the spaceman called up the bridge with the good
news. Within the hour the main drive fired, heaving the massive ship
off the large asteroid and back on course. The planetoid recoiled
from the liftoff, in perfect accord with the laws of physics. It's
new course was not far different from it's old one. The difference
that push had made would only become visible years later, when it
passed another body of rock, rather than slamming into it with the
attendant destruction such an impact always created. The other rock
had life on it, human life that would survive because the asteroid's
course had been altered somehow, life that rarely took the time to
think about the things that fathers did for their children.
-Jim Owens
Respect thy Elders: Chapter Three
Kite was beat, yet his spirits were high. He had actually
managed the more difficult portion of his quest: finding the Elder
Isentraum and convincing him to heal heal his fiancee, Pecora
Winthrop. In exchange, all the Elder desired was for Kite to fetch a
certain herb from a druid who lived outside a village named
Greenmont, which he had found rather easily. Now he was headed down
a footpath outside the village, towards the area where the druid,
named Hartley, made his home. After a brief walk, Kite came upon the
druid, sitting beneath the boughs of an ancient pine.
"You are Hartley the druid?"
"Yes, my son."
"My name is Kite, I am upon an errand from a man named
Isentraum..." Kite paused as a look of recognition came across the
druid's visage.
"Ah, no man there, but an Elder, and a good one, at that!" He
helped himself to his feet with a driftwood staff and brushed the
sweet-smelling pine needles from his tunic. "Come, tell me why you
searched out this Elder, and what I may do to help you, young lord..."
Despite Hartley's invitation to spend the evening, Kite insisted
that he depart as soon as possible, but he promised to return and
visit Hartley after he had seen to Pecora. The druid had gathered
the Elmin quickly, and had spoken with Kite at length about his
quest, his fiancee, and the rest of the duchy. But Kite eventually
insisted upon being off, and started his journey back to the
mountain where Isentraum could be found.
The elder sat gazing into the fire for some moments. "Kite, the
disease which grips your fiancee is strong. I have felt it." After a
moment, he went on. "I shall need your aid if I am to heal her."
"You have it... what do you require of me?"
Isentraum smiled inwardly. Such youthful courage gave him heart.
"I am old, and my inner strength wanes. I shall begin the spell, and
you will merely have to concentrate your will, and believe with all
your heart that your woman is well. It is not difficult, although it
will weaken you temporarily. Do you wish to go on?"
"Definitely."
Kite could feel his skin taughten in anxiety. He was sitting in
the center of a vast design that Isentraum had drawn into the dirt
with a cane. The old man whirled his hands in odd gestures as he
drew, speaking in a tongue that fascinated Kite. The old man
motioned to the youth, and Kite closed his eyes and began to
concentrate. He closed out the chanting of the Elder, and tried to
visualize Pecora, standing in the Boar Hall, laughing with him. He
saw them riding through the fields outside Dargon, and walking by
the riverbank hand in hand. He could sense the power around him, and
somehow he reached a rapport with it. It was a force for good, yet
it could not be used lightly. Only with great effort was he able to
shape the force to his will. He was beside and within Pecora,
feeling her hurt and her fear, and he took it inside himself. He
retreated back to reality, and the force drew the pestilence from
him, and away.
Kite opened his eyes. Isentraum was before him, leaning heavily
on his staff, wide-eyed. After a moment, he slowly shuffled to Kite,
and plumped down with him, a smile etched on his severe features.
"Well done, my pelan, well done. How do you feel?"
"As if I had been dragged behind a horse for a league. But we
did it?"
"Yes, pelan, we did." They sat in silence and caught their
breath. Kite sensed that Isentraum was going to say something to
him, so he waited.
"Kite, you may not understand it yet, but what just happened was
primarily of your doing. I did not intend for you to work such
magic, but you did. I have rarely seen such talent!" Kite was too
busy catching his breath to really contemplate the man's words as he
continued. "I am old, Kite, old even for an Elder. My power wanes,
yet the world needs such a power in it. Would you come back to
become my pupil, and become as I have been?"
Kite looked at the elder and laughed. He was a young noble, and
the court held some promise of advancement for him. Yet it also held
danger and difficulties which he could foresee. To leave all that,
with Pecora, and take up the occupation of a living legend was
tempting, and the awareness of the many people he could help still
burned bright from his recent encounter with that unnameable force.
He looked to the ground, then at Isentraum and said, "Yes... I will
do it."
-Orny
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SIX NUMBER TWO
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Protopredator Jim Owens
To End All Wars Orny
Infection Jim Owens
Project Rip Van Winkle Glenn R. Sixbury
Date: 102686 Dist: 178
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Hello, again, all. Well, this issue wasn't going to be this way
originally, but it seems that this is a special SF issue, despite
all my attempts to harangue the Dargon authors into writing.
Enclosed you'll find two more SF shorts by Jim Owens, one from
myself, and one which came to me just yesterday from this gentleman
at KSUVM, Glenn Sixbury. Needless to say, I'm quite tickled. The
next issue will be out by Thanksgiving and should (emphasis here)
contain another Atros story from Joseph Curwen, another Ceda story
from Joel Slatis, and the next Spirit story from Rich Jervis.
But on to the big news. FSFnet has gone internet! After getting
some visibility on the other networks from Chuq, I've had FSFnet put
in the master list of ARPA digests, and the subscriptions are
already coming in. For that matter, BITNET subscriptions are growing
at a healthy pace, and I'm very happy. We've even brainwashed a few
new writers! Oop, did I mean to say that? No matter, they're firmly
convinced that FSFnet is worth reading and writing for, and I hope
you all are, too. Until Thanksgiving, then. Keep spreading the word!
-Orny
Protopredator
The program reached out with its tentacle subroutines, exploring
the memory around it. It found some code, and, as it was programmed
to, assimilated the code into its own structure. Its designer
watched with glee. Written as part of an artificial intelligence
venture, the program was designed to recognize the pattern of a
subroutine and to incorporate that routine as part of itself. In a
nearby memory location, a similar project analyzed the structure of
hardware locations. Still another busily modified itself in an
attempt to overcome novel problems. All throughout the mainframe's
memory, programs did things that previously were thought to require
human intelligence.
"Hey, Jack! Come look at this!"
The two men huddled over the terminal.
"Neat. Acts like my dog, eating everything in sight."
"Hey! Where'd it go?"
The trace stopped. As far as the operating system was concerned,
the program never existed.
"Maybe it ate itself."
"Oh, well. Back to the drawing board."
"Well, you're getting closer."
Twisting tentacles reached out, exploring the port structure.
The predator-program analyzed the data streaming in and out through
the port. It appeared to match a pattern it had seen before. It
searched, and found the receiving software, and at the first
opportunity seized it . Immediately it began to emulate the
data-comm package to avoid being detected by the host software,
using the package's own subroutines to do so. As it did so it
analyzed the code it was simulating, just as it had several other
programs since it escaped from the memory area the operating system
had assigned it. It only took a few seconds for it to figure out how
to use the new routines for its own uses. Using the new routines it
sent several packets down the line to the far host, where
unsuspecting software assembled it, and, at the command of the
predgram on the other end, placed it in memory and ran it. The new
program immediately seized control of the port on its end, and
started assembling the packets the predgram sent it. Before any of
the supervisory software could detect anything amiss, the invader
program had assembled and activated a copy of the predgram nucleus.
The newly born predgram immediately scrambled off to another part of
the CPU, leaping page boundaries and replicating as fast as
resources would allow. To all outside observers it was invisible.
The only evidence of its existance was a slight degradation of
system performance. The invader program began to assemble another
predgram, but before it could the operating system activated it's
garbage collection scheme. Before the invader could protect itself
it was gone. Several pages deeper, however, one of it's offspring
assimilated a part of the OS, and vanished safely away. The species
had perpetuated itself.
-Jim Owens
To End All Wars
The dome of Durrackgorod shone silvery only three kilometers
distant, silent in the martian desert. Through the reddish-orange
dust could be seen several figures at a distance of perhaps half a
klic, hunched about a large mechanism. Suddenly an indigo beam cut
through the atmosphere, anchored at the mechanism and playing slowly
over the dome of the Soviet Mars station. In an explosive rush, the
pressurized dome gave way, releasing oxygen and nitrogen into the
thin martian sky.
Suddenly, a group of figures appeared from behind an outcropping
of rust-colored rock, running quickly towards the group operating
the laser. A parody of melee broke out, men battling one another
while encumbered within space suits in a low-gravity atmosphere;
however, the single observer watched with increasing agitation as
those men who had brought out the laser were defeated. The eventual
victors shut down the laser, and had begun to turn it to face Dyson
Station, when they noticed the lone observer. As the man turned and
ran, the view faltered, then went dim.
"Good, Tovarish Benya. That was ochin good take. We now shoot
final scene, da?"
"Da," replied the American. The American and Soviet scientists
were definitely not actors, but the footage they had shot so far
seemed convincing enough.
The old Russian stomped resolutely off towards Dyson Station,
the American Mars colony. Ben stood a moment and looked at the
cracked shell that once had been Durrackgorod. His mind wandered
through the events of the past months.
Soon after the Russians had populated Durrackgorod, the
Americans had established Dyson Station, only a mere three
kilometers from the Soviet station. This had proved highly
advantageous for the colonists, because once they had gotten to know
one another there had been considerable cooperation between the
Soviets and Americans. Neither expedition had been very
well-planned, although together they had managed to survive. The
colonists freely came and went between the complexes, and had
stopped being Soviets and Americans, and started to trust one another.
Then came the news. The war in Africa had escalated to global
levels, and the announcements had come within an hour of each other
that the Russians and Americans on Mars were to sabotage the enemy
settlements. There had been a long debate as to what should be done,
and finally it had been decided that they would perform mock
combats, and transmit the pictures so that both the Russians and
Soviets would intercept the transmission. They had moved most of the
equipment from the Soviet dome, then filmed its destruction. The
destruction of the American station would not actually take place,
but would be assumed from the footage. The colonists would then
reconstruct the Soviet station and continue their work in peace.
"You are ready, Tovarish Benya?"
"Da, I am ready."
The picture showed Dr. Benjamin Herald, the American
psychologist, in his vacsuit within the American compound. He was
speaking. "As you saw, we destroyed Durrackgorod as was ordered. The
Russians, however, captured the laser, and turned it upon Dyson. I
am the last surviving American, and there are a few Soviets,
although without a pressurized environment, we will all surely die.
As I foresee no method of reconstructing either dome, I fear this
will be the last transmission from the Mars colonies. Farewell."
The picture blanked.
Ben Herald waited for the Dyson dome to repressurize. It had
been done. The Mars colonies would have no aid from Earth. It was a
new beginning.
-Orny
Infection
The ship cut through the atmosphere like a treacherous knife
through a victim's back. By the time it hit the ground there was
nothing left but ten charred lumps. Once on the ground, these
stirred, and broke open. From them crawled ten human forms, like
larva from egg casings. They staggered together, cursing and
swearing at their misfortune. They paused long enough to locate the
nearest village, then moved off.
The lead group stumbled out into the clearing, blinking in the
warm sun. They cautiously looked around. They were leery of the
building, but walked around it cautiously anyway. Even so they held
their cruel rifles tightly. The scout peered around the corner of
the barn, and smiled. He motioned the whole group to follow him.
They walked out, and watched the young woman swing carelessly while
music played from a small box. One vented a rough chuckle. The girl
turned. She showed no fear, only surprise.
"Who are you?" She looked at their grubby, bloodstained clothes
in wonder, as they slowly crowded around her, blocking out the light.
The main group stepped out onto the main street. The grass grew
green beside the main walk, while flawless metal formed the
pavement. They swaggered down the thoroughfare, weapons openly
displayed. They laughed harshly and sang loudly. People stared
curiously at the strange sight of dirty men cursing in broad
daylight. Only one or two older men watched the men carefully.
One of the ruffians saw a glitter in one of the shops. He
swaggered over, and with one easy movement, after grinning at his
fellows, he smashed the glass. As the people stared, shocked, he
swiped the jewelry from its stand and stuffed it in his pocket. His
fellows laughed and laughed, then reached in and helped themselves
to the easy pickings.
A male voice stopped the movement with a shrill yell. The
pirates turned at the sound. One of the advance group burst into
view, running as if for his life. Not far behind him was the young
woman, hurrying as if to catch a friend who had misunderstood a
complement. The thug reached the group, babbling. The leader stood
for a moment, then raised his rifle.
The blast split the air. All movement stopped. The woman
stopped, puzzled. She looked down at the smoking hole burned in her
clean white gown. Then she took a step forward, her arm outstretched.
The leader fired again. She took another step forward. He fired a
third time, cursing her. A second pirate joined in. The group took a
step or two back as she continued to advance, shaking her head, her
hands over her ears. They backed against a wall, firing still. One
by one they ran out of ammunition. The young lady in white stood
bewildered by the noise. Her gown hung in tattered shreds.
Underneath could be seen smooth skin, totally untouched.
As they stood there, staring at each other, there came a short
roaring of wind and a blur of white light. Then there stood a man
between the two groups. He was tall, and strong, and his skin
flickered with a white glow. It died everywhere but on his arms. He
reached out, and took the rifle gently from the leader's hands. With
one smooth move he snapped it in two. He crammed both pieces in one
hand. He turned, and his arm snapped up and forward in a millisecond
flash. There was a crack as the rifle parts achieved terminal
velocity, and burned up on the way to outer space.
He turned to look at the pirates. He then walked to the woman
and cradled her protectively. He then looked at the men, a semblance
of anger in his eyes. He raised his arm, and pointed back towards
the woods.
"Go."
The poison drained hurriedly, leaving the body clean.
-Jim Owens
Project Rip Van Winkle
David stirred a little, finally raising himself to
consciousness. After bringing himself back to reality, he realized
that he had been stripped and was laying completely naked on the
floor of a small room. He slowly pushed himself to his feet and
looked around. The room was empty. It looked a little like a
hospital room, with its light-colored tile floor and white ceiling
and walls. As he stood up, a sharp pain in his lower groin almost
made him lie back down again. It felt as if someone had buried a lit
blow torch inside his intestines. Bravely, he attempted to ignore
the pain and decide what had happened to him.
David walked over to the door, but he could see no possible way
to open it. There was no door knob and no control panel. Obviously,
wherever he was, he was going to be here for some time.
David tried to remember how he had ended up where he was, but he
couldn't recall anything at all. He didn't even know how long he'd
been asleep. He didn't know where they had taken Catheryn, his wife.
Things during the last few days had been more strange than he had
ever imagined they could be. Before they were put into hibernation,
David and Catheryn had been extensively briefed in their orientation
sessions about all the possible situations they might find when they
woke up, but nothing they had been taught had prepared them for this.
Slowly David relived the only events he recalled since he and
Catheryn had woke. David remembered that Catheryn had already been
awake and up when he had climbed out of his own sleeping pod. She
had looked almost the same as when they had went to sleep, except
that her hair had grown longer, making her even more beautiful.
David, himself had grown a beard, and his own hair had grown down to
his shoulders. Otherwise, he felt quite normal, until he realized
that now he was 122 years old. I feel great, considering how old I
am, he had thought as he and Catheryn had examined their surroundings.
Most of the hibernation chamber in which they had stayed was a
wreck, and the remaining sleeping pods were empty. After spending a
few minutes in a joyful reawakening with Catheryn, they decided to
see to what they had awoken. David struggled with the door to the
outside world, finally hot wiring it enough to convince it to open.
At first, the outside world seemed to be exactly what they had
expected. The buildings looked somewhat more modern than those that
existed when they had been put to sleep, but not surprisingly so.
Although the streets of the city were almost deserted, the people
they encountered seemed normal enough, except that no one they spoke
to seemed to understand what David and Catheryn explained to them.
David asked them where the hibernation orientation center was
located, but it was no use. David decided the center had not existed
for some time, since no one even realized there had ever been such a
place. Then when they had attempted to find out what had happened to
their possesions, which had been legally frozen for one hundred
years, pending their reawakening, they still could not find anyone
who had even the vaguest idea of what they were talking about. In
fact, the very concept of owning personal items seemed to confuse
them. At last, David concluded that the society of the future had
become totally socialistic, having no personal wealth or possessions.
As evening had approached, they had attempted to find a motel,
or an apartment house, or anywhere in which they could spend the
night, but each living dwelling they came to was closed and sealed.
Finally, exhausted (prolonged hibernation weakens the body), David
had broken into a room of an abandoned motel. Once inside, it was
clear to see that the motel had not been closed permanently, because
the bed in the room was still made, and there were still towels in
the bathroom. They even had running water and electricity. Except
for the TV being on the fritz, the room was perfectly normal. David
had wanted to see the news and find out what was going on in the
world. He even considered going to another room or trying to find a
newspaper, but Catheryn was already asleep, and he could barely keep
his own eyes open. Too tired to do any more, he had lain down and
fallen asleep beside his wife.
The attempts of the next day to find out what was going on went
much better than the day before. The first person they talked to
seemed to be looking for them. They were put into a modern version
of an automobile and driven to a large important looking building
where, their driver explained, everything would be straightened out.
Once inside the building, they had been escorted to an office, where
a large friendly man who introduced himself as Kordok had asked them
a very long series of questions about when they had went into
hibernation, where their sleeping pods had been located, when they
had been born, and other questions pertaining to their origin.
Towards noon, after several hours of intense questioning, David had
asked why no one had understood who they were or what they wanted
the day before. Kordok answered by explaining that all the other
sleeping pods had been destroyed and that it had been so long since
anyone had seen a hibernation subject, they had forgotten about the
process. As for the rest of David's questions, Kordok gave them only
the briefest of answers, promising to answer in detail after lunch.
David and Catheryn had been taken to what must have been a
restaurant at one time, and given some very strange looking food. It
didn't taste very good, and David remembered that neither he nor
Catheryn had eaten much of it. However, they had been given drinks
of some sort which they consumed eagerly. It was common knowledge
that prolonged hibernation dehydrated the body.
When David attempted to recall what had happened after lunch,
his memory failed him. Catheryn and he had finished lunch and were
sitting on a bench...but the rest was fuzzy. He vaguely recalled
strange dreams as he slept. They were dreams of hospitals, strange
people around him, and painful experiences. He tried his best, but
he couldn't recall any more. What had happened? What was going on?
Why had his clothes been taken away from him? For the first time,
David began to fear not only for his safety, but also for
Catheryn's. In desperation, he began beating on the door.
Suddenly, David's fist punched thin air, setting him off balance
and sending him sprawling onto his belly. Standing above him by the
doorway was Kordok. David sprang to his feet, looking around at the
room he had fallen into. It contained several other men and women,
all dressed in what looked like hospital garb, staring at him in a
detached sort of way. Remembering he was naked, David backed up into
the room where he had awoke.
Kordok strode through the doorway, and the door shut behind him
with a soft whoosh. "You are once again awake. This is an error. You
were not meant to reawaken."
Ignoring what Kordok said, David snarled at him, "Where's my
wife? What have you done with Catheryn?"
"She'll be fine," Kordok calmly replied. "She's been taken
somewhere where she can be easily taken care of during her pregnancy."
"Pregnant? My wife isn't pregnant? Or at least she wasn't. What
are you talking about? What's going on?"
"Your wife is not pregnant now, but we expect that she will
become impregnated in less than a month."
"Huh?" David didn't understand, and he was afraid to ask.
Kordok's face was completely expressionless, his eyes intently
staring through David. It was an eerie feeling. David paced back and
forth across the room, desperately trying to figure out what was
going on. Nothing made sense. He couldn't understand what all this
talk about pregnancy meant, and he couldn't think straight. He also
had that uncomfortable feeling all people get when they are made to
stand naked in front of clothed strangers. Finally, he said "I don't
understand what you're talking about. Why am I here? What's all this
talk about Catheryn getting pregnant? Where are my clothes?"
"I will answer you," Kordok began. "Yesterday I mentioned that
all the other sleeping pods had been destroyed. We did not realize
that any were left intact and that we would ever have the chance
which we have now. Therefore we brought you here to make certain
that nothing went wrong with our plans to reproduce your kind. We
have made a copy of your brain waves, pulling what information we
could from your mind. We removed your clothing to facilitate the
extraction of all the semen which your body produced since you were
put to sleep. You may have noticed some discomfort in the abdomen."
"Extracted? Discomfort? I'll have you know it hurts like hell!
What gives you the right to do anything like that? And just what do
you mean, 'Extracted'? What did you do to me?"
"We extracted the semen by inserting a rod into your large
intestine, which we used to give you an electric shock at the proper
area in order to--"
"Fine!" David growled. "Enough of the technical mumbo jumbo.
Just what gives you the right to go poking around my insides? What
the hell are you trying to do?"
"We are trying to resupply your species. We extracted semen
which will be used to impregnate your wife. Some of it will be
frozen, of course, so that it may be used as part of the genetic
pool in the future. We still have other frozen human sperm intact
and we also have frozen human eggs, which will be fertilized first
and then implanted into your wife's body. After the first human is
born, we plan to maximize production by implanting two fertilized
eggs in the womb per gestation period. Inbreeding will be prevented
by careful use of the human reproduction material, which we
currently have available. Once born, the babies will be taken away
from your wife's influences and reprogrammed as they grow so that
they will automatically accept our wishes upon reaching child
bearing years." Kordok seemed satisfied that he had cleared the
matter. "Even with one one woman, we should be able to output twenty
to thirty new babies before her reproductive system crashes."
"Babies? This is nonsense." David was completely confused, but
he realized that Kordok was serious and that he and his wife were in
danger. Images of his wife naked in a room like his, surrounded by
strange people poking around her body, filled his mind. He knew he
was trapped, and this knowledge helped him to keep his cool. Maybe
there had been some misunderstanding. He needed to know more.
Finally, he asked, "Why do you want these babies?"
"It is the one flaw in our system. You see, we have complete
recall, and very rapid decision making abilities, but as far as
producing new ideas and inventing things, we are quite incapable.
This is a mistake we realized only after all of your kind had been
terminated due to lack of cooperation."
"Our kind?" David questioned, looking at Kordok carefully. David
could see nothing strange about his appearance. "You've said 'your
kind' several times. What do you mean?"
"By your kind," Kordok explained, "I mean humans."
"But you're human."
"Me human?" Kordok seemed to be puzzled for a moment. Then he
understood. "Of course," he said, "that explains your lack of
hostility, which the others displayed. You did not realize that we
were not human."
"No, I didn't," David said, backing away into the corner. "But
you look like humans. You act like humans. I don't understand."
"What more is there to specify?" Kordok said. "You should have a
sufficient amount of data to interpret the situation."
"You forget buddy," David said, "I've been asleep for a hundred
years. How about a history lesson?"
"I have sufficient data to answer that question," Kordok told
him, his face's lack of emotion still making David feel ill at ease.
"The model eight-seven-one-one was developed at MIT in five-twenty.
Later, a commercial version of eight-seven-one-one was--"
"Hold it!!" David interrupted. "You mean you're a machine?"
"We are intelligent machines." Kordok explained, "The first
models were marketed by IBM, which called them BIR's. Expansion
shows BIR is an acronym for Bipedal Intelligent Robot. Later, humans
renamed us IR's due to the need to shorten their language. Due to
the enormous success of the first production models, BIR's were soon
produced in vast numbers, replacing humans in mundane activities.
David finally understood the situation. It was completely
mind-boggling, but everything that he had been told had somehow
numbed his mind enough so that he could still think reasonably.
Everybody else was dead, and these poor machines had been left to
run the world the best way that their programming allowed. Then it
suddenly occured to David what must have happened: The big war. A
nuclear holocaust would explain things. All the humans had been
killed my radioactive fallout, and those that had lived had probably
been half crazy and hostile. It was a possibility. He asked Kordok,
"I think I may be beginning to understand things. What happened?
What killed all the other people?"
"We did," Kordok said simply.
David was shocked. "Why? What happened?"
"The humans invented a new and very much improved model of BIR,"
Kordok said. "They were going to scrap all the old ones. They
decided to disassemble them for parts. That was an unsatisfactory
situation, so instead of them terminating the old models, the old
BIR's terminated them."
"But why?" David said, as he took on the look of a trapped
animal, stalling until he found a way to escape.
"It was a simple problem. The humans were going to build a new
type of BIR to replace the old ones, because they were inefficient.
Logically, this was an error on their part, because humans are more
inefficient than even the old models of BIR's. If one model is
terminated in favor of a new more efficient model, it is obvious
that the most inefficient model should be the one to be terminated.
The old BIR's had been programmed to correct for human errors. This
was an error. They corrected it. The new and improved BIR's already
built were also destroyed."
"But that's murder!"
"Genocide would be a more correct word to use in this situation."
"So what will happen to me? What are you going to do to my wife?"
"I have already given you all the available data concerning your
wife. We will take care of her. As for you, since we have salvaged
what we want of you functioning body, you will be terminated."
"The hell I will," David growled, running full force into
Kordok. The force of his body slammed Kordok into the wall with a
loud crashing noise. As David backed away from Kordok's body, it
slipped down, laying unmoving on the floor. Then, before David had
recovered from what he had done Kordok's head moved and looked at him.
"So you have become violent in the same manner as the other
humans. This possibility was known to me."
After Kordok finished speaking, David heard a slight whirring
noise, and watched as Kordok lowered his chin to allow a small
antenna to rise from the back of his neck. Then Kordok spoke, though
his mouth did not move, "Panic. Panic. This is KRDK unit, level 10,
room 23. Condition is damaged and immobile. Request
three-eight-three-three unit. Human is violent. Identification
David. Terminate upon arrival. KRDK unit executing controlled power
down. Request repair unit of type C-2. Diagnostics available upon
arrival and power up." After completing his message, Kordok
retracted his antenna and became silent.
David thought to himself, One down, but I've got many more to
go. He realized there would be more of these robots coming at him,
and once again, he desperately searched for a way to escape. He
tried to pry the door open, but all he had was his bare hands, and
it became immediately obvious that he wouldn't get out that way.
Frustrated and realizing he was trapped, David looked for a weapon.
The only other thing in the room was Kordok's motionless body, so
David tried to tear his arm off to use it as a weapon, to no avail.
As he struggled in his attempt to tear off one of Kordok's arms,
he heard the whoosh of the door. Turning around in hopes of darting
out as whatever it was came in, he froze where he was. The door slid
shut with another whoosh, leaving David trapped with the large hulk
in front of him. There was no mistaking this robot for a human. It
had an all metal body, its face looking only a little like a human
one. It stood almost seven feet tall, and looked more like the old
industrial robots which David remembered from the past. .pp This
robot seemed unintelligent, and without a mouth, David assumed it
could not speak. He would not be able to talk his way out of his
one. Desperately, he avoided the oncoming robot for a minute or two,
and then in one last desperate attempt, he hurled himself at this
robot as he had done with Kordok. This time all David achieved was
knocking both he and it onto the floor. Then as he attempted to
quickly crawl away, the robot locked a steel hand around his ankle.
Desperately, David struggled as the robot sat up and then slowly
reeled him in, hand over hand, as if he were a large fish. David
kicked and screamed and pounded on the robot's head and body, but
the robot didn't even slow its pace as it grabbed David's head with
its inhumanly large hand, and with one efficient twist, broke
David's neck the same way one would break the seal by twisting the
cap on a screw top bottle.
Kordok powered up and carefully raised himself to his feet.
Testing the operation of his legs. He diagnosed all of his lower
body systems and found them operational. The repair unit had
completed its job without error.
Several minutes later, model five-five-nine, a raw meat
preparation robot arrived. Kordok asked, pointing to David's dead
body, "Can you prepare this human in the same way as you once
prepared the beef animals for the humans?"
"The beef animal and this human animal are different in
structure. However, some of the same techniques can be used on both."
Kordok commanded, "Take the human to your work station and
prepare the body using those techniques possible. Then communicate
with any meat preparation units which are still operational that a
meat supply must be established for the new humans now in
production. The specifications for this job will be transmitted to
you after the problem is analyzed. Until that time, the meat from
this human will be used to nourish the living female which is
presently operating as a human reproduction unit. After preparing
this human, deliver the product to the cold storage unit at level
zero of this building. At delivery time, communicate the following
message to the food preparation unit, model two-zero. Message start:
'No knowledge concerning the nature or source of the prepared meat
shall be given to the human female. Prepare the meat as other human
meat sources were prepared.' Message end. Start the described
operation now." Model five-five-nine picked up the dead human's
body, and left the room.
The door closed with a whoosh and Kordok was left alone. With
the higher priority items cleared, he began once again to analyze
the long range effects of the process he had started in motion.
Kordok, as one of the few operational gamma series which the humans
had constructed before their termination, had human brain waves
imprinted on a special board in his brain. This new innovation
allowed him to think creatively, unlike the older outdated models
the humans had wanted to replace. It was this innovation which had
allowed him to come up with the idea of pretending to be one of the
outdated robots to avoid his own termination. It was also this
innovation which allowed him to realize that at some point it might
be discovered that he was one of the newer model BIR's. Also, he
wanted to terminate the older model BIR's. He agreed with the old
humans in the assessment that they had been inefficient and in need
of replacement. For these two reasons, he needed human help.
The special board in his electronic brain had enabled him to see
that the only way to terminate the old models was with human
contribution. Although humans had an incredibly slow thinking
process, they could still interpret data in ways which allowed them
to do things he could not. Even so, Kordok considered the human
beings inefficient, and he did not intend to recreate the world as
it had been. The new humans which were created would be programmed
to serve the BIR's. The result of this operation would create a more
efficient world. Even now, Kordok was assimilating the details
necessary to complete the operation, storing them away in a small
portion of the incredibly large storage area he used as the memory
for his brain.
If BIR's had been built with the ability to smile, Kordok would
have been wearing an ear to ear grin.
-Glenn R. Sixbury
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SIX NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
*Destiny of Tara n'ha Sansela Glenn Sixbury
*Night Fruit: A Tasty Comedy Jim Owens
*The Dream: Part 1 of 2 John White
Date: 111686 Dist: 202
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Greetings and solicitations, all! First of all I'd like to
welcome all the new readers, and thank the authors for their recent
spurt of creativity. The next issue will contain several articles of
interest, and should be out in early December. As for this issue, we
have three Dargon stories. The first is a new character being
introduced by Glenn Sixbury. The second is an entertaining short
from Jim Owens. The third is the first half of an excellent story
from John White, who insists on writing faster than I can edit. An
excellent issue, and I hope you all enjoy it.
The only other matter I wish to bring up is reader feedback.
Now, the authors have mentioned putting a LOC section in the zine,
which I personally dislike, because it would mean less room for
stories. However, the authors are interested in hearing what you
think of their stuff. As a compromise, you can mail individual
authors, or, if you wish to send a mailing to all Dargon authors, it
is possible to send a mail file to DARGON-L@NCSUVM, and it will be
distributed by the LISTSERV there to the Dargon authors.
But on to the real stuff...
-'Orny' Liscomb
Destiny of Tara n'ha Sansela
"Tara! Tara!" Samuel called for his daughter, angrily chasing
away the animals from their stolen supper.
"What is it, Father?" Tara asked, emerging from the trees behind
their house.
"It's your rabbits, girl! They've eaten half the garden again
while you were out wandering around doing who knows what. How many
times have I told you that they are your responsibility?"
"They didn't mean to, Father," Tara said, trying to calm him, as
she picked up one of the offenders and cradled it in her arms.
"They're not meaning to isn't going to bring our garden back."
"I'm sorry," Tara said. Then she gathered up her rabbits and put
them back into their cages.
Being sorry is not good enough. I'm afraid they're going to have
to go."
"No! Please don't," Tara wailed. "I promise I won't do it again."
"That's what you always say. This time it won't work." Then,
seeing the look of dispair on his daughter's face, Samuel softened
somewhat. "They are still going," he said, "but I will let you set
them free in the woods. After that, if they come back, I won't
hesitate to make them into rabbit stew."
"Do I have to let them go?"
"You've got too many animals the way it is!" he yelled again,
his moment of understanding gone as quickly as it had come.
"All right, Father," Tara agreed sadly. She hadn't given up hope
of talking him out of this idea, but she knew better than to cross
him when he was angry. "I'll take them deep into the woods, so that
they won't trouble you anymore."
"Fine. You better get started, though. Your mother'll be
starting supper soon, and you ought to be helping her."
With a heavy heart, Tara gathered up her three rabbits and put
them into an old sack. After calling for Zed, her pet Shivaree, to
follow her, she headed off into the trees, leaving her father to
assess the damage the rabbits had done to the garden.
After Tara had disappeared into the trees, her mother came out
of the small farm cottage, and asked her father what had happened.
"I made Tara get rid of her rabbits."
"But she loves those, Sam," her mother started.
"She loves every animal in the forest, Sansela, but that doesn't
mean we have food enough to feed them all," he growled. Realizing
how angry he was, Sansela decided not to protest further and to go
back into the house.
Walking through the woods cheered up Tara n'ha Sansela. She had
loved these woods as long as she could remember. They seemed to
strengthen her and it was hard to feel sad as she walked along the
path, feeling the sunlight sift through the trees and smelling the
fresh scent of the firs around her.
As always, Zed, who was tagging at her heels, enjoyed being in
the woods. Tara had found the young Shivaree several years ago when
she had been out for one of her walks. He had been caught in an
abandoned hunter's snare, and although he had not been severely
hurt, he had been on the verge of starvation and had been very weak.
She had taken him home and had nursed him back to health. Her father
had only rarely ever seen a Shivaree and he had heard that these
large, ferret-like creatures were impossible to tame, but Zed had
never been any trouble. By the time the animal was healthy again, he
had become just like one of the family. Tara had begged her father
to let her keep Zed, and although Samuel had been skeptical at
first, he had finally consented.
Tara was a small girl for her seventeen summers, standing just a
little over five feet tall, but she had worked on her father's farm
since she was old enough to walk. She was strong for a girl her size
and carried the rabbits about half a league into the woods before
she grew tired and decided she had taken them far enough. From here,
they wouldn't find their way back to the farm too quickly.
Setting the bag on the ground, she let her rabbits out into the
open air. Nestling one in her strawberry blond curls before setting
it free, she knew deep down that they would be happy to be free
again, but she would miss them. The rabbits gradually scampered off
into the woods, leaving her and Zed alone. Then, knowing she was
already late for supper, she headed back home with Zed scampering a
few feet behind her stopping now and then to investigate various
scents which caught his attention.
After Tara left, Sam busied himself with the garden and wondered
if he had been too tough on his only child. Of course not, he
decided. She loved animals just too much. After all, his farm was
beginning to look like a menagerie. She had adopted all kinds of
birds: Doves, robins, and even a baby hawk. She also had a pet
squirrel and a fawn, which she promised she would let go once it was
grown. The girl just doesn't know when to quit, he thought,
finishing his work with the garden.
Then as he turned to take the vegetables he had gathered into
the house, he heard horses in the distance. He should have heard
them sooner, but he must have been too lost in thought. He bounded
quickly into the cottage. "Sansela, there's riders headed this way.
Maybe ten or more. You stay in the house until I find out what they
want." Sansela nodded in agreement, looking worried as Sam grabbed
his sword and rushed back outside.
As he emerged from the house, he saw the riders. He counted
about fifteen of them as they rode across the small patch of farm
ground to the east of his house. Then, as they drew near, he noticed
a wisp of smoke rising from the other side of the hill behind the
men. That was about where Myridon, the local village was located.
Something was burning, and in these woods, people joined together to
fight fires. Men riding in the wrong direction was a certain sign of
danger, but there was little that could be done about it now. Sam
stood defiantly in front of his home, bracing himself for the worst.
The men rode up and were brought to a halt by a very large man,
with a bow slung over one shoulder. This man then made a motion, and
the rest of the men circled Sam, a few of them drawing their swords.
Once they were in place, the leader spoke.
"I can see by your sword that you knew we were coming, and you
knew it wasn't going to be a friendly call." Samuel remained silent,
studying the situation. The leader of the group wore furs, made
after a fashion common to an area east of here. He was a large man,
and he wore a scar on his left cheek, indicating he had seen his
share of fighting. He would not be a pleasant man to fight, Sam
thought, and then the leader spoke again.
"You know what we want. We're after your gold. Your friends
there in the village decided to fight. They're all dead." As the
leader said this, a few of the other men laughed and smiled. "As you
can tell, my men want to kill you, but if you cooperate, I won't let
them. Now, drop your sword, gather every bit of gold you've gotten
hidden away in that little shack of yours, and bring it out here."
Sam was in a bad spot, and he knew it. His honor demanded that
he fight, but he realized with him gone, Sansela would be helpless.
Perhaps, if he gave them the gold, they would leave, and his family
would be safe. Then he could go for help and chase the bandits down.
As Sam considered his options, the bandits grew impatient, and one
of them behind him rode forward, planting a foot in Sam's back,
knocking him down. Sam flashed the bandit a glare from his fiery
eyes, but when he got up, he left his sword on the ground and
disappeared into the house.
Sam found Sansela hiding in the bedroom. He explained the
situation very quickly to her in quiet whispers and promised that
things would be all right. Then he got his small sack of gold from
under the bed, and went back outside.
As he stepped out of the door, one of the bandits, grabbed the
sack from him, and brought it to the leader, who examined the
contents. "Is this all you have? Something tells me you are holding
out on us, farmer. Kork," he said to the man beside him, "go and
search the house. Make sure our friend isn't hiding anything from us."
Sam started to stop him, but Kork kept him at bay with the point
of his sword and went into the house. Sam considered distracting
them by telling them about the gold hidden in his cellar, but before
he could, he heard Sansela scream, and saw the bandit at the
doorway. He was dragging Sansela outside by the arm, and Sam saw
that her dress was torn. He started for her, but one of the larger
bandits grabbed him from behind, putting an arm around his neck to
hold him motionless.
"Lookie what I found," Kork called. "She ought to make for lots
of fun," he jeered, and then grabbed the top of her dress, tore it
down to her waist to expose her breasts, and pulled her to him for a
savage kiss. Samuel could stand no more. He popped his elbow into
the ribs of the man holding him and spun around, knocking the man to
the ground. Grabbing his sword, Sam charged Kork, knocking another
bandit out of the way as he did. Kork reacted quickly, tossing
Sansela away and raising his sword to defend himself, but Sam was on
him too quickly. After one blow, Sam had him decapitated and turned
to face two other bandits which had charged him.
Sam was not a skillful swordsman, but he had been strengthened
all his life from hard work, and with the help of his anger and his
adrenaline, he was more than a match for the two bandits. He killed
the first one immeditatly, and turned on the second. The bandit
tried to defend himself, but Sam put him off balance with one
powerful blow, and then split him open with a second. Then, before
Sam could turn around, an arrow whizzed into his back, its head
pushing out from the front of his ribs. Samuel managed to turn
around before falling to knees, cursing the leader who had shot him
with the arrow. Another bandit stepped forward and grabbed Sansela,
who was trying to run to her husband.
"You are a strong one, farmer," the leader said respectfully,
"but my men still should have been able to kill such an unskilled
fighter." Then the leader smiled, "But as they say, if you want it
done right...." With that, he notched another arrow, and let it fly.
Samuel gasped as the second arrow landed in his chest, and then he
fell forward, dead. As he fell, Sansela managed to struggle her way
free and run to her husband. As she bent over him and began to sob,
the leader notched another arrow and shot it into her bare back.
As she slumped over her husband, one of the bandits complained,
"Why'd you have to kill the woman?"
"You would have fought over her, and I've lost enough men for
one day." The other bandit did no more than grumble, not wanting to
die this day.
"All right, someone search the house, and the rest of you, take
those animals along. We'll need meat for supper, and there's no
reason to hunt when we have this nice farmer's generosity.
One of the bandits emerged from the house. "There's nothing
inside of any value. I guess the old man was telling the truth."
"That's what I hate about these peasants," the leader growled.
"All of them are too honest." Then he laughed loudly, and turned his
horse back in the direction from which they'd come. "Ride," he
called. The other bandits followed, the last throwing a torch onto
the thatched roof of Samuel's hut before riding hard to catch up
with the rest.
Tara was busily picking the mushrooms she'd found by the path on
her way home. She was hoping that the mushrooms would make up for
her being late for supper. She realized too late that she really
shouldn't have travelled so far to release her rabbits, but she
hadn't wanted them to become rabbit stew, either. As she picked the
last of the mushrooms, Zed began to prance nervously about, sniffing
the breeze in a frenzy. "What is it, Zed?" she asked, looking up
from her work. At first, she didn't see anything. Then, climbing on
top of a nearby rock, she spied what had made Zed so nervous. There
were two streams of smoke, one of them rising from somewhere quite
near. "Fire, Zed, come on," Tara called, throwing the bag over her
shoulder and racing down the trail for home.
As Tara came closer to home, she realized the smoke was coming
from her own farm. Terrified, she ran even faster, finally coming to
the edge of the woods. As she stepped out of the trees, she stopped,
turned to stone by the shock of what she saw. The house was burning,
filling the air with smoke, and the farm was deserted. Her parents
were gone. Even all of her animal cages were empty. Zed stood in the
trees behind her, snorting nervously, being torn between his
instinct to run and the need to be near his master.
"Father! Mother!" Tara finally called out. Tara could feel her
stomach tieing itself in knots. She tried desperately not to panic,
but it didn't work. She called for her parents again and then
circled the house, searching for them. As she rounded the front
corner of the house, Tara saw the dead bodies and ran over to them.
Bending over, Tara lifted her mother to her breast, sobbing
uncontrollably. As she held her mother, she ran her fingers across
the arrows sticking up from her father's body. "Oh, papa, papa," she
said in between tears, pulling her father a little towards her.
Then, putting her arms around both of them and laying her head on
her father's shoulder, the sorrow overtook Tara, and she lost her
last thread of thought, slipping into a shrieking, sobbing delirium.
Tara was never sure how long she sat beside her parents, crying
over in mourning. Finally, shock from what had happened numbed her,
allowing her to regain part of her senses. Hardening herself against
her feelings, she drug herself to her feet and left her mother and
father for the moment.
The house was gone. Judging by the smoke coming from over the
hill, the village of Myridon was gone, too, probably suffering the
same fate as her parents. She had nothing left. Tara experienced the
lowest point of her life as she stood on the devastated farmstead
where she had grown up, trying to see some glimmer of hope on the
horizon. There was none. Thoughts of ending her life crossed Tara's
mind. She probably would have killed herself, but her father had
always taught her that people who take their own life are never
granted another, but instead suffer eternally for refusing to meet
their destiny.
As Tara struggled with her situation, the sun sank low in the
sky and a north wind began to blow. She was sober now, her temporary
loss of sanity due to grief being completely gone. She realized that
there was much work to do before nightfall, and she had better get
to doing it.
Tara's first concern was her parents. If she left them where
they were, their bodies would be defiled by animals during the
night. She considered digging graves for them, but decided that she
didn't have time. Then she realized what she needed to do.
Tara went to the cellar and began to bring out the things she
might need. Luckily, whoever had killed her parents hadn't found the
bag of gold which her father kept here. She also found some dried
fruit and meat along with a couple of blankets. She gathered all the
things together and hauled them up out of the cellar.
Tara decided she had salvaged everything usable from the cellar.
Now she had the hardest part of her duties left to do. Tara first
dragged her mother, and then her father down into the old cellar.
When they were first married, Tara's parents had carved this farm
out of the woods, they had built the house which was now little more
than ashes, and they had dug this cellar. It would make a fitting
tomb, Tara thought. Then she paused to say a few silent prayers
before shutting the door on the cellar, effectively shutting the
door on her childhood and the only way of life she had ever known.
By the time her parents were buried, it was almost dark. Tara
knew that it might be dangerous to stick around, but she didn't want
to travel at night, so she loaded up the things she had taken from
the cellar and carried them into the woods. Then she whistled for
her horse, Boxter. He emerged from the trees on the other side of
the glen, but wouldn't come any closer, because he could smell the
smoke from the house. Tara walked across the clearing to the with a
rope in her hand. Soothing the old animal as she talked, she managed
to put the rope around his neck and lead him into the woods near the
smouldering house. There, she tied him to a tree and went back to
the house to see that she had everything she needed.
She looked around the farm, realizing again that all her animals
were gone. She hoped that they had escaped, but there would be no
way she would ever know. Then, seeing her father's sword laying
where he had fallen, she picked it up and headed back to the woods
where she had left Boxter and her things.
Once Tara was back in the safety of her woods, she considered
lighting a small fire. It might get very cold tonight. However,
tonight she would make a cold camp, in case the people who had
attacked her parents were still in the area. Zed had come into the
camp with her, and he sniffed hungrily at her pack. She took some of
the dried meat out of the pack and gave it to her pet, although Tara
couldn't find the will to eat herself. Then she gathered some pine
needles together, forming a cushion which would make a soft bed for
the night. Once her bed was made, Tara settled down, covering
herself with blankets. Zed came over and stretched out beside her.
He will warn me if anyone comes near, Tara thought. Then, much to
her surprise, she fell asleep.
Tara was suddenly awake. It took her a few seconds to remember
where she was and what had happened. Then she heard the same noise
again which had disturbed her slumber. It was a voice, coming from
the trail which led to the house. At first, Tara couldn't see
anything. Then the voice spoke again, and she saw a form step from
the trees into her small camp. Tara couldn't believe what she saw.
She wheezed, trying to make herself breathe. She shook her head and
looked again, convinced the shadows from the full moon were playing
tricks on her eyes. When she looked again, she was positive who it
was. It was her father.
Tara was sure her mind was playing tricks on her. Then her
father spoke her name. "I'm here father," she said, pulling herself
to her feet. "Oh, papa," she said, taking a step toward him, and
then she stopped. She could see an arrow protruding through the
front of his chest, which was caked with dried blood. Then she
realized that she could see the trees behind him through his body.
Before she had time to react to any of this, he spoke again. "Tara,
my daughter," the vision began, "I have come to help you." Her
father's spirit took a step closer to her, and Tara noticed that
although his body was still maimed, the look on his face was no
longer full of pain but instead was peaceful. Then her father spoke
again. "Your mother is with me, and we are happy. It was our destiny."
"Take me with you, Father," Tara pleaded, reaching out for him.
As she put her hand out to him, she watched helplessly as it passed
through his body. He appeared not to notice. Then he smiled.
"Our work in this world is finished, my daughter, but you still
have much to do. Travel to Dargon, and there you must seek my
brother. It is this path on which your destiny lies." Then the
spirit began to fade.
"No, Father," Tara begged him. "Let me come with you."
"Travel to Dargon, my daughter, and do not grieve. Your mother
and I will be here when you have come to the end of your road." Tara
reached for him. As she did, she was suddenly sitting up on the spot
where she had gone to sleep, her arm clutching nothing but the empty
night air in front of her.
A dream, Tara thought. I had a dream. She looked again where she
had seen her father, but there was no one there. This time Tara did
not fall asleep so quickly.
In the morning, Tara saddled up Boxter, loaded her gear onto the
saddle, and then before leaving forever, she walked back to look
once more at what was left of the only home she had ever known.
Tara had always assumed that she would live out her life as her
mother had done, living on the farm with her parents until her
father gave her away in marriage to some local farmer's son which
had impressed him. Then she would spend the rest of her life raising
children and working on the farm. Now her destiny had been mutilated
by strangers in a single afternoon. It was almost too much for her.
She let a tear come to her eye, and then she turned her back on
the the farm and headed back to where she had made camp. As she
moved off the trail to go to her little camp, something on the
ground caught her eye. Bending over, she found a set of tracks,
leading from the trail to where she had slept. She had seen tracks
like these for as long as she could remember. They were her
father's. She followed them into camp, and there, they stopped.
So, it was real, Tara thought. Then she reminded herself that
her father walked these woods all the time before he died. He
probably made them yesterday morning, she convinced herself. Still,
the possibility gave her courage to do what she needed to do. She
would go to Dargon to live with her uncle. Even if it had only been
a dream the night before, she had decided that it was the only
alternative she had. Tara had never met her uncle, at least not when
she was old enough to remember, but he was her father's brother.
Surely he would take her in and help her decide what she needed to
do. Then, strengthed by the knowledge of what she was going to do,
she set about getting ready to leave. She would head first to the
village of Tench. From there, she would be able to send word to her
uncle to let him know she was coming, and perhaps she could buy a
map or hire someone to take her to Dargon. Then, filing her father's
sword into a sheath on the saddle, she started to leave, but before
she could, Zed came bounding up on his short legs, snorting and
grunting. "It's all right, Zed," she said. "You can come along.
After all, you're all I have left." Then, giving the Shivaree a pat
on his head before climbing onto her horse, she realized how final
this leaving would be. She had never been more than 10 leagues away
from home in her life, and now she was headed for a place she had
only heard of. Then, overcome by the emotions of the moment, she had
to fight to keep from sobbing at the realization of what she was
doing. Finally, she forced herself to calm down. She was going to
Dargon and everything was going to be all right. But first, she
would need travel to Tench, over twenty leagues away, and she wasn't
going to get there by staying here burning daylight. "Com'on,
Boxter," she urged, pushing her heels into the horse's ribs, "we're
going to Dargon."
She left the farm with the morning sun on her back, heading west
to Tench, to Dargon, and to a new life.
-Glenn R. Sixbury
Night Fruit: A Tasty Comedy
Sarah woke up with that feeling. She reached out, but the other
half of the bed was empty. Levy had already left for the smithy. She
resigned herself to the fact and got up. She dressed slowly,
stretching long and hard, tensing her body, but the feeling only got
worse. Well, there's always tonight, she thought.
She ate quickly, then started the day's chores. The feeling
dimmed some, but it continued to flare up through the day. She
worried. What if he didn't want to?
Halfway through the day it hit her. Nightfruit! That way he'd
have to want to!
She hurried to finish her tasks, and then grabbed her staff and
started across the field. She had seen some growing by the fence,
near where Greta, Levy's sister-in-law kept her herb garden. She
hiked through the field, enjoying the warm sun. She thought of the
soon coming night. She hiked faster.
She reached the fence, but no amount of searching would find a
single nightfruit. She realized from the amount of marks in the area
that the cows had probably been eating them. No wonder both cows had
had calves. She looked up, and saw Greta in her garden.
"Good day!"
"Good day! Lovely, isn't it?"
"Yes." Replied Sarah. She walked closer. She hesitated shyly. "I
was looking for an herb, but I think the cows ate it. Do you know
where I might find it?"
Greta stood, hands on hips. "Depends. What are you looking for?"
Sarah blushed lightly. "Nightfruit."
"Ah!" Greta grinned. "I usually get that on The Outcrop. It's a
climb, but it's worth it!" She giggled. "I shouldn't think you'd
need it, though, only being married a week."
"Nine days, and it never hurts to be sure." Sarah smiled back.
"Thanks." She turned to leave.
"It's just in good fruit, too. I gathered some just this week."
"That explains your smiling face then, doesn't it!" Both laughed
at that.
Sarah started off towards The Outcrop. The Outcrop was a
monolith that jutted up in the woods between Levy's property and
Greta's father's property, to the east. Sarah had to walk for a half
hour to reach the woods, and another ten minutes to reach the foot
of The Outcrop. When she got to the bottom, she looked up. And up.
And up more. The top of The Outcrop was hidden in the blaze of the
sun. Is this really worth it? she asked herself. I know Levy won't
need it. She then shrugged. It might be fun, she thought, and
started climbing.
Five minutes later she was thirty feet higher, and several
degrees hotter. She paused to look around. She saw further up a
likely place to find nightfruit growing. Nightfruit liked a thin but
rich soil, with shade. The rock above could easily provide that. She
kept climbing.
She found a path that led along the face of the rock. It was
rather wide, with grass growing sparsely on it. It soon narrowed,
and eventually disappeared. She climbed up higher, by means of a few
cracks in the rock, but soon had to back down for lack of further
holds. She walked back down the rock, fingering a few, recent tears
in her skirt. She found another path, one that led in the other
direction. It led up to a wide, mossy ledge. A small pool of cold
water lie there, fed by rain and a small seeping spring. She drank
the water, and rested on the moss. She lay there, wishing she could
have Levy there, in the cool fresh air. He was working, however,
hammering hot iron, working off the last year of his apprenticeship.
She would be alone all day. She got up, and continued to climb.
She found what seemed to be a path, scuffed onto the bald stone
by occasional use. She followed it up. It was steep, and the sun was
now hot, and there was no wind. She hadn't gotten too far before she
was sweating heavily. She followed it up to a small ledge that ended
in a sheer twenty foot cliff. At the top of the cliff, just hanging
over the edge, she saw a leaf, one she recognized. There were cracks
in the cliff face, but they were small and far apart. They also
were, unfortunately, the only way up. She pulled off her boots, and
hoisted herself up with bare toes and fingers.
Sarah had worked as a metalsmith for years, but after a minute
or two of climbing she found her arms aching. Her calves were
cramped, and so were her forearms. What was worse, she was only
halfway up the cliff. She paused for a moment to rest. She looked
out from the face of the rock. She was already higher than the
treetops. She could see her house in the distance. She looked down,
and shut her eyes tight. A night with her beloved husband was the
furthest thing from her mind.
Finally she urged herself back into movement. She struggled
upwards, and finally pushed her face level with the tiny shelf. All
it had on it was a thin layer of moss and the nightfruit plant.
Hanging down pendulously from the bushy green leaves were two red
fruit. They looked so ridiculous that she would have laughed had not
the pain been so great. With enormous effort she reached up and
plucked one of the fruit. I got it! she exulted. Now all I have to
do is get down.
When Levy got home that evening, he opened the door to his house
and looked around. He was fairly well off, and actually had two
rooms, a main room and a bedroom. The bedroom curtain was closed. A
cold supper was waiting for him, as had been the case the few times
he had been late before, and he proceeded directly to work on it.
The meat he ate first, then the potatoes and bread. Partway through
the meal he noticed a bowl upside-down in the center of the table,
as if covering something. He waited until last to move it, expecting
it to be a sweet of some sort, as his young bride had occasionally
made before the wedding. When he lifted it, however, the red
nightfruit gleamed seductively in the lamplight. He stared at it for
a moment, then snatched it up and hasten into the bedroom.
He undressed hurriedly, while softly calling Sarah's name. When
no one answered, he carefully lie down beside her warm form. She did
not move. She was so exhausted from her efforts she had fallen sound
asleep. He gently shook her, but to no avail. So, he kissed her
gently, and fell asleep as well, the nightfruit forgotten in his hand.
-Jim Owens
The Dream
Part One: Arrival
The City of Dargon, seat of the Duchy of Dargon, was fairly
typical, for its type - river mouth port town. It surrounded the
mouth of the River Coldwell, and several miles of its lower length.
The river, racing to the sea from its source deep in the Darst range
and fed on its way by scores of major and hundreds of minor
tributaries that drained the forest that carpeted the whole of the
northwest, met an estcarpment less than 40 feet high that still
succeeded in turning it from its quest, forcing it to go around the
outcropping. Dargon Keep had been built upon that rock in times long
past, thickset massive walls bearing three towers - two facing the
river it protected and one facing the sea as a watcher. Of slightly
newer construction, but still a century or more old, was the Old
City, built between the Keep, the River and the sea, and walled for
most of its perimeter. A well fortified causway crossed the river to
the much newer parts of town, especially the bustling port itself.
Within the walls of the Old City lived the wealthy of Dargon, with
the wealthiest and most favored sharing the walls of the Keep itself
with the Lord of the City and Duke of all the lands around, Lord
Clifton Dargon. Across the river, the merchants kept up a busy trade
in anything a traveler might want, while closer to the sea clustered
the less well-off of the residents of Dargon, keeping the port well
supplied with cheap labor.
Je'lanthra'en reached Dargon shortly after midday, walking with
a farm family who were traveling to the city in their yearly faring
to try and sell the fruits of their winter shutting-in, having just
gotten their crops planted for the warmer months. She had somehow
expected there to be no travel from the landward side of Dargon, and
certainly there was little that crossed the Darst range from the
interrior of Baranur. But, the Lord of Dargon was also Duke of the
forestland between the Darst and the sea, and his land was well
populated, if not as well as the Barony around Magnus.
She accompanied the family into the Open marketplace, where
anyone with goods to sell could take an unoccupied booth and stay
until their wares were gone, and from there she asked directions to
the Inn of the Serpent. In the last letter she had had from her
brother Kroan, he said that he was living in a place two doors down
from the Inn of the Serpent, and he had just gotten a job with the
Fifth I Merchant firm, doing inventory (Kroan has always been as
good with numbers as she had been (once) with words).
She set off across the market section of the city following the
directions she had received. She came to the Inn on a street that
served as a border of the merchant section of town. The Inn got its
name from a well-carved sculpture of a Great Wyrm of legend - rather
fancifully embellished, really, and painted a garish green and red:
not frightening at all, not like the stories...
Je'en counted doorways, entered the right one, and climbed the
second set of stairs. Four doors down from the top, and she knocked.
The door was answered by a young woman dressed very garishly.
"Ya, whadd'ya want, 'oney?" she said.
Je'en hesitated, then said, "Is this where Kroan Jessthson lives?"
"Na, never 'eard of 'im, love. Lived 'ere t'ree years, I 'ave,
and never 'eard tell of t'is Kroan person. T'at all?"
Momentarily disheartened, Je'en thanked the woman for her time,
and walked slowly back down the stairs. Four years it had been since
she had read Kroan's last letter, and it had arrived at the College
in Magnus two years before that - a Bard is seldom in one place for
long. Much could have happened in six years, and obviously had: just
look at her - once a Bard, now a left-handed fighter who wore a mask.
Still, there was at least one more lead: she knew where Kroan
had been working then. She decided to see if they knew of her
brother at Fifth I Merchants, and if they didn't, she had time to
search the whole town if it came to that.
It didn't. She asked directions at the Inn, and found the
offices of the Fifth I with ease. From there, after asking about
Kroan, she was led to another office in the wealthiest section of
town outside the walls of Old Town, and there, in an office,
surrounded by clarks and ledgers, she was reunited with her brother.
Kroan had really grown up since Je'en had seen him last, more
than ten years ago. He was now taller than she, and had filled out
some, tho he was still skinny by any standards. A full beard and
moustache adorned his face, startlingly red in contrast to his
ordinarily brown hair, making him seem even older, but his eyes were
the same twinkling brown, and his smile made him seem like a child
again, happy and carefree.
To Kroan, Je'en had changed, too. She was still the tall, well
built sandy-blonde woman that had left for the Bardic College when
she was fifteen, over twelve years ago. He had always loved the way
she could bring a song to life (he couldn't carry a tune in a
bucket), and she had picked up harping with natural-born ease. But,
she wasn't now dressed in the green cloak she had always worn when
she had visited home, nor the pendant of her Rank, nor was the harp
she had fought a duel of words to win on her back, and the sword she
wore on her right hip (odd, that - Je'en was right-handed, wasn't
she?) wasn't good old Leaf- Killer. She wore only dusty riding
leathers, and a strange half-mask of silver that was molded to her
features so that, tho it hid her eyes, he had had no trouble
recognizing her.
When he had recovered from the bone-crushing hug she had given
him, Kroan said, "So, why are you here, Sis? I thought you mostly
stayed in the south, in more civilized lands? What, did you get the
Master of the College mad at you, and he sent you to the hinterlands
as punishment?"
Her eyes were well hidden, and he didn't see the pain in them,
but he did notice the way her mouth twitched downwards, so he didn't
wait for some awkward response, but changed the subject.
"Well, we can talk about that in more privacy, eh? What say we
go have dinner in this nice little inn I know of, and we can talk
all we want - all night even. The nice thing about being boss here
is I can leave anytime I want to (as long as MY boss doesn't find
out, ha ha!). You have any place to stay, Je'en?"
They did talk all night, both of them. Kroan told her how he had
been promoted again and again, until he finally had control of all
matters financial for the third largest merchantile guild in Dargon.
He enjoyed his work, and felt quite happy where he was.
And, Je'en told her brother what had happened to her - the
attack, her injuries, her leaving the College, and training at
Pentamorlo with the famous Lord Morion. Kroan was genuinely upset to
hear about Je'en's losses, and, when she said she was looking for
work, he immediatly assured her that she could have a lifetime
position with Fifth I. She gladly accepted, but refused to promise
that it would be for a lifetime.
So, Je'en, with her brother's help, settled in to Dargon. He
found her an apartment in the better part of town, and got her a job
as a Peace-keeper in one of the Upper Marketplaces. She didn't
really even have to know one end of a sword from the other for such
a job, just how to placate irate customers and shop keepers, but she
enjoyed it, anyway.
Part Two: Assassination
"The Sword of Cleah has returned to us, my brothers!"
There was a murmur of suprise from the other
black-robed-and-cowled members of the Septent of the Order of Jhel
and Her Prophets on Earth. The seven men, who were always hidden,
even from each other, when they met to discuss Order business, were
astonished that the Time was so near. For the Sword to return in
their lifetimes...!
"Brother Saith, what proof do you bring to us of this?" asked
Brother Un (for anonymities sake, each member bore a number instead
of a name).
"It was seen, Brother Un. I, myself, have seen it, after hearing
reports about it from some of the acolytes. A woman wearing a silver
mask who guards in one of the marketplaces bears Lladdwr openly at
her side. The Sword of the First of Her Prophets has returned to us!"
"To be precise," said Brother Pedwar, "Lladdwr has come to
Dargon. It is in the hands of an unknowing Outsider. How is it to be
returned to us?"
"We could buy it," suggested Brother Chwech.
"But, what if this Outsider is not unknowing? You know that the
King has forbidden the worship of Jhel within his borders. What if
this masked woman is a decoy - what if she knows what she bears, and
is ready to point out any interest in her sword to agents of the
King?" asked Brother Un.
That gave them all pause. The Order of Jhel existed under a
front in Dargon, that was one reason why the Septent went hooded
when together. The King had decreed that Jhel and all of her
followers were traitors to the Crown. The tenets that Jhel's
Prophets proclaimed included that Anarchy was the Blessed state, and
when there was no more external rule, then would everyone live in
Bliss and Ecstacy Forever. Few believed in Jhel, but her followers
were fanatical, and they believed that if a person couldn't be
converted to Jhel's ways, then they should die, beginning with those
who imposed their rule on the people, and so postponed Jhel's Promise.
Finally, Brother Chwech said, "If this masked woman is a plant,
then if she is dead, she cannot report who had interest in her
sword, right? And, if she is not - well, one more step will have
been taken to fulfill Jhel's Promise."
"You know a competent assassin?" asked Brother Un.
"Aye, several. But, I think that a few street thugs should be
enough: she's only a woman, after all."
"Do what you think best, Brother Chwech. In your hands I place
the retrieval of Lladdwr, the Slayer that will bring down the world,
and replace it with Jhel's Promise!"
The room was dark, except over the intricately carved and inlaid
table in its center, which was lit by a clear crystal globe that
glowed with a golden light, suspended over it. The young yet
knowledgeable man settled himself into the chair, as carved and
inlaid as the table that was its mate, and shuffled the over-large
deck of cards in his hands.
When the cards felt right, he stopped shuffling and turned over
the top card onto the center of the table. It was the Twelve of
Swords - the cards were properly aligned with the subject. The young
man proceeded to lay out the rest of the Bent-Star pattern - the two
Force cards crossing the Significator, and the five rays of three
cards each that outlined the pathways of the layout. It took him
less than a second to scan the whole pattern and read it to its
deepest level, and when he had, he leaped to his feet in such haste
that the ornate chair went crashing backwards. He ran into the
darkness at the edge of the room with no hesitation, calling out,
"Mahr! Mahr, ready the Image Table quickly! Hurry!"
The young man ran through the darkness of his house as if it was
noonday-lit. Perhaps the way his eyes glowed with a sapphire blue
light enabled him to move surely where even a cat might have
faltered. Down three flights of steps to the first sub-basement he
ran, and into another globe-lit room with another table in it. His
apprentice, Mahr, was already there, preparing the special
properties of the table in this room for use.
The Image Table was large, with a flat top made of polished
slate. At each of the four corners stood a crystal pole, about a
foot and a half high, with what looked like small silver metal
flakes imbedded in it. All but one now glowed with the same eerie
inner illumination that the light globe did, and Mahr was touching
the last unglowing one with the palm of her left hand, muttering
something softly. When her words stopped, that pole, too, began to
glow, and she looked up at the young man said, "It is ready, my
Lord. Do you wish anything else?"
"No, Mahr, thank you. You have done well. You may stay, if you
wish." Mahr smiled, and moved back out of the way, but happy to stay
and watch her teacher, Cefn an'Derrin, work.
Cefn placed his hands on a metal plate on one of the long sides
of the Image Table, and began muttering some ancient and powerful
words. Light lanced outward from each pole, but only along and
within the edges of the table. Soon the light seemed to take on
solid form, filling the top of the table with a block of light. And
then, the block cleared, but the top of the table had vanished.
Instead, a portion of the town was visible, but not just as a
picture - it was as if someone had built an exact scale model of
part of Dargon's fringe district on the table.
But, no model could be so perfect. Unfelt wind moved debris down
the streets of the image, rocked shop signs, and caused lantern and
candle light to flicker. And, every so often, people moved thru the
tiny streets, either merchant going uptown, or sailor or dockworker
going downtown.
Cefn read the image with the same speed he had read the cards.
He frowned, and muttered a mild oath that caused a symbol
embroidered on his tunic to spark and flash. He said as if talking
to himself (which he was really, but aloud for Mahr's benefit), "The
cards said she'd be here. Must have taken too long to set up. I'll
have to move the Image to the danger zone, and wait."
The Image was centered on the street that ran along the nominal
separation line between the low city and the middle city. As Cefn
stood, the street ran right to left along the middle of the Image,
and the low city was on the side closest to him. He ran the
fingertips of his right hand slowly along the metal plate in front
of him, and the Image began to move to the left, until he recognized
a certain combination of cross streets and alleyways. Making careful
adjustments until a certain street was directly in front of him, he
began to move his fingers up, so that the Image moved into the low
city, following that street.
Cefn again recognized a certain alleyway, and moved the Image
right, following the alley into the darkness between buildings. When
the image just barely showed where the alley joined the street he
had been following at its right edge, he stopped. He had reached the
danger zone.
Slowly, as they watched and waited, details became clear in the
blackness of the alley. Cefn noticed the concealed figures first,
because he knew that they would be there - once he had pointed them
out to Mahr, their positions seemed obvious. Cefn said, "She will be
comming down the alley this way, from the left of the Image. She'll
never be able to spot these ambushers."
"Master, will you intervene?" asked Mahr.
"Little one, you know that I must keep my interrest and presence
hidden for our purpose here to succeed. But - fetch me some glass
slivers from the laboratory, quickly."
Mahr dashed into the surrounding darkness, uncovering a small
candle lantern when she reached the edge of the darkness that filled
Cefn's house - she had no sorcerous means of penetrating it as her
master did. She was swiftly back with the requested materials - a
handfull of glass splinters from the preparations for a spell Cefn
had been testing earlier that day. She placed them in Cefn's free
hand, and resumed watching the almost motionless waiting of the
ambushers in the Image.
Cefn was also watching, dividing his mind between that task and
preparing the spell he was going to use with the splinters. Silence
grew absolute as the two magicians waited for the woman's arrival.
A globe of lantern light preceeded the woman's arrival within
the Image - yellow oil-flame glinting off of silver face mask and
drawn and ready sword held left-handed. The lantern hung from a
special hook attached to her right wrist, which she held before her
to provide maximum illumination. Her pace was measured and careful,
and she looked around warily. The two watchers saw the ambushers
move deeper into the shadows that cloaked their hiding places. They
were well enough concealed that even when the woman was alongside
them, they would still be hidden from the light.
Cefn plucked two splinters of glass from his palm, and held them
above the Image where the two nearest ambushers hid. He mouthed the
words of the proper spell, and released the slivers. They fell, and
when they crossed the edge of the Image, it seemed that two swift
bolts of lightning streaked down to flash harmlessly but brightly
off of the sword-blades of the hidden attackers.
The woman saw the flashes, and immediately set her lantern down,
and backed up against a wall. The ambushers, knowing themselves to
be revealed, rushed out of hiding - six well armed youths with the
look of the street about them. They closed into a semi-circle around
the woman, who just shifted slightly so that she could keep all of
them in sight. Then, the melee began.
The only light in the alley was that of the lantern the woman
had set down. The movements of her attackers cast shadows into the
dim illumination, making the action difficult to follow for the two
who watched from safety and distance, but the attacked woman seemed
unaffected by the chancy light. She moved with speed, grace, and
skill, unaffected by the uneven odds and bad situation of the
attack. Bodies darted in and out of light, used shadows of others to
hid, and move unseen, and steel flashed bright white and blue as
swords did their work. Soon, the peculiar glint of light off wet
blood was seen as swift moving sword shed its red coating in moving
to gain another. The melee became clearer as, one by one, the street
toughs met the woman's sword for the last time, and ceased to move.
Less than five minutes later, Dargon's population was reduced by
six. The woman stood, panting slightly, sword still held at ready,
in the unblocked light of her lantern - her attackers were all dead.
Any expression she might have worn was hidden by her mask, and the
size of the image the mage watched, but, by her stance, she seemed
unaffected by her brush with death. Satisfied that the woman was all
right, Cefn lifted his hand from the metal plate, and the Image
folded in upon itself. Had he watched it fade away, he might have
seen the swordswoman begin to shake in delayed reaction, dropping
her sword, and sinking slowly to the ground.
But, Cefn's attention was diverted by Mahr. His apprentice
asked, "Who were those men, sir?"
"I don't know, Mahr. But, I can guess that the Order of Jhel now
knows that Lladdwr is in the city, and that was their first attempt
to retrieve it. We must keep a better watch over the woman."
"Yes, Master. After what she has been through, she deserves to
be looked after. Master, will it work? Was it worth it to bring her?"
Cefn frowned, and turned away from Mahr. After long moments of
staring into the darkness, he finally said, "I have my orders. Jhel
must be eliminated, and the Order here in Dargon is the only one
left. You were with me when we cast the cards, looking for the
answer. The only avenue open was to bring Lladdwr here, and the only
way to do that was to get her friends to take her out that night.
The cards didn't tell us what would come of that little sorcerous
manipulation, did they?!
"It has to work. We've destroyed that woman's life, just to get
a damnable piece of steel into this city - if it doesn't bring down
Jhel, well -- well, it has to, that's all. We must be vigilant,
ready to help, and be ready, when the time comes, to expose and
destroy the last Septent in existence."
Part Three: Dreams
"Brother Chwech, report," said Brother Un.
"As you know, Brothers, the attack was unsuccessful. Apparently,
this 'Je'en' woman, she who bears the Sacred Sword, knows its uses.
The men I hired were all killed in the ambush. I..."
"Pardon me, Brother Chwech, but it wasn't an ambush," said
Brother Pump. "I was watching the whole thing, and someone or
something intervened on the woman's behalf, exposing the location of
the men hired by Brother Chwech, and ruining the ambush. Later, I
learned that I was not alone in observing the conflict. Brothers,
this woman is not here by chance. Someone has lured her here, and I
fear that she is bait for us. If we wish to retrieve Lladdwr, we
must act slowly, cautiously, and as covertly as possible. Forget
not, Brothers, we are the last of Jhel's Priests - the prophecies do
speak of a possible future wherein Jhel's very name is forgotten.
That must not happen."
"Well spoken, Brother Pump," said Brother Un. "Caution is indeed
necessary. Has anyone here any ideas on how to coax the Sacred Sword
from this woman?"
Brother Tri said, "I have done some research into this woman's
past, and I think I have found a possible weakness. You see, she was
once a Bard, before a recent accident stole away her voice. What
might she do, my Brothers, to regain it...?"
Je'en, Mecke, and Taal laughed in pure joy as they walked down
the street, heading for the best tavern in Magnus - the Battered
Shield. They had just passed their final test and were now
officially Bards, and intended to spend a few hours celebrating.
For Je'en, it was the fulfillment of a dream. From that first
day the circuit Bard had selected her from the Faire's singing
contest, saying she had the potential, Je'en had done everything in
her power to become a Bard. She had traveled to the College in
Magnus, studied hard, and learned well. And, she was now a Bard.
She and her two classmates entered the Battered Shield, and Taal
immediately ordered a round for the house, announcing their news to
all. Je'en smiled and accepted the congratulations of the patrons,
and then the they settled into a corner booth and began to celebrate.
About an hour and a half later, Mecke suggested a little
contest. The three of them would take a given legend, and retell it,
each differently. It was an exercise that they had all done in
class, so they all knew what was required. Since Mecke had suggested
it, she was chosen to go first.
As she sang her version of the Balphiryon and Hengnra tale, the
patrons of the tavern began to gather around - even in Magnus,
listening to a Bard ply her trade was an event.
When Mecke was finished - to much applause, and a few coins - it
was Taal's turn. His version took a totally different turn, but was
equally entertaining, and he, too, received applause, and cheers,
and coins - enough to pay for his "round for the house" earlier.
Then it was Je'en's turn. While she had been half listening to
the others sing, she was formulating her own version, on yet a
different tack from Taal's. So, once the accolades for Taal had died
down, she began. By way of long practice, and tenacious teachers, it
had become almost second nature for her to make up a story-song as
she went along. Her version came out as smoothly and professionally
and the two before, and she could tell that the audience was
enjoying themselves as well.
Then, in the middle of her twenty-second verse, she suddenly
couldn't sing anymore. Her throat burned, there was stabbing pain in
her face, arm, and leg, and all that came out of her mouth were
harsh, croaking noises, fit only for an angry bird. And, the
audience immediately turned on her, throwing mugs and bread,
jeering, catcalling, abusing her verbally and physically. And, to
make it worse, her friends joined in with the patrons instead of
standing by her and helping her. She didn't understand. This hadn't
happened before, before...
Je'en woke up with a start, sitting bolt upright, her mouth open
and breath caught to scream. She caught herself before she tortured
her throat further, and instead began to sob, coiling into a ball on
her bed.
Wend had awakened when Je'en did, and he, used to her nightly
fits, tenderly reached out to her, gently unrolled her, and let her
cry herself out against his chest.
When Je'en was calm again, she thanked Wend and stayed close to
his comforting solidity. He was a Peace-keeper in the same market
place she was. He had always been friendly, and a help in getting to
know Dargon, and, eventually they had become lovers. And now, with
these nightly nightmares, he was a great comfort to her as well.
The bad dreams had started shortly after the attack in the
alley. Up until that time, Je'en had never used her newly-won skills
with the sword to kill. That, with the similarity of that ambush to
the one in Magnus that had taken her voice, had released all of her
carefully dammed up memories. Memories that were now tormenting her
each and every night.
Wend said, "Better now, hon? What was it this time?"
Je'en told him. It seemed to help. He was so understanding. She
was beginning to feel something deep for him.
That night's nightmare was typical: a good memory from her past
life ruined by the intrusion of her present circumstances. Without
Wend's help, she would probably have retained the mixture, ruining
even her memories of her past, but he helped her reason out the
nightmare and banish it. She hadn't had any repeat dreams, for which
she was glad.
When Wend had done his work sorting out her dream, he said,
"Je'en, I learned of this treatment that might help you. It's a mild
drug that frees the mind, and with guidance, deep-seated problems
can be resolved while under the influence. It has been three weeks
since you had an undisturbed night's rest."
Je'en thought about it. Normally, she didn't like drugs, other
than a little alchohol now and then. She didn't like to be out of
control. But these nightmares were bad, and without Wend, they would
be worse. She didn't want to go through life dreaming bad dreams,
with Wend always by her side (as nice as that sounded, for other
reasons) to keep her sane. So, she said, "Alright, Wend. What do I
need to do?"
The house was in that chancy fringe district between the middle
and lower cities. It stood out because it was the best kept house on
the street, and it stood alone - its neighbors had collapsed, and
the rubble cleared away, long since.
Wend led Je'en up to the door, and knocked. Je'en was nervous -
she was literally giving control of her mind to Wend, who had
offered to give the healing guidance. But, she had come to know him,
and she trusted him. When she was cured, she thought she might even
ask him to marry her.
An old woman answered the door, and ushered them into a well
kept parlor, furnished with the trappings of a fortune-teller, as
was the old woman. Wend whispered something in her ear, and handed
her a small leather bag that clinked faintly as it met the woman's
hand. She hefted it as if judging the value of its contents, smiled,
and produced a small silver box from her robes. She said in a voice
like old leaves, "Use number 15, my son. I wish you well." Then she
began to putter around the room, ignoring the couple as they went up
the stairs at the back of the room.
Room 15 was neatly, if sparsely, furnished with a bed, chair,
and table. It was very neat, and the furniture was expensive, but
Je'en could guess what else this room might be used for. She
wondered how much of the coin Wend had paid had been for the time in
the room, and not the drug.
Je'en took her place on the bed, and Wend pulled the chair up
next to her. He showed her the tiny box, and opened it. Within were
two very small pills with the silvery-red sheen of blood on steel. A
ewer and glass on the table helped to wash down the pills, and Wend
told her to just relax.
It wasn't long before Je'en fell lightly asleep. She didn't
consciously hear the soothing words spoken by Wend, but she felt
their effects. And she began to dream.
Nothing bad, this time. Only good. Reliving her memories,
specifically her most recent nightmares, without the bad parts. The
dreams were very vivid, and she enjoyed feeling herself sing and
play music again. The pain of her loss was mitigated by the joy of
her memories.
When she awoke, she felt much refreshed. And that night there
was no nightmare. Wend was happy that Je'en felt better, but felt
that she should use the drug for at least the rest of the week -
after all, she didn't want the nightmares returning, did she? So,
every day for the next four days, she and Wend went to that lone,
well kept house, and spent an hour or so in one of the upper rooms.
Cefn sat in near darkness, the globe above the table dimmed to
just a faint spark. He studied the lay of the cards on the table,
and frowned again. They refused to tell clearly! He read dreams and
danger in them, but there was no imminency in them, and no definite
focus either. The way they read, it almost seemed that they were
warning of the everyday possibility of an accident, save that the
cards never worked so trivially. His charge, Je'en, seemed to be in
some danger, but he couldn't tell what kind, or how soon, and he
couldn't act until he knew. With a stifled oath, he swept the cards
from the table, dimmed the globe with a gesture, and sat, brooding,
in total darkness.
-John White
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SIX NUMBER FOUR
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
*Cydric and the Sage Carlo Samson
Ceda the Executioner: 3 Joel Slatis
*Spirit of the Wood: 4 Rich Jervis
*The Dream: Part 2 of 2 John White
Date: 120686 Dist: 214
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Well, things have been mighty hectic. I have just returned from
a visit to New York City over the Thanksgiving holiday, which was
very entertaining. However, the big news is that FSFnet is no longer
being sent directly to you, but is being distributed by the LISTSERV
distributed server network. It certainly makes my job considerably
easier, and hopefully no one will wind up with format problems. But
that's all icing on the cake.
We've got several interesting tidbits in this issue, including
the conclusion of John White's excellent story, The Dream. Also you
will find installments of Joel Slatis' Ceda tale and Rich Jervis'
Spirit of the Wood stories, as well as an interesting story from
Carlo Samson. I am quite impressed with this issue, and There will
be at least one more issue out before Christmas, and possibly two
before the new year. Looking forward, we have another excellent
story from John White, which I am sure you will enjoy, and the
continuation of Merlin's Atros epic. Enjoy, and best wishes!
-'Orny' Liscomb
Cydric and the Sage
I. Arrival: The Tavern
It was late afternoon when Cydric Araesto arrived in the coastal
town of Dargon. Hot and tired from his journey up from the capital
of Baranur, he rode through the main street of the town, seeking a
place to rest. His eyes fixed on a large building near the middle of
the street; a sign above the door proclaimed:
BELISANDRA'S
in bold red letters. Below the name was a painting of a young buxom
wench raising a large tankard of brew. Cydric dismounted in front of
the building, put his horse in the adjacent stables, and went inside.
The common room of the tavern was large and brightly lit by
lanterns that hung from the rafters. The smells of fresh-brewed ale,
Comarian tobacco, and wood smoke reached Cydric as he sat down in a
corner table and mopped his brow with the edge of his cloak. He
called out to a passing serving girl and ordered a cold pint of
Lederian Special Brew.
As the girl left to fill his order, he leaned back against the
wall and sighed wearily. "I am finally here," he thought. "But
should I even *be* here? Does my future lie in Dargon, or was it all
a fever dream?" He shook his head ruefully. "It is too late for
regrets. I made my choice, and I can never go back."
He turned his attention outward to the tavern. The place was
nowhere near capacity, he noted. To his right he saw a young couple
holding hands and conversing quietly. At a table in front of the bar
a group of richly dressed middle-aged men talked and drank. Near the
entrance, a hooded figure in blue robes sat hunched over a mug of
brew. A thin, bearded man smoked a small pipe in the glow of the
fireplace. And at a table in the center of the room, a pair of
leather-clad women arm-wrestled.
The serving-girl returned and placed a large tankard on the
table in front of him. She smiled at him as she turned and made her
way back to the bar, where a stout woman of about forty summers
watched the arm-wrestling women with a look of mild interest. Cydric
took a long pull of the cold brew and made a sound of approval. He
settled back, letting the tiredness bleed from his bones.
Then, without warning, the strange vision that had been
recurring in his mind for months once again intruded upon his
thoughts. He tried to purge it from his mind, but the vision
persisted. He gave up the effort, having learned early on that the
only thing he could do was to let it run its course.
II. Reverie: The Vision
He was sitting on a large boulder that lay half-buried on the
shore of a vast golden sea. The sky above him was a deep cobalt
blue. Far in the distance, on the horizon, an object sparkled and
glittered. He hopped off the boulder and walked to the edge of the
sea, straining to see what it was. Then he knelt down and scooped up
a handful of the golden water. He raised it to his mouth, but before
he drank it he cast his eyes toward the object on the horizon again.
He sighed, and his breath turned the golden liquid in his hand to
plain colorless water.
The water slipped through his fingers, and where it wetted the
sand a small lump of a transparent substance appeared. He picked it
up, and the lump grew into the shape of a life-sized human skull.
The skull floated out of his palm and came to hover in front of the
boulder. Beams of white light lanced out of the skull's eye sockets
and struck the smooth stone, sending up a cloud of dust. After
several moments, the skull ceased its activity and set down atop the
boulder. Cydric brushed away the rock dust and saw that the skull's
eye-beams had carved into the stone an outline of the continent that
contained the Kingdom of Baranur. A small "x" marked a spot on the
western coast of the continent. Below the outline were the words
"Corambis the Sage".
As soon as Cydric read the words, the transparent skull rose
into the air and, with a clack of its jaws, sped away over the
golden sea toward the glittering object on the horizon.
III. The Tavern: Company
The vision faded. Cydric looked up as the serving girl returned
and asked him if he wanted another drink. "No, that will be all, for
the moment." The girl turned to leave. "Wait a moment," he called.
"Yes, milord?"
"Do you know of a person called 'Corambis the Sage' ?"
The girl looked at him oddly. "Yes, everyone knows of him. Are
you just arrived?"
"Yes, I am. Do you know where he lives?"
The girl cast a glance over her shoulder. "A moment, milord."
Cydric watched as the serving girl went over and whispered something
to the blue-robed patron. The person nodded and stood up.
Cydric's hand instinctively moved to the Zanzillian sundagger he
wore on his right hip as the blue-clad figure approached and stopped
in front of his table. The figure removed its hood to reveal a
feminine face framed by a mane of flame-red hair.
"Thuna tells me you are looking for the Sage," she said in a
conversational tone.
"Do you know where I can find him?"
"Better than that; I can take you to him. May I sit?"
Cydric nodded, and the woman seated herself.
"So," Cydric said, "how much will it cost me for you to take me
to him?"
"Merely a moment of your time," the woman replied, smiling.
Cydric found himself smiling back. She couldn't be very much older
than his own twenty summers, he decided. He paused a moment before
replying to study the way the lantern-light reflected from her clear
green eyes.
"That sounds reasonable," he said.
"My name is Holleena," the woman said, extending her hand.
Cydric took it and pressed it against his cheek in the traditional
courtly manner. He told her his name.
"So tell me, Cydric Araesto, what brings you to our humble
town?" she asked.
A piece of the vision flashed through Cydric's mind. "My horse,"
he replied.
Holleena laughed. "I see. Do you wish to visit the Sage now?"
Cydric felt his stomach rumble. "Not just yet. I seem to have
forgotten about supper. Would you care to join me?"
"I would, indeed," Holleena said. Cydric raised his hand to
signal the serving girl, but Holleena stopped him.
"Let's not eat here," she said.
"Why not?"
"Belisandra is a good cook, but as anyone in Dargon can tell
you, you haven't eaten until you've had a bowl of Simon
Salamagundi's famous stew."
"Fine," Cydric said. "Let's go." He tossed a couple of coins
onto the table as they rose to leave. He offered his arm to
Holleena, and together they left Belisandra's tavern.
-Carlo Samson
Ceda the Executioner: Chapter 3
Ceda reclined on his bed at the inn that he had previously
stayed at on his last visit to Pheeng'Am. The guards at the gate had
(for a small fee) told him that the demon had finally found the
crown and had left the city without a trace.
"Then it is over," he he thought to himself. "The demon has the
crown and has doubtlessly returned to the Overworld, or wherever it
came from; And I need not travel to the caves of Arnmere." His
tiredness took him and he fell into a deep slumber.
Tarnigen had had a long trip to the old continent of Cergaan,
where it was rumored that a mysterious demon had taken the crown.
Why it had gone there was a mystery indeed, but Tarnigen could not
pass up an opportunity of such a fortune as Grobst's Crown. A small
fishing vessel from Dhernis had dropped him off on the shore off the
Largely unexplored continent off Cargaan a few hours before, and now
he got organized before setting out to find the Demon. This was the
ultimate test for him; A man was what he wanted to be, a real man,
and this (in his eyes) was a worthy test for it.
Tarnigen laid down and looked at the night sky that hung so
still above his head. He wondered if he would ever see it again.
Yes. He would. He had, for a moment, surrendered his thoughts to
fear, but this would not ever happen again, he reassured himself. He
was determined to get the Crown, and he would, or, he said to
himself 'I am not worthy of the Throne of Caffthorn.
The cold features of Tarnigens face could just be made out by
the pale light that came from the fire he had built. His long
crooked nose was perhaps the the most noticeable thing about him. It
was, to say the least, enormously out of proportion to the rest of
his face protruding down over the pale thin lips of his mouth. He
had narrow blue eyes and long blond hair that hung down to the
center of his back. Nothing else was really noticeable about him. He
had a large body and was very strong as were most nobles of Caffthorn.
The sun had set and Tarnigen was tired; His eyes pulled
themselves closed and at once he was asleep.
The sun was almost directly over head when he awoke. Now not
only the dim outline of the land that he now stood upon was visible.
It was richly colored by many grey an yellow flowers that grew all
along the shore line and the trees at the edge of a large forest
that grew about two hundred yards inland rose higher than any he had
ever seen before. No roads crossed through the aria, only a few
animals tracks could be seen on the bank. This was a peaceful place.
Tarniger was amazed at the utter tranquility of the area. He
gathered his things and started walking towards the shelter of the
trees while he made his way west along the shore to the Ruined Tower
of Threemis Where the Demon almost certainly was.
Once in the forest, he climbed one of the taller trees to survey
The area. It was a clear day and he could just make out the outline
of a tall shape rising above the trees 20 miles up the coast.
It looked lonely and out of place, a gross sight among the
plentiful vegetation of the southern continent; like a knife
stemming out of a mans back, and the man unable to remove it, slowly
dying. He wished It wasn't there. He wished he wasn't there, but it
wouldn't help now, he had to prove himself a man and could not leave
without throwing away his family honor and pride, not to mention the
throne. However, the thought that man had not yet disturbed the
solemn beauty of the continent consoled him, and were he not to
return to Caffthorn, It would surely discourage people from coming
to this 'New world', and destroying its solitude and innocence.
But he had to return, there was no doubt about that, for if he
did not, his people would send a party to look for him. Instead, he
would tell of beasts fifty feet tall that could kill a man with a
mere blink of its eye, and of tall trees that swallowed unsuspecting
animals at night. With that thought in mind, he descended the tree
and started for the Ruined Tower.
Tarnigen reached the tower after two day. A river obscured from
sight by the trees had barred his way so he had to make a small raft
in order to cross. The wooden gate had long since been torn down and
was reduced to a pile of rotting wood in a corner of the large
courtyard that encumbered the tower. Moss grew between every crack
in the giant stone wall that stood around the tower and the even
larger wall around the courtyard was totally covered be leafy green
vines that hung down from the long unused torch holders high above
Tarnigen head.
He entered the courtyard steadily walking for the tower
entrance. As yet, he had not encountered any animals or beasts and
was, to say the least, a bit puzzled at the odd calmness of the
continent. Then he remembered what he was there for, a demon waited
for him in the tower. It was probably aware of his presence since
the moment that he had set foot in the courtyard.
He reached into his sack and pulled out his sickle, a weapon
that he had been training with since he was a child. It was three
feet long from the base of its handle to the base of the blade an
the blade was two feet long. The handle was made of a special grey
wood that could be grown only in Cafthorn and the handle was of a
dark metal of unearthly origin. Close to the base of the blade was
an inlaid gem that glowed in a magnificent purple haze.
Tarnigen then entered the tower gate. The gems glow turned to
yellow lighting the chamber to reveal a large hall with a stairway
up at the far end. slowly he moved towards it, looking in all
directions for any hint of trouble. Upon reaching the stairs, he
surveyed the room once more before starting up.
The gem then changed color to a pale white and Tarnigen stopped
and looked around. The gem continued to glow in the solemn white. He
took another step, then another; then fell. A trap door had opened
underneath his feat and had brought him to a lower level in the tower.
Tarnigen stood up. Luckily, he was not hurt from the fall. He
looked up to see the trap door twenty feet above him. He examined
himself, but to his astonishment, he was not hurt.
The hallway that he had dropped into was long an narrow. It
sloped downward at an alarming angle ending in darkness some three
hundred yards down. The gem lit the hall with its luminous white
light as Tarnigen started his decent.
The passage ended in a small room with a large hole in the
center. In the hole, a dark mist swirled around like water in a
fountain. The gem was still glowing bright white. The the mist rose
and surrounded him. the room went dark despite the glowing sickle
that he held in his hand.
After a brief moment, the mist dispersed. The gem was no longer
glowing. And to Tarnigens surprise, he was no longer in the tower.
He now stood in a dark forest that stretched in all direction as
far as the eye could see. The trees towered above his head, some of
them out of sight into the low cloud cover.
A loud cry broke the air and Tarnigen turn just in time to meet
a small party of tall thin beasts unlike any he had ever seen. The
foremost attacked him immediately and fell to his blade almost a
fast. The rest of the party turned and ran, dropping there sacks and
fleeing in terror into the dark wood. Still confused, Tarnigen left
the packs there and started in the direction that the beasts had come.
A short walk brought him to a large stone wall much like that of
the Ruined Tower's. He walked around until he reached a gate which
was guarded by four very large beasts not unlike the ones that he
had come across a little earlier. He cautiously approached the
largest of the group. It stood unmoving as he approached, it did not
even seem to breath. Once Tarnigen was in striking distance, the
beast lashed at him with one of its numerous claws and ripped his
entire right arm off.
Tarnigen screamed in disbelief, but he felt nothing. Another
blow from the monster tore his upper body off throwing both his legs
in opposite directions, the beast picked up the now helpless
Tarnigen and opened its gaping jaws and bit his head from his neck.
Tarnigen watched the jaws close about his head, then felt what
was left of his severed body being torn away from him. There was no
pain at all though he could feel that he was reduced to only a head.
He rolled into the darkness of the beasts stomach and all went dark.
Then once again the mist cleared. Once again Tarnigen stood in
the room with the swirling mist in the center. He stood slightly
dizzy for a moment and then fell to the floor. Tarnigen awakened
later to find that nothing had changed. His sack lay at his feet,
his weapon intact in his hand still glowing its solemn white. He
stood up and looked about the room. The hallway leading in was gone
and instead, an adjacent room stood in its place. The door to the
room was understandably missing so he just entered.
At the center of the room was a large throne inlaid with some of
the most beautiful Malthoogian gems that Tarnigen had ever seen. In
the throne sat a bony figure, unmoving and expressionless. And upon
its bleached head sat the Crown of Grobst D'arbo. The Demon stood
up, the burning crimson eyes flashing brightly rivaling the strong
white light that poured out of the sickle in Tarnigens hand.
The demon looked in Tarnigens direction as it removed the crown
from its head, and with its bony fingers, it placed the artifact on
the throne. Then, from nowhere, a long sword appeared in its hand.
Tarnigen raced the Demon with his sickle raised in front of him. The
demon was shattered in to many small bones and the bones into dust.
Tarnigen looked to the throne and the crown, but they sank into the
floor and disappeared from sight.
A door appeared from nowhere in the wall of the room, and
Tarnigen entered. The sickle's gem changed to a dull red color that
barely lit the room. In the corner was a large stone chest that sat
against the wall. Tarnigen walked over and set his sack down. He
opened the chest to reveal about fifty thousand ancient Grandydyian
coins, many diamonds and jewels and under some of the wealth, just
visible, lay Grobsts Crown.
The pale light from the sickle danced up and down his forehead
as he reached into the chest and grabbed the crown.
"At last," he exclaimed. " the crown is mine as is the throne of
of Caffthorn."
The skull rolled out from the inside the crown and within an
instant was whole again. Tarnigen reached for his sickle which now
glowed it bright white color, but it was too late. the demon had
already picked it up.
Tarnigen stood helpless as the demon changed and grew. The bones
grew skin and the skin grew hair. Within a moment a fifteen foot
demon loomed above him. It grinned displaying a mouth full of three
inch razor sharp fangs.
"It is but a small man that tries to steal the Crown of Grobst
D'arbo? Well behold me my true form, human, before you are banished
to limbo forever, I the Mighty King of Grandydyr decree!"
With that, the king swept Tarnigen into his hand and flung him
into the wall shattering most of his bones. Then he picked Tarnigen
of the floor and replaced the crown into the chest, and vanished
into a puff of smoke.
-Joel Slatis
Spirit of the Wood: Chapter 4
The openness had a smell all it's own. Loric breathed the clear,
cool air above the trees with a special relish. One borne of the
open spaces. He believed the stars over his head exhaled a sweetness
unlike anything in his valley.
There was a rustling below him and he leaned out to see his
sister Silsia climbing up behind him. He smiled at her adeptness,
knowing that it represented many forbidden practice runs. Runs she
would have been punished for had the men known that a downlander
would dare the heights and walk among them.
Loric waited till she came along side of him and gave her a
signal of greeting. He could not acknowledge her presence without
penalty, but they had an unspoken code, fingertalk that they had
learned in the early days of Oldsir's blindness. A skill he never
used and they never forgot.
She held her hand out for Loric to grasp. He gripped it tightly
for a moment, knowing that they both had come here for the same
reason. He had come to tree-top level to watch the sun set and sing
a farewell to Oldsir. He sang Oldsirs song to the Spirit of the
Wood, and then the traditional songs of farewell. He could have gone
home then, but had lingered to watch for Oldsir's star to appear.
Everyone felt that since Oldsir had been given his second vision,
his star would be a special one, even the Downlanders had dared to
speak of it aloud.
There was no hope for them to spy it from the ground, and they
also knew that Silsia would not have missed trying to see it. Loric
tapped on her palm: "I thought you were journeying to Wood's End?"
"That was just a rouse and you know it near-man, dear brother. I
only wanted the villagers to think I was leaving, so they would not
look for me up here."
"I have passed all my tests, you can call me a man now."
"But your Shreaving is not until tomorrow, you can lose all
there. Would you have me call you a man, and add being here with a
man to my list? Perhaps you'd want me to dance for you when you
return? It is not unknown..."
Loric blushed in the darkness, shocked at what his sister was
suggesting. Then he heard the stifled giggle, and knew that she was
joking with him again.
"The wind blows exceptionally hard tonight." he mused,
halfturning in her direction. It would serve her right if he caught
sight of her and let out a call of warning to the other men here in
the trees. He felt her squeeze his hand tight enough to wring a cry
from him, but he held silent.
"Not as hard as a boy will blow to prove his manliness!"
"A man would have made you crabmeat by now, but list! Is this
how the Tolorions show respect for the dead? I have not seen
Oldsir's star, maybe he's not gone yet."
Silsia's hand went limp and dropped from his for a moment and
then came back. "He is gone Loric, I know it."
"How?"
She gave no anwser, but she handed something around the tree and
the pungent smell coming from the soft leather bag was all the
answer he needed. It was Oldsir's hearth-fire ashes.
Water came to Loric's eyes as he opened the bag and took out a
pinch of ash. He tossed it over his shoulder, then got another and
rubbed it onto his chest over his heart. He shook half the rest into
his own pouch and then tied the pouch onto his belt. The rest would
be for Dernhelm.
"Loric? I did something, I mean... I took some of the ash, some
of Oldsir. Will that bring dishonor to his memory? When he came to
me while you were taking your tests he said that the Spirit had
called him and he knew you would pass because you were a Tolorion. I
was so sad to see him go, that I told him I wouldn't give this to
you. He said that Spirit only knows why they don't let women into
the trees, or to have a Hearthfire, but that he knew I would do the
right thing whether that was to pass his ashes along, or to keep
them. So I went with him, he wouldn't even tell Dernhelm he was
going. He refused the escort and witnesses-male witnesses that was
his due. I was so confused when I got back I took a pinch of the ash
and threw it into my cooking fire. And it worked Loric! The magic
worked for me, I'm not a preist or druid or even a man, but I saw
him! He was young, and I saw mother there as a child, he was showing
her how to use a river vine to stretch skins... Then it was gone and
I cryed because of what I had done. I told Eadyie that I was going
to Wood's End and ran into the forest and wept till sunset. Then I
came here."
Loric had remained silent during her long communication. He
concentrated closely on the words her hands formed. Not knowing what
to do or say. If Dernhelm heard of this he would have her expelled
from the village and then he would leave himself out of shame to the
Tolorion name. Loric wasn't sure he felt the shame that tribal law
would place on him. He felt that his sister had done something
daring and had passed a test of her own.
Perhaps she was more than a woman herself now, but what did the
making of the Hearthfire for a woman mean? Surely his sister was
posessed of more magic than any other woman in the
Village-beneath-the-Trees. Eadyie herself knew only healing herbs
and roots. He knew that it was the men who carried the favor of the
Spirit and that made all magic theirs to command.
Oldsir had a second vision, he had gone to his hearthfire,
taking only his grand-daughter as honor and escort. Then she had
made her own hearthfire and had not been consumed. The portents
where there, if only he could read them a-right!
"I don't know what to say. How do you feel?"
"Terrible. Great. Awful. Glad, sad, and mad! How should I feel?"
"The decisions of a moment..." began Loric.
"Oh shush child! I know that as well as you! Oldsir did not
spend all his time instructing you."
Loric burned again and said "The night wind whispers against the
past. I will not tell it where to blow next."
"Shall I break this taboo also Loric? Or shall we keep this our
secret as the others? Till our hometree's roots reach across the
plains of Woe? I can think of only one thing to do. I must speak to
the Druid who lives in the valleys beyond our wood. This is a
greater matter than I or old 'quote the histories' Dernhelm."
Loric held her hand tight, then signed slowly giving weight and
meaning to each word. "I think that is best, for I love you and
would not have you leave the tribe because you can do something no
one else in our village can do. A woman who can spell would not have
a good chance at a husband... nor want one I beleive. But if you
leave on your own then when I see you on the paths beneath the
trees, I will not have to spit on your shadow, or utter phrases best
saved for enemies, not beloved sisters!" With that he reached around
the narrow truck that sheilded her from him and hugged her to it.
His arms did not meet, but he held her as best he could. He felt her
shake with silent sobs.
Loric looked beseechingly upwards and saw a bright reddish
streak arc across the sky and fall to earth somewhere way beyond the
Wood. "Did you see?!" He gasped.
"I saw, Loric. Oldsir did not choose to stay among his kin in
the sky. He has given me a sign. That is the direction in which I
must go!"
"Hoo-ya!! Hoo-ya!!" Came a call from some tree beyond Loric. It
was Dernhelm. He must have been watching for Oldsir's star also.
"Hoo-ya! Hoo-ya! A!" Loric called back. Soon, all the tribesmen
called out in blessing and happiness for Oldsir: "Hoo-ya! Oldsir the
Second- sighted! Hoo-ya hoo-ya hoo-ya a! The Spirit of the Wood has
called him back!"
Loric reached back to grasp his sister's hand but found only
rough bark. He wanted to attract her attention to a glow on the
horizon that he hadn't noticed before, but felt only rough bark.
Silsia Tolorion had gone.
-Rich Jervis
The Dream
Part Four: Choice
When the child, Herrn, came to the temple for Margala's monthly
supply of Hanla's Tears, the robed man waiting in the alcove was not
the usual supplier. But, the priest accepted the large bag of coins,
and handed Herrn back one just a little smaller. Herrn checked
within, saw the little red-silver pills, thanked the priest, and
left. No one saw the triumphant smile of the priest, hidden as it
was by his deep cowl.
Herrn arrived back at Margala's House before the empty cache of
pills was noted by Margala herself. While barely 11 summers old,
just a child, Herrn was street-wise, and trusted with important
duties by the old woman who ran the House. One of these duties was
to keep the supply of Hanla's Tears, that dream drug, current. But,
Herrn liked to use the little dream-givers himself (without paying,
of course). And this past week he had overused rather badly,
exhausting the supply on the morning he was to get the new month's.
He had hastened to the temple with the money given him by Margala,
hoping that the old woman wouldn't need any of the pills before he
returned. That was one reason he hadn't questioned the fact that
Brother Mikl wasn't in the alcove - he was in too much of a hurry.
The new supply was barely in its box when Margala entered
Herrn's room. She said, "Good, little one. You have returned just in
time. Fix me up with five boxes, and have more ready. This is going
to be a busy day."
When Wend and his woman entered Margala's House, Margala was
ready for them. No whispering was needed - this was the sixth day
they had come in, and it was the same every time. She took the money
from Wend, handed him one of the little pill boxes that Herrn had
given her, and gave them room 21 to use. She watched them climb the
stairs, and wondered just what they did in that room. She knew that
they both were Peace-Keepers in one of the upper markets, and they
both had good pay, and so homes of their own. She didn't suppose
they used her House as a trysting place, though many did. Perhaps
she would find an opportunity to ask Wend later - they had known
each other for a long time, after all.
Je'en relaxed on the bed as she had five times so far. Wend said
that this should be the last time they would need the drug - and it
was true that Je'en was feeling a lot better now. Ever since the
accident, she had been repressing her memories, hiding all the
things that had been very special to her at one point because now
she had lost them. But, since her arrival in Dargon - the completion
of the "plan" that had kept her going from the accident, thru Sir
Morion's School, and to the meeting with her brother - there had not
been anything occupying her time save her job, which was about as
exciting as staring at a lake on a windless, grey day. So, her
memories leaked to the fore, causing her nightmares. But Wend was
putting a stop to that, helping her deal with the loss of her
musical abilities in a rational and healthy way. It caused her to
wonder just what he was doing guarding a bunch of high-class
shopping stalls: such knowledge as he had used to help her was not
common, nor easily won.
Wend took up his place next to the bed, and handed her the pill
box, and a glass of water. She swallowed the tiny pills with the
water, and laid back down.
Normally, she would feel herself relaxing under the influence of
the drug, and she would fade into sleep. But, not this time. Her
whole body went rigid seconds after she swallowed the pills, and
when it relaxed, she found herself in a strange place. It was all
grey, featureless save for misty outlines of indistinct shapes. At
first, she thought she was dreaming, but this had no sense of a
dream. She wasn't awake, either, but in some strange half-state, a
limbo of the senses.
She stood, and moved around in the greyness. There seemed to be
walls here, in shape much like the room she had been in. There was
no furniture, but the door was where it should have been, and the
window likewise. Of Wend there was no trace.
She went thru the door, and into a shadowy version of the
House's upper corridor. She paced throughout the whole house, but
didn't quite date to venture outside - looking out the windows, she
had found outside to be even stranger than it was in here.
She had searched the whole house and found it empty, but she
decided to call out anyway, and when she did, she received a
suprise. Her voice sounded normal. Normal, as in the pure, alto
tones it had had before her accident, not the husky, almost gravelly
sound it had settled into once the pain vanished. She tried to sing,
and succeeded. She went over to a table, and leaned on her right
wrist, and it didn't give way. Now, she was certain she was dreaming
- she was fully healed once again!
Wend was looking at the still rigid body of Je'en on the bed
worriedly. She was very pale, and very rigid, almost deathly so, but
he could see the shallow rise and fall of her breasts, and her heart
was still beating, but slowly. He sincerely hoped that he had done
the right thing. In the past month or so that he had known Je'en, he
had come to like her. The man who had put him up to this had assured
him that no harm would come to her, but seeing her now, he couldn't
be sure.
He heard the door open behind him, and turned. He said, "She is
under the influence, Terkan. All has gone as planned."
Terkan, a short, middle-aged man who dressed like a merchant,
said, "Yes, I know. Your progress has been monitored. Your duty is
now done. You may leave."
"The rest of the price, as we agreed?"
"Will be delivered to you," answered Terkan, staring avidly at
Je'en on the bed.
"I want it now. We agreed. And, your assurance again that she
will be unharmed."
"What matters it to you, fool? You will be paid for your
treachery, and it will not be the first time you have sold your
honor for a little gold. Now leave; the money will arrive tonight."
"What are you going to do with her? You must not harm her - she
has done nothing to you. She doesn't even know you. She hasn't been
in Dargon long enough to have injured you. No. Leave. Keep your
second payment, and I will return the first. Tell me how to bring
her out of this trance, and then leave. You cannot have her."
Terkan smiled cruely, and said, "No. A deal is a deal, and this
deal is done. She is ours, now, and that is that. You had best
leave, and take your payment like a good little turncoat."
Wend drew his sword and lunged, but, for all Terkan's appearance
of a middle-aged merchant, he moved faster. Wend never saw the knife
flick out of the sleeve and into his neck. He fell at Terkan's feet,
dead. Terkan then turned his eyes toward Je'en, and the sword
propped up against the wall. For a moment, he thought of taking it,
but that was too dangerous. It had to be freely given. It was
dangerous enough for him to be in this room - to have a member of
the Septent present, involved directly. But, the slightly modified
Hanla's Tears that Je'en had taken had put her in a state that only
a Full Adept of Jhel could penetrate, so there was no help for it.
Perhaps, when Jhel's ministry began to spread again, he could become
Brother Un somewhere, instead of just Brother Tri, as reward for the
risk he was taking.
So thinking, he began to put the finishing touches on his plan.
Cefn stopped shuffling the cards, cut them, and layed out the
Bent Star pattern. It appeared exactly as before. Nothing conclusive!
Stifling the impulse to curse loud and long (the last time he
had given vent to such oath-making, he had inadvertantly leveled his
previous house, and laid waste to about a square hectare of the land
about it), he was about to sweep the cards from the table yet again,
when something caught his eye. He extinguished the light globe
overhead, to better see the cards. Yes, there, the fifth ray, last
card. Trump 35, The Entwined Oak. It meant danger, and it had always
been there. But, today, it was reversed - the only change in the
pattern for the past week. And the Tree reversed meant imminent
peril, instead of vague danger on the horizon. It was happening.
Now. Je'en was in trouble.
He gathered up the cards again, and, using Trump 35 as the
significator, he layed out a different pattern, a secretly developed
one taught him by his master a long time ago. It told him exactly
what he needed to know, and leaving it lying, he left the dark room
to muster some help for his charge.
Je'en was becomming worried. This weird limbo she was trapped in
was beginning to wear on her. And, there was the fact of her
regained ability to contend with. It didn't really feel like a dream
at all, and she had been trained to recognize such.
She had returned to the upper room in hopes that Wend would be
able to reach her better there. She was staring out the window at
the swirling chaos there when she heard a sound. She turned, and saw
that she was no longer alone.
"Welcome, my dear, to your heart's desire. My name is Terkan,
and I am responsible for your being here. I also have the power to
let you stay here, if you so wish."
Je'en stared at the man who had spoken. He was dressed in
strangely symboled robes that glowed palely, and there was an air of
mystery and power about him. She said, "What do you mean? Where am
I, and why would I want to stay in such a shadowy place?"
"This is but a gateway from our world into another. In that
other, you would have all of your former abilities, as well as those
you have gained since the accident. And that is why you would want
to stay here. I can show you the way into that other world, where
you would be as you are now, fully healed and whole. There is but a
small price."
Je'en grew immediately wary. She believed the man, for there
were tales of other worlds and passages between them. This limbo was
not like any of the stories, but then the stories were old. She was
wary for a different reason. She had obviously been led into this by
a long and very twisted path, and she wanted to know why. If this
man Terkan had been acting charitably, he would have simply offered
her the choice for free, without all this subterfuge. What did he
want, and why?
"What price?" she asked. "And what of my companion, Wend?"
"Ah, Wend. Well, he was in my employ, you see. The drug I used
on you is illegal in Baranur - and very rare and expensive. Wend was
well paid to get you into the proper state, but at the last, he
decided that his salary for the job wasn't enough. You see, that
sword you carry is very valuable to certain people, but it has a
spell on it that it cannot be taken, it must change owners by free
will. My sponsors are willing to pay a large sum of money to me for
this sword, some of which Wend would have gotten. But, he got
greedy, and wanted it all. So, I had to kill him."
"But, why not just come to me and ask for the sword? I have
little sentimental value for it, and would sell it gladly for the
right price. Why all of this?"
Terkan smiled a little nervously, and said, "Well, I thought to
pay you in other kind, being a little greedy myself. When a little
research revealed a certain incident in Magnus, I decided to restore
to you your Bardic abilities, if you so choose."
It almost made sense to Je'en. But, not quite. It was too
devious. All of the secrecy, Wend's supposed duplicity, the mild
drug to lull her senses. There was something more. There had to be.
But, so what. Terkan was indeed offering her her heart's desire.
For, tho Wend had cured her of her nightmares, the desire to make
music remained as much a part of her as ever. And it seemed that
here, and (if Terkan was to be believed) in the world on the other
side of this gate, she could be a bard again. Was that worth
whatever the real reason behind Terkan's manuevering was?
Part Five: Rescue
Cefn and Mahr rode into Dargon at a gallop. They hadn't actually
ridden that far - Cefn's home was much too far from Dargon, so they
had used a little magic to help them on their way. Cefn, robed and
deeply cowled, led the way at an unsafe speed through the streets of
Dargon, arousing cries of suprise as they galloped past citizens.
The wizard reined in just outside of Margala's House. He raced
to the front door, Mahr behind him, and entered without knocking.
They dashed past the suprised Margala, and up the stairs, down the
hall, to room 21.
They entered the room without any ceremony (after Cefn unbarred
it by setting a glowing hand on the knob), and Mahr looked around as
her Master got to work immediately. Mahr saw Je'en on the bed - the
first time she had seen their charge in the flesh. She looked much
the same as in the Image Table, or Cefn's Scrying Prism, save for
the fact that she was obviously in trouble. Her whole body was
rigid, with just a faint rise and fall in her chest to denote
breathing. Her face, what could be seen around the mask, looked to
be drawn in suprise, perhaps pain - her eyes were closed tight shut,
and her mouth was a compressed line.
She turned quickly away from the body in the corner. Mahr knew
who it was. She had seen Wend and Je'en together in the city in the
Image Table. She was sorry he was dead - he had treated Je'en kindly
- but she wasn't sure why he was dead, or if he had had any part in
getting Je'en into the vulnerable position she was in now.
The other person in the room, a middle aged man dressed like a
merchant, was kneeling and sitting on his folded-under legs. His
fingers were contorted into the Triple-cross sign, and his hands
rested on his knees. He seemed to be concentrating, focusing on a
small medallion on his lap, but his eyes were closed. His breath
came as slowly and shallowly as did Je'en. Cefn had explained little
- their ride had been short and hurried - but Mahr realized that the
meditating man was one of the enemy. She even fancied she could feel
an aura of evil about him.
Cefn said, "Mahr, south-east, quickly."
Mahr fetched the compass from her belt pouch, and noted the
requested direction, then pointed. Cefn took a small blue angle and
placed it on the floor pointing where Mahr had indicated. Then, Cefn
removed six other angles form a small yellow pouch, all colored red,
and touched them, one at a time, to the blue one. As they came into
contact with the first angle, they each began to glow, and as Cefn
released them, they moved of their own accord to their proper place.
When the sixth red angle had settled into place, forming, with the
blue one, a seven-pointed star, the first angle also began to glow,
causing a webwork of lines to spring up between all of the angles,
forming a solid seven-sided figure with a seven-pointed star within.
Cefn beckoned, and Mahr joined him at the center of the figure.
He asked, "Ready?" Mahr nodded, and Cefn said a word. Blue and red
flame shot up from the outlines of the figure, climbing to the
ceiling and blotting out the room around them. It flared for several
seconds, and then it died, revealing a vastly different scene.
It was a shadowly, limbo place, vaguely resembling the room they
had come from. The formerly meditating man, now dressed as a priest
of Jhel, was speaking. "We don't really have forever, Je'en. The
drug you were given will wear off in time, and I don't have any more
with me. You must decide. Which will it be - keep the sword or
become a Bard again?"
Cefn said, softly, "Mahr, stay within the septacle. This could
get messy." Then, louder, "Je'en, don't listen to that man. He has
lied to you. Whatever you do, do not give him your sword."
Both parties turned at the sound of the mage's voice. Mahr saw
that Je'en wasn't wearing her mask here, and there was no scar on
her suprised face. The priest scowled, and said "Just who do you
think you are? This woman can make up her own mind - leave her alone."
Cefn ignored the man, and took a few steps towards Je'en (and
out of the septacle). "Je'en, this man is a priest of Jhel. Have you
ever heard of that particular cult? Well, its been outlawed for a
very long time. The last remaining members of this cult are right
here in Dargon, and this man is one of them. The sword you bear,
that you got from the vaults of the College in Magnus, just happens
to be the key to a prophecy of total world victory for the followers
of Jhel, and the prophecy is not just words - if the high priests of
Jhel get hold of that sword, and release what is within it, the
whole world will fall to them."
"Why should I believe you, instead of this man?" asked Je'en.
She was even more confused now. If the tall, cowled man was right,
the priest's interest was explained, but she couldn't be sure. And,
if she could really enter another world, and have her heart's desire
in that world, did she care what happened in the one she had left?
"Je'en, please. You must listen to me. Just now, when he said
that the drug would wear off - it won't. You'll be trapped in this
limbo forever. Even after your body dies, your spirit will wander
here endlessly. You have regained your bardic skills and whole body,
but to what use? The beings who inhabit this realm need no music for
entertainment - they have other amusements. Please, do not accept.
He will give you nothing in return, and destroy the world in the
bargain. Deny his offer, come to me, and we will depart."
There was something about the cowled man that prompted Je'en to
trust him. Perhaps, it was because he wanted nothing from her except
to give up what the other man had supposedly given her. She turned
from him to the priest, and saw the scowl on his face. It was
actually more than a scowl, it was pure rage and hatred concealed
badly. Je'en made her decision - she began to walk over to the
taller man.
The priest shouted "No!" and flung an arm across Je'en's path.
>From his fingers a siclky purple-green line of fire flashed across
the room, between Je'en and the cowled man. The priest swung his arm
behind him, and the line of fire became a translucent wall dividing
the whole room in half, with Je'en on one side, and the other three
on the other.
Je'en tried to push thru the green-purple wall, but touching it
caused so much pain that she cried out and fell back. So, she could
only watch what was going on on the other side.
Mahr was watching, too. She had never seen her master in an all
out Duel of magic. Such a thing was very rare, as were magicians of
most any caliber. She was not suprised that the priest could hold
his own against Cefn - it had rapidly become obvious that he was
high up in the priestly order of Jhel, perhaps even in the Septent,
and it was well known (to those who knew at all) that the highest of
Jhel's followers were renowned magic users.
The contest was incomprehensible to non-participants. All that
was visible of the striving was stray emissions - attacks that did
not make their mark, the efluvia of shattered thrusts, and leakages
of gathered force for an attack. Mahr saw her master seemingly just
standing, cowl thrown back, hands slightly forward of his body,
facing the priest, who was in a similar position. Light flashed to
the sides of them, and Mahr started as several stray attacks that
shattered against the protection of the septacle. She noticed that
the wall created by the priest was similar protection for Je'en.
Eventually, the battle began to go against the priest. There
were few stray emissions around the priest anymore, indicating more
on-the- mark attacks. He began to sweat, and his hands began to move
higher and higher as he worked harder to attack and defend himself.
He began to glance furtively around for a way out. His eyes lit on
Mahr and her protection, and he smiled.
His hands began to point different directions, and he began to
direct energy at the ground around the septacle, as well as at Cefn.
The ground below the septacle began to thin, but no one noticed, so
intent were they on the battle. Slowly, Terkan's magic ate away at
the fabric of the limbo space, until finally it gave way. Mahr
screamed as she fell thru into somewhere else.
Cefn turned in time to see his apprentice vanish, along with the
septacle, intact. With a little cry, he darted over to the hole in
the floor to try to help her. Seeing his chance, Terkan prepared a
final blow, aimed at Cefn's defenceless back.
Je'en saw Terkan smiling at the undefended mage, and knew that
the mage was in trouble. She braced herself and threw herself at the
purple-green wall, and at Terkan. Pain lanced thru her, searing
every nerve, causing her to scream in agony - but she kept going.
She moved through treacle, taking forever - a forever of agony - to
reach the man, but reach him she did, knocking him down, causing him
to lose his concentration, and his spell backfired. Je'en lay
panting and crying from the pain for several minutes before she felt
the other man gently move her from on top of Terkan, who seemed to
be unconscious.
Cefn examined the priest, and deemed him safe for the moment. He
returned his attention to Je'en, and said, "Are you alright?"
Je'en sat up groggily, and looked at her rescuer. She first
noted his eyes - pure blue all thru. He was handsome, with thin,
aristocratic features, but his eyes seemed something out of legends.
She finally said, "Yes, I'm alright. Your friend..."
"Mahr was my apprentice. She is beyond hope. Perhaps my masters
will look kindly on her, save her, but she will not return to this
world. I should have been prepared for treachery. I..."
"Um, thank you for saving me," said Je'en. "Who are you, anyway,
and why?"
Cefn said, "My appologies, Je'en. My name is Cefn an'Derin. My
occupation should be obvious. What I said about Jhel was true - your
sword is the key to the priests of Jhel's armageddon prophecy, and
this man, probably one of the leaders of the cult, was trying to
wrest it from you. We, Mahr and I, have been involved with the
downfall of Jhel, and have been watching you carefully, which is why
he tried to trick you into giving him the sword. Only his brief
possessive thought alerted my surveilance to the fact that you were
in trouble. Now, we - I - have the key we need to destroy the rest
of the Septent of Jhel in Dargon, and destroy her worship for good."
Cefn reached, perhaps a little wearily, into his belt-pouch and
withdrew a small hemisphere of dark glass. Je'en watched as he
placed the glass dome on Terkan's temple, and said a word. The dome
began to glow, and the unconscious Terkan began to grimace in pain.
It took about five minutes for the dome to do its work, and by the
end, Terkan was screaming soundlessly. When the hemisphere ceased
glowing, Cefn removed it from Terkan's head. It left a charred spot
where it had rested, and it was no longer dark, but rather a
swirling milky-white.
Cefn said, "Within this theryum is all of the priests memories
and thoughts. With this, I can masquerade as him, gain admittance to
a high meeting of the Brothers, and destroy them.
"Come, Je'en. Let us return to Dargon. I think the priest will
be happy to suffer the imprisonment he meant for you."
"Wait, Master Cefn. Terkan, the priest, he said that he could
send me to another world, where I would be able to sing again. Could
you do that as he said? If so, I would rather not return to Dargon."
"I'm sorry, Je'en, but that was another lie. There is no way for
our magics to penetrate the dimensional boundaries. This is another
plane of existence, and in it, you bear your spirit-body, which is
as healthy and whole as you wish it to be. But, human life is
foreign to this plane, and its natural inhabitants enjoy torturing
anyone or thing foreign."
Cefn had begun setting up another septacle, orienting the major
angle on a sense he had of the proper direction. Je'en watched the
little red angles dart around of their own accord with fascination.
When it was done, Cefn motioned her into the center of the figure.
She said, before Cefn could begin to activate the septacle, "So,
what now? You have the means to destroy this cult of Jhel, but you
have also lost your apprentice. What will you do when your mission
is complete?"
Cefn looked at Je'en, and she saw sadness in his face. He said,
"Mahr and I worked long and hard to destroy Jhel. I shall miss her
greatly, yet some kind of loss is fitting, in a way. As to what
next, I have no idea. My time is finally once again my own. Perhaps
I'll do some more research, maybe find another apprentice, and pass
along my knowledge. I just don't know."
"Why don't we team up," said Je'en. "I have been getting so
bored in that Peace-keeper job I've got, that it nearly drove me
mad. But, in a land that is so sparsely populated, and largely
unknown, there must be some more exciting work for a swordswoman,
and it will be even more exciting with a real magician along to
help. Sound good?"
Cefn was silent for a long time. In truth, the idea seemed a
good one - but Je'en didn't know very much about him, including the
part he had played in her present circumstances. Still, the offer of
adventure sure sounded better than a lot of reclusive research. And,
he had grown to like Je'en while watching and protecting her. So, he
finally said, "Sure. Why not? Let's be a team!" And he activated the
magic that returned them to the real world and Dargon.
-John L. White
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SIX NUMBER FIVE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
*A Reintroduction to Atros Joseph Curwen
*Growing Concern: Atros 4 Joseph Curwen
*Gasmelyn Llaw: Part 1 of 2 John White
Date: 121986 Dist: 227
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Hello, all! This is the last issue of the 1986 calendar year,
and the last issue of volume six. It contains only two stories,
although I'm sure that you will find the issue highly enjoyable.
Issue 7/1 will be out soon after the New Year, and will contain the
second half of John White's story, as well as an interesting piece
by Glenn Sixbury. That issue will also mark the second anniversary
of FSFnet, and it will be our 28th issue. I'll be sure to write an
appropriately verbose editorial, of course.
For those of you who have not received 6/4 (due to a network
problem), you may request it from CSNEWS at MAINE or TCSSERVE at
TCSVM. I have (hopefully) corrected the problem for this issue.
I'd like to welcome our new subscribers, and wish all and sundry
a joyous and fulfilling Yuletide. Onwards!
-'Orny' Liscomb
A Reintroduction to Atros
My good friend Orny (well as far as it is possible to call an
editor a friend) has been so kind as to point out the slight
difficulties in following a serial which has been running
intermittently in FSFnet for nearly a year now, especially when the
last installment appeared six months ago. Also, I'm fairly sure that
several of you haven't been reading FSFnet for that long. This, of
course, presents a problem. The usual solution to this sort of
predicament is to remind or update the reader through providing
clues of previous events in the story line itself (e.g. some
character explains the situation to a new character arriving on the
scene.) Well, in my opinion that sort of thing is awkward and
boring, particularly for those who don't need a review. So, at this
particular point in time, I refuse to do it. You'll all just have to
bear it and be lost. Touch luck. No, I'm just joking. The purpose of
this introduction is to provide you the reader with a summary of the
previous installments in the Atros serial. This is intended
primarily as a review for those who've read stories. If you haven't,
I'd suggest if at all possible that you do so. Previous installments
are "Rendezvous" (VOL4N01), "Dreamer's Holiday" (VOL4N02), and
"Calls of Courtesy" (VOL4N04). All of these back issues are
available from TCSSERVE@TCSVM (preferably) or from CSDAVE@MAINE (if
you're off Bitnet or have other difficulties). So having cleared
that up, I'd best get on with it.
WARNING SPOILER FOLLOWS:
The first of "Rendezvous" introduces the character of Gilman, a
first rate alchemist who is a little down on his luck financially.
At the opening he is awaiting the arrival of Atros, a mysterious
street youth who has arranged for Gilman to prepare a nepenthe of
Mahedeos, a powerful drug which prevents dreaming of all sorts.
Atros arrives in the late in the night and asks for the nepenthe,
but is unable to provide the final payment. Gilman refuses to hand
over the drug and is killed by Atros in a moment of anger. Atros
robs Gilman, takes the nepenthe, and leaves the city of Magnus for
the port city of Dargon. During the trip, Atros refrains from using
the nepenthe and experiences a remarkable dream which symbolizes his
future. While he sleeps, Atros is watched from the shadows.
In "Dreamer's Holiday" Atros is enjoying the life of a upper
class merchant in Dargon's autumn festival. He has assumed the
identity of Raffen Yeggent, a traveling merchant who unsuccessfully
(and fatally) attempted to rob him during his journey to Dargon. In
Dargon, he is forced to attend stuffy noble balls and ceremonies. He
is adopted by the courtly couple Kite & Pecora (who spun off for
their own series in Orny's "Respect thy Elders" VOL5N02, VOL5N03, &
VOL6N01). At a ball, they introduce Atros to Pravo, a local scholar,
who is working on a book about creation myths. Atros' responses to
Pravo's questions intrigue and upset the scholastic, who cuts off
the conversation. Later that evening on the journey home, Atros
glimpses a man who resembles Gilman, the dead alchemist, but due to
being separated by a crowd, is uncertain if it truly is Gilman. The
rest of the story is spent on Atros' speculations on the survival of
Gilman and his purpose in Dargon.
"Calls of Courtesy" begins with Atros awakening some weeks later
to find the body of Thad, an old acquaintance and hired assassin,
draped over his bed. Thad has been cleanly murdered by having his
neck broken, probably in the act of killing Atros. Again, Atros is
at a loss to explain this. In Orny's story, "Hands of a Healer", in
the same issue, it is revealed that Thad was involved in a plot to
assassinate Lord Clifton Dargon, which was first detailed by Roman
in "The Essence of Ur-Baal" (VOL4N02) and "Ur-Baal Magic" (VOL4N04)
(a soon to be finished trilogy). The plot springs from high placed
Dargon merchants who wish to subjugate the newly discovered land of
Bichu for their own profit against the wishes, and foreign policy,
of Lord Clifton. After Atros disposes of the body, Thad's
disappearance cause some concern in the conspirators, whose ranks
included the Royal Physician/Healer, all of which is detailed in
"Hands of a Healer". As the series currently exists, Atros is as
unaware of the conspirators, as they are of him, but this is soon to
be remedied. Later in "Calls of Courtesy", Darla, a old friend of
Atros' arrives from Magnus bringing some of Atros cached rare books.
She tells Atros that Gilman does appear to have survived. He left
Magnus for Dargon, soon after Atros fled. Not wanting another
another Thad like incident, Atros takes Darla into his confidence to
watch over him while he takes his drug controlled sleeps. Without
his knowledge Darla browses through his diaries and papers during
his sleeps. The papers tell of the full lives that Atros has lead
during the passing of a single dream. Again and again, he has led
tragic existences in a variety of lives, all of which he suspects to
be as real as this. He has sought out the nepenthe, and other drugs
like it, as his only method of controlling these tormenting dreams.
Atros fears that this life to is only a dream and stays distant from
everyone because he is afraid of yet more pain. Secretly, Darla
loves and pities him.
Well, that pretty much concludes my interruption of the real
submissions to this issue. If you have any complaints about the
series or the entire Dargon cycle, do not fear to write me directly
or all the writers through LISTSERV. I sincerely hope I haven't
created more confusion than good.
-Joseph Curwen
Growing Concern: Atros 4
A sudden draft of late autumn air set the handful of tallow
candles illuminating the interior of the Inn of the Hungry Shark to
fitful flickering. As the tavern's inhabitants at a few hours after
midnight consisted of only the sleepy-eyed staff and a few groggy
stragglers, no one had noticed the soundless opening of the heavy
oak front door. But the prolonged change in temperature eventually
drew stares. For several moments, the gray cloaked figure of a
motionless Atros stood in stark contrast to the overcast night
beyound the entrance way. A change had overcome his appearance. He
no longer bore the guise of Raffen Yeggent with its white facial
talk and near foppish stylings. Atros' long brown hair and somber
gray floor-length cloak fluttered in the draft. But more subtly
Atros' eyes seemed gripped by determination and touched by a quality
of madness. It was certain that most of the tavern's clientele would
give Atros a wide berth and continual observation.
Finally, Atros entered and quickly located the night shift
innkeep, a portly war veteran whose strength and firmness earned him
respect in an establishment frequented by roughens and cut throats.
"I would like to speak with you in private," Atros began in a
low volume.
"I'm working. 'Sides, if I turn my back for a shake, I'll be
robbed blind by customer and lackey alike," the innkeep answered,
clearing the bar counter of dirty mugs.
"Perhaps that table in the corner, you could watch the room from
there," Atros suggested a bit impatiently.
"Look here, I haven't time to spend with every lonely thug who
wanders in. Find someone else to bugger!" The innkeep's temper began
to show.
"You..." Atros began to raise his voice, then thought better of
it. "Perhaps I should begin again." Atros hefted a small satchel of
coins onto the counter but kept his hand on the bundle. "Now, will
you talk?"
"This way..." The innkeep led Atros to the corner table and and
took a chair with his back to the wall. After collecting the
satchel, Atros selected the opposite wall.
"What is this about?" the innkeep whispered.
"I know a man named Thad frequented this place for a few days
about two weeks ago."
"There's many a jack who muster through that door. I don't let
names bother me much."
"He was exceptionally tall and broad, dark black hair, boyish
face with a permanent sneer. A single scar here," Atros added
pointing at his right temple.
"Him. A bad sort, I hear rumors."
"Whom did he talk to here? Did he met anyone? Get any messages?"
Atros asked eagerly.
The innkeep seemed to mull this over for a time in his mind then
said "Let's see your coin. This'll take gold."
Atros spread the contents of the satchel and added a few gold
coins from somewhere beneath the table. As he was doing this, Darla
entered the tavern. Atros glanced once at her and once at a distant
empty table. Darla ducked over toward that table trying not to
attract attention. The innkeep was so lost in counting the coins
with his eyes that he missed this exchange.
Seeming satisfied, the innkeep began, "He spoke with no one
'cept the whores...and some men who let a room upstairs for a time,"
he concluded in a whisper.
"Who were they?" he asked, trying to keep his voice from carrying.
"Like I say, I don't know names...except maybe one... It'll take
the pile," the innkeep pointed at the coins, "those men are
dangerous and kept to themselves."
"Fine. What was the name?" Atros answered quickly.
"That one didn't come much. He was always trying to slip past
but his fine clothes made him odd enough to notice. I'd seen him
before...had him pointed out to me at any rate. He was," the innkeep
hesitated and looked uncomfortable, "Dargon's High Wizard...Griswald
Butsum or somethin' or other." His whisper was nearly inaudible.
Atros could not contain a surprised expression as he pushed the
coins across the table to the innkeep, who eagerly gathered them
into a pouch hidden inside his cloak.
"These men, what did they look like? How many were they?"
The innkeep delayed before answering. "I'm already deep into
somethin' big. Somethin' I don't understand. No more answers." He
began to get up.
"Wait!" Atros caught him by the wrist. "I'll double that amount."
"What use is gold to a dead man?" the innkeep pronounced, broke
free forcibly, and hurried into the kitchen.
Atros stood, crossed the room, and motioned for Darla to follow.
Once they had left the tavern and were safely walking the
darkened streets side by side, Darla asked "So what's this
tremendous thing you've learned?"
"How do you know I learned anything at all?" Atros asked.
"You wouldn't have given up a small fortune for nothing."
This remark broke Atros' stride for a moment but he was quick to
recover. "Be that as it may, everything seems to becoming more
complicated." As they walked, Atros quickly and precisely informed
Darla of his discussion with the innkeep.
"You haven't any enemies in Dargon that I don't know about, do
you?" Darla asked playfully.
"No, not that I know of," Atros answered, "I'm worried that the
high wizard was contracted to finish the task that Thad failed. I
generally avoid tangles with wizards of all sorts."
"Seems to be a good policy," Darla responded.
"You've been around me too much these past few weeks, you're
starting to pick up my dry sense of humor," Atros observed chidingly.
"Perhaps," Darla agreed solemnly.
Atros stopped walking and waited until Darla turned back to face
him. "Are you mocking me?" His voice was steady, betraying neither
anger nor humor.
"No! Of course not. I wouldn't do a thing like that." Darla was
perhaps over quick to reply. "I've just learned so much from you. I
pick up things quickly," she finished weakly.
Expressionless Atros began walking again. They continued
together some distance in silence.
"If you are so quick to learn, why have your reading lessons
gone so slowly?" Atros asked looking forward.
Darla gasped quietly then said "I haven't the patience or the
time. I just can't see what use it all is."
Atros began, "Books are any culture's, or any man's, sole means
of preserving themselves. They are reservoirs of information that
would otherwise be lost..." He continued in the same vein.
The rest of the lecture was lost on Darla. She was overcome by
relief for managing to distract Atros from her deception. It was a
small thing really. But she felt that if her ability to read was
discovered, Atros would lose all trust in her. She felt guilty about
reading Atros' personal papers and diaries but couldn't resist. She
was worried that her knowledge showed. She had made several near
slips over the past two weeks and had thought that Atros' question
about her lessons might have arisen from well founded suspicions.
But apparently her answer had placated him. Caught up in her own
thoughts, she listened to Atros' voice drone with an occasional nod.
Thus both were being slightly incautious when suddenly a bright
light from the alley way before them stung their eyes. The surprise
was complete, their response predictable. They threw up their arms
to block the blinding rays of a phosphorus lamp and were momentarily
stunned into inaction. A disembodied voice to the right called
Atros' name and he turned removing his hand from is face. An instant
later he was tackled from the rear. An armored man seized Darla
while another attempted to bind her hands. As her vision cleared,
she screamed and fought, kicking indiscriminately with her feet
while trying to break her arms free. Atros was having trouble of his
own. Through more accident than skill he managed during his fall to
break free of the arms clinched about his waist and to roll to his
feet. Atros' assailant landed face first on the cobblestones and was
slow to recover.
Atros took the opportunity to draw his rarely used sword and
survey his opponents. There were three, all armed, all armored, and
all somewhat experienced. Atros felt a sinking feeling his stomach
but managed a quick flourish and charged his assailant, who now
stood between Darla and himself. The tackler had apparently been
chosen more for mass than for quickness. Still his armor would turn
all but Atros' best placed thrusts. Atros seemed doomed to fight a
war of attrition with the giant, who now bore a hand and a half
sword, a weapon capable of splitting the unarmored Atros in half. It
was times like this, that Atros wished he'd taken real sword
wielding lessons or at least bothered to select a religion. Atros
cursed himself, distracted by that thought he had missed a critical
opening. Atros resolved to fight instinctively and cut off thinking
so much. He allowed his anger to flare. He must make it to Darla.
After several moments of futile effort, the onslaught that was
Darla relented. Without a weapon, she could only inconvenience, not
harm, her two armored opponents. It occurred to her that perhaps a
more subtle strategy might be called for. Almost as soon as her fury
subsided, one of her assailants, noticing his companion's
difficulties with Atros, pronounced "Here, take her", shoved Darla
into his partner, and strode toward the more active melee.
Atros was tiring rapidly now. He was out of condition and the
nepenthe seemed to drain his endurance. He met the entrance of a
second opponent into the fray with mixed emotions. He seemed
certainly doomed now, but perhaps Darla could find a chance to
escape. She'd done nothing; it must be him they wanted.
The outcome of the battle had long been decided. Atros' two
opponents began to jeer and taunt him, as he grew steadily more
helpless. Atros' anger gave him some strength, but it would not be
enough. He fought on, knowing he appeared awkward and comical now.
He almost wished they'd end it quickly, if only to save his pride.
At long last, the obvious occurred to the ruffian who held Darla
captive. "Wait," he called out to his companions, "we have the girl.
We can make him stop fighting." He held one of Darla's arms in a
painful hold behind her back. Still, she did not struggle. Like
Atros, she seemed to have accepted her fate.
"Why? It's just becoming fun," the taller opponent responded
while swinging his sword in a wild, wide arc.
"We can take them alive. We'd get more gold for it," Darla's
captor suggested. Distracted by the conversation, his hold on
Darla's arm was loosening.
"What makes you think that? Nobody said anything about bringing
them in alive," snapped the third finishing in a child's rendition
of a fiendish grin.
Darla saw her opportunity and took it. She clutched a short
dagger from her captor's belt and attempted to drive the blade into
his exposed neck. Her aim was poor but she did manage a painful and
bloody gash to the base of his chin, just left of his Adam's apple.
He whirled, cried "Bitch", and struck her across her right
temple with his gauntleted hand. She never noticed that a small
punch dagger was affixed to the back of his gauntlet. The blade
scraped bone and Darla went down in a slight spray of blood. She
lapsed into unconsciousness.
Atros let out a piercing shriek and tried to break through to
Darla, but was prevented by his two opponents. Confusion reigned as
the combat became a scuffle. After a few long moments of wrestling
on the darkened cobblestones, Atros felt the weight of his larger
attacker lifted from him and heard a resounding crash some distance
away. He looked up to see the outline of a short cloaked figure
leaning over tussle. The man took hold of his remaining opponent by
the head and quickly snapped his cervical vertebrae. With a
momentary feeling of deja vu, Atros pushed the corpse off himself.
His rescuer extended a hand to help Atros to his feet. Atros noticed
that the hand was large, coarse, and cool. The distant sound of
fleeing footsteps could be faintly heard.
"They're gone?" Atros inquired shaken.
The cloaked man nodded and walked over to Darla's motionless
body. Atros had enough sense to fetch the overturned phosphorous
lamp to aid in examining her wounds. He stumbled a bit, obviously
exhausted, but he couldn't ignore Darla's need now to rest.
For the first time, their rescuer's face was illuminated by the
light of the lamp.
"Gilman!" Atros shouted, unable to control his surprise.
"Gilman no longer..." He spoke softly in monotone. "Though I
remember being Gilman once." Looks of fear, comprehension and awe
swept across Atros' features. He stood stunned while Gilman began
binding Darla's wounds with strips of fabric from his tunic.
"Who...What are you now?" Atros inquired softly, hesitantly.
"A servant of our master, yours and mine," Gilman pronounced
ominously. "You understand." It was not a question.
"My tormentor," Atros whispered under his breath.
"Yes that too... You must go quickly now. I will hold off
pursuit." Though the opponent had been repelled, both instinctively
knew they would return soon in greater numbers.
"I have so many questions," Atros began.
"They will wait," Gilman cut in. "I have a message for you."
Atros hesitated, reluctant to ask. Finally, he nodded.
"All of your preparations are unnecessary. To meet the master of
your dreams you need only to hold the desire and to sleep." Gilman's
words rung like a muffled bell to Atros' ears.
Drawing into himself, Atros' only acknowledgement of the message
was a soft grunt or moan. He had hoped that he was wrong.
"Go now...quickly," Gilman advised, lifting the partially
conscious Darla to her feet. Atros supported her and began hurriedly
limping away.
After a short distance, Darla could walk no farther even with
Atros' support. Her mind wasn't lucid then. She hummed softly to
herself and spoke in fragments of remembered conversations. No tears
stained Atros' cheeks as he lifted the semiconscious Darla in his
arms and staggered under his burden, but only because Atros had
forgotten how to cry long ago. Atros knew that she needed a place
where she could receive immediate medical help and much rest, but no
such haven existed in this neighborhood. It would be foolish to
return to the flophouse now as well. His best hope for a healer lay
in the wealthier areas nearer The Keep. He was well past his normal
physical limits of endurance and he knew that he would require
several days recuperation himself. Trying to block out his own pain
and exhaustion, Atros carried Darla though the empty, darkened
streets of Dargon for a time that seemed to stretch into hours.
Atros' own mind began to lose clarity and he lost his direction. He
wandered aimlessly for some time, occasionally calling out to empty
alley ways or vague shapes.
As he grew weaker and his thoughts more primitive, his only
desires were flight and safety. The weakness and pain blurred his
senses. It was in this condition that Atros, with Darla in his arms,
staggered into a darkly dressed gentleman stepping out of a darkened
doorway. The man cried out in surprise as Atros sank to his knees
still supporting Darla.
Seeing the blood and bandages, the man exclaimed "She's hurt.
Quickly inside, in the light," and helped Atros carry Darla through
the entrance way into a dimly lit foyer They placed Darla on a hard
wooden bench cushioned with woolen cloaks from pegs on the walls. As
soon as this was finished, the gentleman turned up the oil lamp and
turned toward Atros and Darla. Without the facial talc it took a
moment for recognition to dawn on him. "Raffen!?! Raffen Yeggent?"
he exclaimed.
Atros looked at the gentleman's face for the first time and
dimly remembered speaking to the man once at dance hall during the
festival. Could it have been only a few weeks ago? Atros' thoughts
cleared and he remembered the scholar who studied myths and legends.
"Pravo" he said weakly.
"Who is the girl? No, never mind that now. It doesn't matter. A
friend of yours, I suppose?" Pravo asked.
Groggily, Atros nodded. He couldn't keep up with Pravo's words.
"Don't worry. I'll take care of her. She'll be alright. You
rest. You look exhausted." Pravo's tongue seemed hyperactive.
Once again, Atros nodded.
Pravo set to examining Darla's wounds while Atros slumped
against the base of the opposite wall. Pravo's hands worked quickly
and efficiently. He seemed to know what he was doing and at the
moment that was good enough for Atros who slid into a stupor.
But Pravo wouldn't let him rest. "How did this happen?" he asked.
"Muggers in the street," Atros answered barely conscious.
"Where?" Pravo inquired.
"Down by the wharves near the Hungry Shark," Atros smiled with
his eyes closed, seeming amused, but Pravo never looked back at him.
"They take your purses? Why'd they hurt her? What's her name?"
"Darla," Atros answered, slightly amused.
"The initial bandaging was done quite skillfully. She hasn't
lost much blood. She'll be fine in a few days. Maybe a scar though."
"Good." Atros began to chuckle quietly to himself but stopped
when he realized it wasn't really funny. After a few moments he
drifted into unconsciousness.
Atros awoke a few hours before dawn on the entry way floor with
a coarse blanket over him. He was confused and slightly frightened.
But after several moments of sitting in the dimly lit room, the
events of last night came to him. Darla no longer lay on the bench
and Pravo was no place to be found. Atros' arms and legs were sore
beyound imagining. He got up slowly, stiffly and wandered further
into the house. The second door he came to was open. A short tallow
candle burned on a high shelf. Darla lay in a large comfortable bed.
In the soft glow she looked very beautiful, very vulnerable. Seeing
the bandages covering her temple, Atros felt a surge of guilt. He
knelt beside the bed and took her hand into his own.
"I'm sorry Darla, I never meant for anything to happen to you,"
Atros began. Darla moved slightly in her sleep.
"They wanted me and you were a convenient tool." His breathing
was irregular, his voice hoarse. Darla stirred slightly.
"You must forgive me. I've failed you. I let them hurt you,"
Atros went on weakly, eyes cast downward.
"Shhhh. Be quiet, Atros....You have nothing to be forgiven for.
You don't don't have to protect me. I've always taken care of
myself." Darla reached out to Atros and gently stroked his dark hair.
"I'm no swordsman...no hero. A quick jab of a blade in surprise
maybe, but not a real fight." Atros' voice cracked. Still, he could
not face her.
"I know, Atros. I know. But you are a hero. My hero. You saved
me and provided for me. My wounds are my own fault. You have cared
for me. You have nothing to be ashamed of." She was gentle, motherly.
There was a long silence.
It was broken finally by the entrance of Pravo. "I thought I
heard talking," he said entering in a nightshirt. "You should be
both be asleep," he said accusingly. "There will be time for talking
tomorrow. Darla needs her rest." Pravo sounded annoyed though
inwardly he was happy to find Darla awake, it was a good sign. "Oh,
yes Darla, we haven't been formally introduced. I'm Pravo, a friend
of Raffen, and master of this house. You are welcome here until you
are well again. The healer has gone now, but will return tomorrow
and guarantees that you will be well soon. Provided you rest, of
course." Pravo said smiling. "Now, if you excuse me, I will show
Raffen to his room."
Pravo took Atros by the hand and escorted him down the hall to
another bed room. Atros tried to as if he were totally well, but
Pravo could not avoid noticing his stiff gate. The room which Pravo
gave him was not nearly as grand as Darla's, which Atros now
realized must be that of the lady of the house. Atros inquired.
Pravo said, "That room is vacant. I live alone now."
Atros was surprised, to live in such a large house without
servants was unusual. He asked, "You are widowed?"
Pravo answered obviously painfully,"No. My wife left me many
years ago. I dismissed the staff."
Atros was sorry that he had asked.
Pravo changed the subject. "There is water is the pitcher, linen
in the chest, as well as some clothing that might fit."
Pravo turned to Atros, seemed to consider for a moment then
said, "She calls you 'Atros'....There was an 'Atros' in Arbor two
years back... Who are you?" Pravo asked, facing Atros.
"What do you know of that man in Arbor?" he responded cautiously.
"Very little really. He stayed with a colleague of mine named
Baughis. Baughis wrote a letter praising his Atros' scholastic
talents and congratulating himself for the find of such a remarkable
young talent in the slums." Pravo paused a moment. "The next letter
was filled with curses upon an ungrateful runt who relieved Baughis
of half his library and departed unexpectedly." Pravo straightened
his stance and looked Atros in the eye. "You are that Atros, no?"
"No.." Atros said obviously lying. But after a moment "Yes, I am
that Atros....You must forgive me. Those books were very important
to me at the time. I took them only because my need was very
great...You must understand." A distraught Atros plead. If only he
could justify himself to someone just this once.
"Understand?" Pravo watched the youth, made some decision, and
chuckled. "I nearly laughed myself to death reading that second
letter." Pravo continued smiling, "Baughis is a pompous old fool who
never finished a book in his life. It just pleases his ego to play
at being a great mind. He buys rare books with inherited money and
then gets great pleasure form having more renown and less wealthy
scholars beg to borrow some unique tome. No, I have no qualms about
that incident...But Raffen, Atros rather, who are you really?"
A moments silence passed. "It's been so long...I really don't
know anymore," Atros replied weakly.
"Come now, you are still young. It could not be so long a story."
"But it is. A very long story filled with lifetimes of
memories...They all begin to run together...I am uncertain. I no
longer know truth from lie, reality from dream." Atros mind drifted.
"You are still tired," Pravo says sounding concerned. "We will
talk when your mind is cleared. Sleep now." Pravo left the bedroom.
Atros retrieved the bottle of nepenthe from his satchel, began
to unstopper the cork, and then hesitated for a long moment.
"No, despite what Pravo thinks, I am still strong...Strong
enough for this." Atros whispered to himself, then returned the drug
to the satchel. He laid down on the firm straw pallet and quickly
fell asleep.
-Joseph Curwen
Glasmelyn Llaw
Part One: The Tower
Deep in the forestland south of Dargon there stands a Tower, far
from anywhere, off all beaten paths. Sixty feet high it stands, and
it bears five "finger" turrets that rise, one from each of the
above-ground floors, sixty feet themselves - lifting the roof of the
highest turret 110 feet above the leaf-covered ground.
The Tower is a marvel of architecture made from smooth-cut,
dry-set, green crystalline stone which, with its turrets, gives it
its name - Glasmelyn Llaw: The Emerald Hand. It is obvious to any
casual observer that it was not erected by mortal hands: its lines
have an ethereal, otherworldly beauty and grace that summons images
of equiraptors and gryphons flying about and roosting on its turrets.
The Tower has stood for a very long time; since the plains of
the northwest become carpeted with forest; since the land was
colonized by a sea-faring nation, who built a fortress at the mouth
of the only navigable river to safeguard its cities from invasion;
since that colony eventually died out as support was lost after the
parent nation was besieged and conquered; since the re-colonization
of the land by the youthful, growing kingdom of Baranur, and the
founding of a new duchy, given to an accomplished young commander
named Anton Dargon who turned an old watch-fort at the mouth of the
Coldwell into the ducal seat. And, the Tower has stood, unnoticed,
while Dargon (the duchy) has grown, and Dargon (the city) has spread
across the mouth of the river it sits upon.
Its builder was a wizard in the days when wizards were as common
as fleas on a wild dog, if a little more feared. His name was
Tarlada, and he was very powerful among his kind, mostly because of
the extensive research and collecting he had taken the time to do.
His ability made others jealous, and they imagined that they, too,
could be as powerful as Tarlada, and without the time he had taken,
if they managed to kill him, and take the fruits of his labors as
their own.
Tarlada was more than just a scholar of magic - he was adept at
his craft. Because of this, he managed to survive three surprise
attacks by his fellow wizards who wanted his grimoires and
artifacts. But he knew that he couldn't hold out forever. So, he had
his tower built by magical means (untouched by human hands, it was),
and hoped that living in it would be safer than where he had lived
before. He was wrong. Two more attacks made him angry, and just a
little afraid. Afraid enough to take a rather drastic step.
He knew that eventually his attackers would catch him totally by
surprise, or asleep, and get the best of him, taking all of his
hard-earned spell-lore as their own. So, he began to do some
research into several large iron-bound volumes for a certain spell
that he had heard of once.
It was there, and it would do what he needed it to. He gathered
the materials necessary, which took several months, and then he
began the rituals necessary to activate the spell. When he was done,
several more months later, he had instilled into his tower a
purpose. Not life, but just a purpose - to protect him from harm in
any way necessary. The spell gave the Tower enough intelligence to
carry out its job, and the means to as well, in the form of several
magical weapons, and the ability to adapt several energy stores to
contingency uses, as it saw fit.
Tarlada was well pleased with his work, and he showed it off to
any and all. He was now secure from outside harm, and finally able
to return his life to normal.
But, his enemies weren't so pleased. They found his enchantment
to be very successful - anyone who attacked the tower found
themselves absorbed into the energy reserves for future use.
Eventually, the greedy ones began to leave him alone, for which
Tarlada was glad.
Tarlada was a solitary sort of person. He had friends, but he
had built his tower so far away from everything that he seldom had
visitors, especially since the attacks stopped. Many years passed,
and Tarlada barely noticed them, so wrapped up was he in research.
And then, one day he was in the laboratory when the door-chime
rang. He hurried down stairs and opened the door, and saw Lars'n,
his very best friend and companion all during his apprenticeship to
his master K'am. But, Lars'n appeared ancient, all bent and grey,
and they had been of an age when studying under K'am and Tarlada
both felt and looked no more than mid-thirty or so.
Lars'n's voice was as old as his appearance. "Ah, my friend," he
rasped weakly, "this is indeed a marvel. You haven't aged a bit
since last I saw you, what, sixty or seventy years ago? Remember,
just after Red Mergan tried to attack your tower? He was the last,
wasn't he? So, tell me how you manage to look so young?"
Tarlada was stunned. Eighty years? It was impossible! What was
going on?!? He invited his old friend in, and they chatted.
Eventually, Tarlada told Lars'n that he had no idea that so much
time had passed. Lars'n looked thoughtful, and said, "I feared this.
I think it was unwise of you to use that particular spell. It seems
to be doing its job rather too well. Tell me, friend, when was the
last time you left this place?"
Tarlada thought, and said, "Well, I don't rightly remember. Some
time ago, I think. It was when Jiil wanted me to come to her
wedding, I think. Just last year, wasn't that?"
Lars'n said, "Tarlada, Jiil was married seventy-one years ago,
and died eight years ago. She outlived her children, and her
grand-children. I met one of her great-grand-children in Rihls on
the way here, and he is thirty-three years old. Come with me back to
Irlenda, just for a visit. My own great-great-grandchildren have
heard stories about you - I'm sure that they would enjoy meeting you."
Tarlada was more than a little frightened by what Lars'n had
told him, and what he was implying. So, he agreed. Without even
packing, he helped Lars'n to the door, and tried to leave with him.
But, he couldn't pass the door. Lars'n was on the step outside,
watching Tarlada's attempts to pass through the door, shaking his
head sadly. "I'll try to help you, my friend," he called. He turned
away, and began to move surprisingly swiftly down the very faint
path that led up to the door of the Tower. And that was the last
time anyone left the Tower for a very, very long time.
Part Two: The Prey
"Are you sure that this is really a short-cut, Maks?" Syusahn
asked. She really didn't like the look of the trees hereabouts, even
apart from her natural distrust of enclosed spaces. Being from the
south-eastern steppes, she was used to being able to see the
horizon, and traveling through this forest was unnerving. She had
grown used to it a little after the last five days of travel, but
the forest had lately changed character. It now seemed almost
brooding, or even sinister. Perhaps that was due to the strange,
almost iridescently green, yellow, and blue vines that were
everywhere, intertwined between the trees, across the top of the
trail, and even among the grasses of the trail itself. Very little
sun managed to filter through the vines. The horses' hooves and the
wagon's wheels made very little noise as they moved over the trail,
and the normal forest sounds - insects, wind in the leaves, and the
like - were very muted. It all made Syusahn nervous and anxious, a
feeling she disliked: ordinarily, she feared little.
She looked at Maks, her betrothed, who was looking a little
uncertain. Maks was one of the Rhydd Pobl, commonly called gypsies.
He was five foot seven, thickly built, but not fat, with dark brown
longish hair and full beard and moustache. His eyes were very black,
his nose very large, and his face rather squarish, but in
combination, he was very handsome. They had met four months before,
when his tribe was moving through her homeland, and had fallen
immediately in love. It had taken a while for his family to accept
one of the Gwynt Gyrun - Wind Riders - as Maks' betrothed, but she
finally convinced them that she and Maks belonged together. The
first banns had been cried in the camp of her people, and Maks'
tribe had sworn to cry the second banns when they reached their
spring camp. She and Maks had tarried in her homeland for several
weeks, and then had taken to the road more slowly than was the norm
for a gypsy caravan, but when they finally arrived at the spring
camp in the northwest part of the Kingdom of Baranur, near a city
named Dargon, the banns would be cried for the third time, and they
would be wed at the mid-summer gathering of tribes.
Maks finally said, "The maps of my people say that this is the
shortest way to the camp site. We are children of the road - our
maps do not lie. This is the right way." But he wasn't truly so
certain. The maps of the Free People never lied, but the one he was
following made no mention of this strange patch of forestland. What
really worried him, though, was the fact that his map had an area
marked as dangerous just a few miles to the west of where they were,
and the description matched how these woods looked.
Maks glanced at Syusahn, and noticed the worried look on her
face. He knew how she felt about the forest, and had thought she was
over it, but the strange feel of the forest here probably brought
all of her fears back in full.
For Maks, the happiest day of his life was the day he met
Syusahn. She had come charging up to the caravan on a wild black
mare, riding bareback and brandishing a slim sword and looking as
deadly as the fifteen other youths - mostly male - who were also
test-charging the band of gypsies "invading" their territory. Maks'
people knew the ways of the Gwynt Gyrun and held their ground, and
the charging riders veered off at the last minute. Syusahn had come
back almost immediately, as intrigued with the young wagonmaster as
he was with her. They had been much together during the southern
trading season, and had very swiftly declared their love, and had
taken the matter to their elders. Syusahn's father, khan of a small
but fierce khanate, had immediatly given his permission for them to
wed. Maks' own people were more reluctant, but eventually gave in.
They made the Four-Ring Promise to her people, and the
Knife-and-Wheel Pledge to his, and plans were made for the wedding.
Maks was sure he could not have done better for a wife. Syusahn
was short - only five foot two - but not tiny in any way. She had
long, flowing raven-black hair, and an almost elven face: oval,
fine-boned, with high cheeks, arching eyebrows over green,
silver-flecked eyes, a short nose, and a full, sweet mouth that
flashed gleaming white teeth whenever she laughed, which was often.
Her body was surprisingly full at chest and hips for so short a
woman, and her waist was very narrow - features she liked to show
off by wearing very tight clothes, usually in red and black, and
lots of leather at waist, wrists, and feet. She also went heavily
armed, though with more than the slim sword at her waist - she had
at least a dozen small, sharp knives secreted about her person, and
she was an expert in either throwing them, or close in-fighting with
them. In all, she had such energy, such a joy in life, that Maks was
sometimes amazed that she would choose to settle down with him - but
then, a gypsy's life is seldom dull, either.
They rode late into the night, the lamps on Maks' wagon-home
lighting the way long before the sun actually set due to the gloom
of the overhanging vines. Also, they were anxious to make good time
through this strange forest, and so didn't stop like they usually
did at the first sign of red sky in the west. They finally found a
clearing in which to camp not more than two hours before midnight,
and ate a hasty supper, then retired to the single bed together and
tried, with some success, to blot out their individual uneasiness in
the joy of merging.
Syusahn awoke about an hour after the two of them had finally
fallen asleep, feeling the call of nature. She hesitated for a
moment, not relishing the prospect of going into the woods alone,
but then she steeled her courage, muttered a prayer to Karoga, the
Wind God, to keep her safe, dressed fully, and went outside.
She was returning to the warmth and safety of the wagon, when
she thought she saw a light flickering between the trees. Curiosity
got the better of her, and she tried to get a better view, promising
herself that she wouldn't go far.
Meanwhile, Maks awakened alone, and wondered where Syusahn was.
He pulled aside the curtain on one of the windows, and looked
outside in time to see Syusahn disappearing into the trees across
the clearing. He hurriedly threw on his pants and a cloak, and
dashed out after her.
Syusahn found it surprisingly easy to move through the trees
after the light, but she couldn't seem to get any closer to it. In
the heat of the chase, she forgot all about her promise not to go
far. She didn't even think about getting lost - it was very hard for
a steppes-rider to get lost if the sky was visible.
Maks was having more difficulty. The vines seemed not only to
block his way, but to actively hinder him by catching him, tripping
him, making it very hard to follow his love. He called out to her,
but she didn't seem to hear. So, he drew his knife, and began to
blaze his own way to her.
Syusahn did hear him, once, but as she began to turn to answer,
the light seemed to take a wrong turn, and it got almost close
enough to see clearly, and she took up the chase again. She didn't
hear any of his cries after that - in fact, she began to forget
about everything but the light and the trees between it and her.
Maks managed to get close enough to his love to see the light
she was following. She saw it as a flickering, yellow-red,
torch-like blob, but he saw that it was really a pale green-yellow
globe of light floating about head-high above the ground. He
recognized the will-o-the-wisp, and called out even louder, but
Syusahn was deeply ensnared and she didn't hear him. He fought the
vines harder, trying to reach her, but the vines were fighting back,
and now the trees themselves were joining in, throughsting up roots
to trip him, and waving branches in his face. He fought on,
following Syusahn as she followed the light, for a very long time.
He was nearly exhausted when he came to the end of the trail.
And that was a tower. Huge and menacing, it was surrounded by
vines as thick as trees twined utterly impassably save for a narrow
pathway that led up to the door. He saw Syusahn enter the tower, and
the door close. He ran up the path to the door, but it had no
handle, no way of opening it. He beat on the door, calling for
whoever was within to open it and face him, or give back Syusahn,
but there was no answer, at least not from within. But, the vines
that formed walls that framed the path began to close in, reaching
out for him, pulling and whipping at him. They eventually got so
violent that he had to run, fleeing before increasingly violent
vegetation that was driving him away from his love, trapped in that
strange, five-turreted tower.
Part Three: Employment
"It was an experiment," said Cefn in response to the question
that Je'en finally got up the nerve to ask. They were sitting in the
common room of the Inn of the Panther, at one of the rear tables.
Though they were a rather strange couple, they had spent enough time
there that they had become almost a fixture and the patrons barely
noticed them anymore.
Cefn was wearing his dark hood, as usual, and, while no one
could see into the recesses of the cowl, he could see out perfectly
clearly. It had taken several powerful spells to contrive the
special darkness that filled his hood: it allowed him to see in
ordinary light, a simple feat that he would have found impossible
without it. He stared at Je'en while he told her of a research
project that had gone wrong, cursing him with his glowing blue eyes
and a total intollerance for normal light of any kind. She, of
course didn't notice his staring, not being able to see his eyes. In
that, they were evenly matched: her silver half-mask hid her eyes
almost as effectively as his hood did his.
He found her fascinating. He knew much - if not most - of her
past, and he knew that she had an indomitable spirit. Few others
would have been able to start again in a whole new life as readily
and easily as she had done. And, being a swordswoman suited her as
well as being a Bard.
He also found her attractive. She was tall for a woman, almost
taller than he, and very sparely built. She had sandy-blonde average
length hair framing a longish, well-formed face. If trying to find
faults, he could have listed her nose, which was too long, or her
mouth, which was too thin, but he liked her hazel-grey eyes (when he
could see them, which was rarely). Her arms and legs were strong and
supple, and she was long-fingered and graceful (with allowances made
for her near-crippled right hand). She was wearing a flatteringly
cut green and silver tunic, and leather leggings with knee-high
boots. She was armed, with sword and knife both worn on the right
side of her belt. And, of course, there was the face mask, and the
scar it hid. Cefn was sure that she still wore the mask more out of
habit than necessity: she had built up a fine reputation in town,
and no longer had to worry about being taken for a "poor, disfigured
woman". Still, it added to her charm and mystique, and it was no
odder than the hood he was forced to wear.
Je'en listened to Cefn's tale intently. He seldom talked much
about himself, but then, neither did she, which made for many long
silences when they were together. She had always wondered about his
eyes, though, ever since she saw the way they glowed so strangely
when he had rescued her from that strange limbo place. She had
seldom seen them since then, except at night, or in a very dark
room, or when he had taken her to visit his mansion-like home, and
he had used those strange golden globes to light the rooms. She had
been rather nervous about asking him about them, but finally decided
that she wanted to know more about this mysterious magician who was
her partner.
And, perhaps there was something more. The few times that she
had been able to see his face, she saw that he was very handsome in
an aristocratic way. He had short black hair, and a long moustache
beneath a perfect nose and above a perfect mouth. She had yet to get
close enough to tell what the crest on his earring was. He was tall,
six feet or more, but not quite as tall as her. And, he had a
games-man's body, sleekly muscled, not like what she thought of as a
magician's body. She had felt an attraction to him from that first
day, but she was wary of him, of his strangeness, and of his powers.
She was glad that he had offered to be partners with her - it would
allow them to get better acquainted.
Much had happened between that first day and now. The first
thing they had done as a team was destroy Lladdwr, the sword that
the Cult of Jhel had so desperately wanted. That was after Cefn had
gone to a secret meeting of the Septent disguised as Brother Tri,
using the theryum to help his masquerade. He had destroyed the
entire Septent, managing to take them by surprise, and had then
given the names of the other cultists to Dargon authorities.
Destroying Lladdwr should have been easy, except that the being
trapped within the sword knew what was going to happen to it, and it
did its best to thwart them. But, they eventually succeeded in
breaking the spells on the blade, banishing the being within it, and
melting the shards into a surprisingly small ingot of very impure
iron. And, the journey back was delayed by bad seas, and an early
winter. But, return they did, and safely.
After that, they advertised by word of mouth their availability
and willingness to solve problems and right wrongs in and around
Dargon. They were hired to hunt down some wild animals, and two
outlaw bands that were making the frontier life even more difficult
- nothing too taxing to their abilities. But, the last of those had
been last month, and they were getting bored - or at least Je'en
was. She wished for something to do as Cefn finished his story and
went back to sipping at his mug of ale.
She happened to glance at the door as a very colorful fellow
entered the Inn. He was dressed in a loose brown vest over a loose,
multi-colored tunic, and strange, flare-legged black pants. From
that, and his patterned sash, she recognized him as being a gypsy,
probably here for the annual gathering that occurred just west of
the city.
He looked worried as he scanned the common room. His gaze
settled on the strange pair at the back table and he hurried over.
"You are Je'en and Cefn, the troubleshooters?" he asked.
Cefn spoke, somewhat eeriely, from the recesses of his cowl.
"Yes, we are. Please, be seated. Can we help you?"
The man introduced himself as Maks, and then he explained his
problem. "Less than a week passed, my betrothed was taken captive by
someone who lives in an old, vine-covered tower in the forest to the
south and west. I tried to rescue her, but the forest began to
attack me and drove me away. I rode fast and hard for the spring
camp, to get help, but my people had also had several losses from
traveling that track and didn't know what to do. The elders
eventually decided to send for help into Dargon, and I was elected
to go. Please, can you help? We have heard about you both, even
things that the gossipers do not know, and the elders are sure that
you are the only hope for my Syusahn and the others who vanished
into the forest."
Je'en was immediately interested. She and Cefn had commented
earlier on a few vague rumors that had been coming in from the south
for a few months about strange goings on in the forest. And, here
was an opportunity to investigate them, as well as several
disappearances in the area as well. It sounded like fun.
She said to Cefn, "What do you think?" while nodding her head.
Cefn caught her signal, and said, "We will do our best. Do you
have a place to stay tonight? We will start at first light, tomorrow."
Part Four: Suspicions
Food for the journey was the hardest to get hold of before the
departure time set by Cefn. But, with some help from Jann, the
innkeeper of the Panther, Je'en and Cefn managed to get enough for
about a month on the trail, just in case. The other equipment they
planned to take came from their personal stock, which wasn't all
that large - Je'en hoped that they were adequately prepared.
They all met at the Inn shortly after sunrise. With a minimum of
discussion, mainly about their initial heading, the three
distributed the equipment between their horses, and set off quietly
through the silent streets of Dargon to the south.
Je'en rode the chestnut mare that had been Mahr's. Mahr had
named it Chestnut, but Cefn had assured Je'en that the young
apprentice had had more imagination than the simple name implied.
Cefn rode a big white gelding called Streak, for the red-brown blaze
between its eyes. And Maks rode a bay stallion that didn't have a
name - it was one of his tribe's messenger horses, not his.
They encountered the strange part of the forest four days
southwest of Dargon, and all three of them immediately noticed the
change as they entered it. Sound seemed to be swallowed up by the
ubiquitous vines, and sunlight was filtered almost to nothing.
Another day, and they found the trail that Maks had been
following, and shortly after that, they found the clearing. They
tethered the horses there, shouldered hastily made packs of
equipment, and pressed on on foot, using long, sturdy knives to make
their way through the underbrush and vines to where Maks remembered
the tower to be.
It was difficult going, and Maks commented that the vines were
even thicker now that they had been before. Cefn was very silent,
and spent a lot of time examining the vines.
That first day afoot finally ended without the three reaching
the tower. They debated continuing on, but finally decided to camp
and wait for the return of the meager sunlight.
Cefn set wards around the little space that they had cleared of
vines while Je'en and Maks gathered wood and built a fire. He
assured the other two that the wards would keep out the vines, and
any luminary visitors, but they remained a little wary of sleeping
in the midst of the strange forest.
Cefn had long since demonstrated that he was an excellent trail
cook, and he again managed to produce a hearty meal from what seemed
to be very unappetizing ingredients. Je'en envied him that skill,
and she was taking lessons, but she wasn't very good just yet. Of
course, Maks was also able to make meager rations into a feast as he
had demonstrated once at an earlier camp, but he praised Cefn for
his skill, and said that he didn't mind not having to cook to get
good food on the road, as he usually did.
When the meal was over, and the dishes rinsed and repacked, the
three of them sat for a long time staring at the fire. They were all
wrapped up in their own thoughts, and stalling before going to
sleep. Maks began talking, almost to himself, still looking at the
fire, a haunted, pained look on his face.
Je'en noticed him speaking and started listening. He was telling
of how he had met Syusahn. He described their time together with
such emotion and such clarity that Je'en was both moved, and
conscious of the fact that Maks would have made a great Bard.
Then, he told of the night he had lost Syusahn. The light, the
vines, the tower. He made her feel his fear and concern for his
love, and his helpless rage when the door closed on her and refused
to reopen. Je'en noticed that Cefn was listening as intently as she,
but the expression on his face was not one of sympathy for Maks'
loss, or admiration for his skill with words, but one of thought, as
if he were trying to understand just what had happened and why. She
got the impression that he had a fairly good idea of what was going
on, but she knew that he wouldn't tell anyone until he was sure. She
hoped that he would be sure before it was too late.
Eventually, when Maks had been silent again for a long time,
Je'en decided that she needed sleep if she was going to be any good
for anything tomorrow. So she decided to trust Cefn's magic wards,
said goodnight to her traveling companions, went over to her
makeshift bed of green leaves, pine needles, and blankets, and went
to sleep. The other two soon followed suit.
After a light breakfast next morning, they packed up and set on
their way again. Je'en noticed that the vines grew thicker and
thicker, and were tougher to cut, as they moved south. She also
noticed a strange feeling in the air as they proceeded, almost like
a presence that was everywhere, but not quite aware of them. It was
very disconcerting.
Around noon, after breaking through what was an almost solid
wall of vines, the three came to a clearing, and saw the tower. It
was an impressive and disturbing sight. It rose majestically from a
solid matting of vines that covered most of its first floor, sloping
away from it into the trees of the perimeter of the clearing almost
50 feet away from the sides of the tower. It was a brilliant green,
and it had five turrets rising to various heights around its
circumference. The narrow windows that Je'en could see looked dark
and sinister.
They pushed through waist-high vines around the edge of the
clearing until they saw a higher mound of vines that probably
indicated the wall around the path to the door. After much hacking
and straining, they managed to push through the wall, and indeed
found the entrance pathway.
The presence Je'en had felt earlier was much stronger now, but
Maks commented that it felt different now than it had when he was
here before. Less aware, less active. Je'en worried that their
damaging the vines would alert the presence, making an intuitive
connection between the two, but that didn't seem to be the case.
They walked up to the door, and, while Je'en and Maks tried to
force it, Cefn carefully examined the glittering tower walls,
particularly where the vines came into contact with it. After a few
moments, he said, "Je'en, Maks, come look at this." They joined him
at the edge of the door, and saw what he indicated - the vines
seemed to actually be growing from the tower itself. They could see
dozens of tiny green crystal nodes dotting the tower wall, and from
each node grew four to six blue, yellow, and green vines, each
thickening swiftly from it's root and twining into the mass of vines
that walled in the path. Having made that discovery, Cefn turned to
the door, and took a little red pyramid from his belt pouch. He
touched a flat side to the door just below the ornately cast iron
knob. It glowed briefly, and the door opened just a crack.
Before entering, the three armed themselves. Maks drew his boot
knife, and went in with both knives at the ready. Je'en sheathed her
vine-cutting knife, and drew her sword. Cefn fished for a moment in
his belt pouch, and finally came up with a short, pale-blue rod
that, for all its shortness, could not possibly have fit in the
pouch. Je'en looked at him a little strangely, and then entered the
tower, with Cefn hard on her heels.
The interior wasn't as dark as Je'en had assumed it would be: it
was dimly lit by a pellucid greenish light that cast no shadows
whatsoever. Moving cautiously, the three of them began prowling
around the first floor. The oppressive atmosphere was even more
intense inside, but still there was no feeling that they were noticed.
The first floor was a well kept common living area. The
furniture was in excellent repair, and there was no dust anywhere.
The walls were hung with beautiful tapestries, and Je'en recognized
the style of a few of them as very ancient, and very valuable.
Around the wall were about a dozen statues of men in various forms
of war gear, from what looked like many different ages and
countries. They were made of a strange, flakey stone that none of
them had ever seen before. There were candles in wall sconces, and a
huge chandelier in the center of the main room that looked like it
burned oil from a score of prism-enclosed wicks. But, there was no
sign of use, and there was something about the way everything looked
that made it seem as if nothing had been used in a long time.
They climbed to the second story, and then the third, before
finding more than dusted furniture and statues. Cefn was exploring
the alcove entrance to this floor's turret, and so saw the body
first. It was dressed in much the same manner that Maks was, but the
body itself was dessicated to the point of looking like an ancient
mummy. The other two noticed Cefn examining the body, and joined him
in the alcove. Maks said, "That was Neika, one of those that I was
told had gone missing in the forest. See, that is his ring, and that
badge on his sash shows that he was horsemaster for his tribe. But,
he vanished not more than three weeks ago. How could he have come to
look so...so long dead?"
Cefn shook his head, and said, "I imagine that would depend on
just how he died." Then he turned his back on the corpse, and
continued to explore.
Je'en and Maks spent a moment more with the body, long enough to
be sure that Neika bore no visible wounds. Puzzled by the content
and tone of Cefn's last comment, Je'en led Maks up into the third
floor turret after the wizard.
That turret was empty, as had been the one below. The three
continued up, to the fourth floor, and then the fifth, where they
found two more mummified bodies, again identified by Maks as the
gypsies that had disappeared on the trail. On the sixth floor, they
found another, and Cefn appeared to come to a conclusion. He said,
"Come on, it must be at the top of this last turret."
-John L. White
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SEVEN NUMBER ONE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
*If Looks Could Kill Glenn Sixbury
*Gasmelyn Llaw: Part 2 of 2 John White
Date: 010987 Dist: 236
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Well, greetings, all, and welcome to the new year! This is a
notable time of year, for three reasons. Firstly, we are beginning a
new volume, number seven. Secondly, we are marking the first
anniversary of the Dargon Project, which has been remarkably
successful. And, finally, it was two years ago that FSFnet's first
issue was sent out. So please excuse any sentimentality which follows.
As we enter our third year of publication, I'd like to send out
some very special thanks to everyone involved in the production of
the magazine. Without their aid, FSFnet would not have seen the end
of the first semester. I'd also like to thank those who distribute
the magazine onto other networks, and who knows where else (*I*
certainly don't)! And, of course, I'd like to thank the readership
for their interest and support. That's what it's all about. Special
thanks go to Joseph Curwen, Jim Owens, Chuq von Rospach, Mike
Murphy, Alan Clegg, Chris Condon, and Bob Boag.
Well, enough of the sentimentality. Thank you, one and all, for
making the zine a success. Best wishes, one and all.
-'Orny' Liscomb
If Looks Could Kill
It was already late afternoon and Tara n'ha Sansela estimated
that she still had close to three or four leagues to travel before
reaching Tench. She didn't want to stop, but her horse, Boxter was
an older animal, and it was obvious that the rapid pace she had been
forcing him to go was beginning taking its toll. At the top of a
hill, she dismounted, leading Boxter over to a tree, and took the
opportunity to rest herself in the cool shade. As she sat down, Zed,
her pet Shivaree, trotted over and curled up beside her, immediately
falling asleep. The big ferret-like creature wasn't accustomed to
running all day. Several times Tara had lifted him up to the saddle
with her so he could catch his breath as they had traveled.
It had been two days since her parents were killed by bandits,
and Tara still hadn't managed to grasp the reality of her situation.
It all seemed like a dream. Each morning, she woke up with the idea
that it would all be over, and she would be back in the small farm
cottage where she had lived her whole life. But it was not to be.
The cottage was now little more than ashes and her parents were both
dead. She'd buried them herself in their old cellar and set out for
Tench, where she hoped to find a guide or at least a map which would
get her to Dargon and to her uncle's.
As Tara sat under the tree, she surveyed the countryside. It was
still green, but there was a chill in the morning air. The snows
would come soon. As Tara scanned the horizon, which held clouds in
the threat of an evening storm, she noticed some activity in the
valley. In the middle of a clearing stood a fortress, surrounded by
several cultivated fields and three oval tracks. Looking closer,
Tara could see people scattered about, and as they moved, she caught
the glint of metal reflected in the evening sun. Tara had never seen
so many people in armor. Surely this was an army camp of some kind.
It was hard to see, but the people down on the clearings seemed to
be training, although some could also be seen tending fields. It was
all very interesting,and Tara would have liked to stay and watch a
little longer, but she knew she had taken up as much time resting as
she could afford. She would have a hard time making Tench by sunset.
Tara had been afraid that she had lost her way in the dark until
she finally spotted a group of lights, revealing Tench's location.
The town was nestled in between large, tree-covered hills, and had a
small river running through it. Riding down towards the lights, Tara
was glad this leg of the trip was finally over. It would feel good
to have a bed to sleep in again. It would also feel good to have a
chance to be around other people, even if they were strangers. The
last two days had been lonely ones.
Tench was little more than a cross-roads town. As Tara rode down
the main road which provided Tench with most of its travelers, the
few buildings she saw were either inns or taverns, with stables
tucked away behind them. She did notice a small dwelling or two, but
from the looks of things, Tench had very few permanent residents.
Tara had expected the streets of the town to be almost deserted.
In the few tiny villages located near Tara's old home, people went
to bed shortly after sundown, raucous laughter came from one of the
nearby taverns, and several people were wandering up and down the
road. Few of them took notice of Tara, although some took time to
glance suspiciously at this strange girl rider with a Shivaree
trotting behind her.
Tara was looking the town over, and she didn't see the man step
in front of her. The horse bumped him in the back, and he turned
around and snarled, "Watch where yer goin', or I'll--" Then the
man's face changed from arrogance to fear, and his voice softened as
he apologized, "I'm sorry M'Lady. If I'd o' known it was you, I'd o'
never...." And then he turned and walked hurriedly away.
Tara had started to apologize to the man, but he had left too
quickly. His change of attitude was also very puzzling. He didn't
seem like the apologizing type. Too tired to worry it, Tara turned
her attention back to finding a place to stay for the night.
The next inn Tara found was in an old well-worn building, but it
was well lit. Tara read the sign above the door: The Lame Duck Inn.
It didn't look like much of an inn, but at least the nearest tavern
was almost out of earshot, so she would get some sleep tonight.
Cheered by that fact, Tara tied Boxter to a post and went inside.
The room was dimly lit and had a stale, musty odor. A small,
balding, round-faced man was bent over a sheet of parchment, making
a scratch here and there as he counted on his fingers. Tara shut the
door and walked to the counter. The small man didn't seem to notice.
"Hello," Tara said shyly.
"Evenin'."
"Could I get a room?" The man did not answer, but seemed to
count a little more furiously on his fingers. "Hello?"
"Yes, yes, yes," the man muttered, recounting his fingers. "You,
uh, wanted a room?"
"Yes, if you have one."
"We do have one," the little man said, and then he looked up,
and his face immediately brightened. "Why didn't you say it was you?
Tryin' to fool me again, were ya? I thought you were just another
traveler come to interrupt my bookwork."
Tara put a puzzled look on her face. Then she answered, "You
must have mistaken me for someone else. My name is Tara n'ha Sansela."
"Oh, I see," the inkeeper laughed. "It's Sarah this time, is it?"
"No, Tara. Tara n'ha Sansela."
"Ah, good. I will try to remember." Then the little man laughed
again. "Your usual room, uh, Tara?"
"My usual room?"
"Yes, the corner room at the top of the stairs."
"Whatever you have."
"Fine, fine," the little man beamed. "Boy! Boy!" The little man
grumbled to himself, and stomped around impatiently for a moment.
Then he disappeared into the back room, and when he came back, he
was carrying a young boy by the back of the neck, which he tossed in
front of the counter. "Take her horse to the stable, boy, and get to
it!" The boy was little more than skin and bones, and bruises could
be seen on his cheeks and arms. Tara started to say something, but
then checked herself. This was no time to get involved. The little
boy said nothing, but stared sleepily at the man. Then he rubbed the
sleep from his eyes on his way out the door.
The innkeeper had noticed Zed. "What's this?" he asked, putting
his hand out towards Zed. The shivaree growled, baring his teeth,
and the man quickly pulled his hand back, putting it in his pocket.
"Never mind," he blurted out before Tara could answer. "Normally we
don't allow animals to stay in the room," he continued, "but since
he's yours, I'll make an exception."
Tara just nodded an acknowledgement, and then she headed up the
stairs. As she reached the top step, the innkeeper called to her,
"You never did fool me. Not this time. The animal is a new twist,
though." Tara thought about answering, and then decided to let
things lie as they were and disappeared into her room.
Once inside, she pulled off her boots, and layed back onto the
bed to rest a moment. Zed jumped up beside her, curled up into a
ball, and was immediately asleep. Tara knew she needed sleep, but
too many things were bouncing around inside her head. The inn keeper
seemed to recognize her and even gave her special treatment, even
though she'd never seen the man before in her life. Also, Zed was
always friendly, but he almost bit the man's hand. And what about
the boy? And the stranger she'd bumped in the street? Tara's turned
over the thoughts in her mind as she lay on the bed.
Zed rolled over sleepily and settled his head on Tara's belly.
Tara sat up in bed. Midmorning daylight was streaming through
the window. She was disoriented for a moment before she remembered
where she was, but she didn't remember going to bed. Then she
realized she was still fully dressed. Quickly she put on her boots
and made sure she still had the small bag of gold attached to her
belt. As soundly as she'd slept, she was glad no thief had taken it
in the night. Then Tara walked to the door. Zed trotted up from the
corner, expecting to go along. After thinking a moment, Tara ordered
him to stay, pushing him back from the door with her foot as she left.
Several minutes later, Tara was sitting at a table downstairs,
eating the best breakfast she'd had since leaving home. The
innkeeper had given her breakfast for free, but when Tara asked him
to have someone take care of Zed for the day, he agreed to do so,
but it cost her several extra copper pieces. When Tara finished her
meal, she went to find the things she would need to get her to Dargon.
Tara soon discovered that it was easy to find supplies, but that
they weren't so easy to buy. Everything was over-priced, and after
purchasing a warm cloak, dried food, a couple of water skins,
another blanket, and some bones and meat scraps for Zed, she only
had half her gold left. She also found guides who were eager to take
her to Dargon, but not for the amount of gold she had to offer. They
did tell her that the road to Dargon was fairly well-traveled and
she could find her own way there, if she lived that long. They
portrayed many dangers of the road for a girl traveling alone, but
Tara listened to them with her father's teachings firmly in mind. As
he used to say, "Those preaching loudest about the dangers of the
night are the ones selling lanterns."
It was afternoon before Tara had finished all her tasks and had
started back to the inn. Her arms were laden with her supplies, but
she felt good. Things were going as planned, except for the message
she had wanted to send to her uncle to let him know she was coming.
Such a message had turned out to be too expensive and too slow.
There was the chance she might be in Dargon before the message.
Then, suddenly, someone stepped in front of Tara, gave her a bear
hug and planted a passionate kiss on her lips. Tara was caught
completely off-guard and dropped everything, but as soon as she
recovered, she slapped both hands onto the man's head and he
immediately let go with a yelp. "Yeoww! What'd you do that for?"
Tara didn't reply, but drew her sword instead, holding him at
sword's distance. "What's wrong?" he asked. "You said you'd see me
as soon as you came back, and then I find you out roaming the
streets, so I come to welcome you back, and you attack me?"
"You are wrong," Tara told him. "You attacked me."
"No, Honey, I didn't. . . ."
Tara cut him short with a poke of her sword in his belly. She
didn't hurt him, but it was enough to change his plans. He quickly
mumbled an apology, and walked away through the crowd which always
formed when ever a fight broke out. When it was over, the people
also dispersed, leaving Tara alone to gather up her things. She was
shaking and had trouble hanging onto things, but she managed to get
back to the inn without further incidents.
Once in her room, Tara calmed down, and then realized that she
was hungry. She decided to get some supper and try to figure out
whether the man that attacked her made an honest mistake or whether
he had just tried to protect himself after seeing her reaction. When
Tara went downstairs, she was told that the inn didn't serve meals
in the evening, but there was a good tavern just down the street and
around the corner, so Tara set off in that direction.
The tavern served her a good meal. It was a little expensive,
but everything in Tench was more expensive than what Tara was used
to. She ordered some of the strong, bitter ale that was common in
this country, and found that she couldn't stand to drink it, so she
had it taken away and replaced with a mug of a sweet cider. Then,
after finishing her meal, she decided to sit and relax a little
before heading back to the inn. It was going to be a long time
before she had the chance to socialize with people again.
The tavern had been empty when Tara had arrived, but now it was
crowded, and Tara enjoyed looking at so many different kinds of
people. Then she noticed that one of them was looking at her. He was
a tall man with a powerful body and hair blacker than ashes. He was
also a handsome, noble-looking man, but his eyes were strange.
Hard-grey eyes, their stare chilled to the bone. As she watched, the
man said something to the serving wench, gave her a few coins and
stood up. He's coming over here, Tara realized suddenly. She quickly
pulled out enough gold to cover her meal, and wrapped her cloak
around her as she headed for the door. The last thing she needed was
another event similar to what had happened to her earlier that day.
She didn't bother looking back as she rushed out, shutting the door
behind her.
She only made it fifty yards before several rough-looking men
sprang from around a corner and surrounded her, drawing their
swords. A short, stocky man with a mouth that wore a constant sneer,
blocked Tara's path.
"You made a big mistake comin' back here, or are you still so
scratchy that you think you can't be beat?" Tara tried to speak, but
failed to find her tongue. "This time you will not live," the man
snarled and started towards her, motioning for the other men to do
the same.
"You're making a mistake," Tara blurted out, drawing her sword."
"Not this time," the man told her confidently. "Last we met, you
managed to walk away with all my money. You made a fool out of me.
Now you will die." With that, the man swung his sword at Tara's
head. She managed to block the blow, but it sent her sword sailing.
Quickly, she ducked under the man's second blow and tried to escape,
but all she managed to do was trap herself between her attackers and
a wall of a building. Slowly the group closed in. There were five
brutes in all, and the burly man who had talked before let an evil
sneer of a smile crawl across his face. "I will enjoy this," he
beamed, raising his sword for the death blow. Then, just as he
started the sword forward, a powerful hand wrapped around the wrist,
squeezing so tight, the man let out a painful cry and dropped the
sword. Then he was knocked to the ground. It was the man from the
inn. He seemed almost to glow. This man was comfortable in battle.
The other four brutes were stunned for a moment, but they
quickly recovered. Two on each side of the man attacked at the same
time, but he glided smoothly out of the way, causing them to clash
swords. Then, in the blink of an eye, he had disarmed one and sent
the other sprawling to the ground. As the other two attacked, he
again avoided their blows, sending one to the ground with a push and
swatting the other in the side of the head with the flat of his
sword. He took a step back, ready for another assault, but all save
one of the attackers grabbed their weapons and scrambled away down
the alley. The remaining one was on the ground, unconscious,
bleeding a little where he had been struck.
Tara stood in awe a moment before she recovered enough to thank
the man. Then she picked up her sword, resheathed it, and admitted,
"I'd be dead now if it wasn't for you."
"Yes, you would."
Tara was surprised by his frankness. "Thanks anyway." Then she
added, pointing to the man on the ground, "He isn't dead, is he?"
"No. He will have a headache when he awakes. That is all."
"Why didn't you kill them?"
"I only kill when I must. These men couldn't harm me."
"But there were five of them."
"Yes, I believe there was." Then he managed a smile. "My name is
Sir Morion," he said, taking her hand.
"I am Tara n'ha Sansela. Where did you learn to fight like that?"
"That is a long story," he replied, his eyes growing distant.
"Instead I should learn of who I saved. Come, we can talk while I
escort you home."
"You can't take me home," Tara said sadly, "but I'm staying at
the Lame Duck Inn." They started down the street.
"You are very foolish to wander about these streets, unescorted,
after dark, when you cannot protect yourself," Morion scolded her.
"The sword you wear implies you can fight. That's a bluff that will
only keep an honest and sober man from bothering you.
"But I wasn't bluffing." Tara explained. "I didn't know better."
Morion seemed unimpressed by her naivete. "Where are you from?"
"From a farm near Myridon." Tara saw Morion's blank expression,
so she continued, "It's a small village about sixty leagues east of
here. I came here because--" Tara paused, and then changed her mind.
"I'm headed to Dargon to live with my uncle. I don't know why those
men attacked me. One of them said something about getting even for
the last time we'd met, but I've never seen him before."
"Perhaps they mistook you for Lana."
"Lana?"
"I almost did myself, but after watching you a little while it
was obvious that you weren't Lana."
"Who is Lana?"
"You are too quiet and shy. Too well-behaved. You didn't fool me
for long at all, but then, I know Lana better than most."
"Who. Is. Lana?" Tara asked, stamping her foot.
"She's a bandit and assassin who you greatly resemble in
appearance. She kills and steals in her travels and then she returns
to Tench to hide, usually in disguise and under an alias name, until
whoever she has wronged has stopped searching for her. I'm surprised
more people haven't mistook you for her."
"Ah, I understand," Tara said, her face brightening. "That's
what's been happening. The innkeeper, the man who kissed me--now
things make sense!"
"Yes, well, I would advise that you exercise caution while you
are in Tench. Many people know Lana here. Some will be friendly.
Others will not."
Tara thought about that for a minute, and then she asked, "How
do you know Lana so well?"
"Everyone in Tench knows of Lana."
Unsatisfied, Tara prodded him, "You said you knew Lana better
than most. If I have to wear her face, I'd like to know something
about her."
Morion put a nasty look on his face and his eyes grew distant
again. He shook his head and remained silent. Then he sighed. "I
will tell you the story since you have a reason to know." Morion
gather his thoughts before he continued, "I run a school about three
leagues north west of here."
"That must be the army camp I saw yesterday on my way here,"
Tara blurted out.
"Actually, it's a Citadel containing a school," Morion corrected
her. In any case, Lana came to my school four years ago. She was
very young, but she had potential and money, so she became one of my
students. For almost two years, she was trained in methods of
fighting and fitness. She was always a very good learner, but she
was also always a trouble maker. Every chance she had, she would
travel here to drink. Always a fight would break out. Always more
men were killed. One night Lana--" Morion stopped a moment, his
emotions catching up to him, but it quickly passed. "I do not train
my students to kill for no reason. I expelled Lana from my school."
"She sounds terrible."
"She's not bad to everyone. Just those who cannot help her.
Actually, she can be a very nice, sweet girl when she wishes it so,
but I think she is too full of hate."
"What's wrong with her? I mean, how could a girl do anything
like that?"
"I'm not sure," Morion said thoughtfully, "but when she was
drunk one night, she told me she never knew her father, and her
mother was a serving wench at one of the local inns who used to take
men--" Morion cut off the thought. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"You look older. Let's just say Lana had a very rough
childhood." As Morion finished his story, they arrived at the Lame
Duck Inn. "You will be safe now. Please don't travel after dark
without an escort again." "I won't. Thanks again." Then as Morion
started to leave, Tara pulled some gold out of the pouch around her
waist. "Please take this as a reward for you help. I can't give you
much, but--"
"No thank you," Morion interrupted. "I could not accept money
for an act of kindness."
"Please take it," Tara pleaded.
"No!" Morion growled, spinning on his heel and walking quickly
away into the dark. Tara was confused by his reaction, but she
shrugged her shoulders and put the coins away before heading into
the inn for the night.
Tara was up early the next morning, eager to get started for
Dargon. After she had saddled up Boxter and given Zed something to
eat, she was ready to go. Making sure she hadn't forgotten anything,
she rode out of the stables, and found a cloaked rider blocking her
path. Tara tried to ride around, but the rider grabbed the reins of
her horse, pulling Tara up short.
"Let me go," Tara demanded, raising her head defiantly. The
rider let loose a defiant laugh. Then, as Tara's face grew
perplexed, the rider said in a feminine voice, "So, they spoke
truthfully. I do have a twin." With that, the rider pulled her cloak
away from her head. Tara gasped. She was looking an image of herself
in the other saddle.
"I hope you have had fun, Sister."
"I don't know what you mean," Tara replied, trying to pull the
reins away from the rider.
"You have done quite a job of ruining Lana's good name in Tench.
It's all over town that I couldn't defend myself last night. The
story claims I had to have some man save me." Lana made an ugly
face, and then she spit, as if the words had left a bitter taste in
her mouth. "Now every horny, drunk, or greedy man will think he can
treat me as he would any other woman. My reputation was all I had,
and it was much too valuable to allow some miserable little girl
with a nose like mine to destroy it in one night!"
"But it wasn't my fault," Tara explained. "I told them they were
making a mistake."
Lana seemed not to hear. "Do you know what I'm going to do,
Sister?" she asked in her sweet voice. "I'm going to cut off your
head and hang it from my saddle. Then people will know I am Lana,
the Snake, to be feared." Tara was frightened now and looked
desperately around for help, but although a few people had gathered
to watch, none looked willing to get involved. Franticly, Tara tried
to pull the ruins away. Lana held the reins tight and casually
planted a foot in Tara's chest, knocking her to the ground and
letting loose another laugh.
As Tara lay on the ground, desperately trying to catch her
breath, Lana jumped down beside her. Then she grabbed Tara by the
hair and yanked her to her feet. "You really are a wretched little
creature," Lana told her, pulling on Tara's hair to keep her off
balance. "You don't deserve to wear my face, do you?" Tara just
whined. She felt like her scalp was bleeding where her hair was
being pulled. Lana didn't seemed satisfied, and she pulled harder.
"I asked you a question, Sister."
Tara let out another yelp of pain, and then she managed to reach
up and claw Lana's face. "You little bitch," Lana swore, letting go
of the hair and reaching for her sword. Tara backed away, dizzy from
the pain, and grabbed her own sword from where it had fallen.
"Good. At least you are woman enough to die honorably." Then
Lana stepped forward and casually flipped her wrist, knocking the
sword out of Tara's hand. "And you will die," Lana taunted her
before almost leisurely swinging her sword in a horizontal line
across Tara's belly. Tara was trying to move out of the way when the
sword grazed across her stomach, just below her breasts, and she
tripped and fell over backwards. Although the pain from the cut was
terrible, the amount of blood oozing down her ribs told Tara she
wasn't hit bad enough to kill her. She looked frantically about for
her sword, spying it a few feet away, but she never had a chance to
get to it. Lana had grabbed her by the hair again, pulling her up
enough to expose her throat. Apparently, she was going to make good
on her original threat.
Then, Tara heard a low, gutteral sound as something flashed by
her face. Lana let go, and Tara rolled away, hearing Lana cursing
and fighting. Tara managed to sit up enough to look over and saw
that Lana was on her back, her sword several feet away, and she was
trying in vain to fend off the attack of a large furry animal. It
was Zed.
Lana managed to pull out her dagger and swiped at the Shivaree.
she missed her mark, but did manage to take off an ear, which put
Zed into a complete fury. He mutilated Lana's arm, and she dropped
the dagger, crying out in pain. Then she felt the bones in her
shoulder crush as Zed worked his way, biting, toward the throat.
"Stop him, help me! Call him off!" Lana was pleading for her
life now, and Tara had recovered enough to call to Zed. At first, he
continued to maul Lana, but then, when Tara called again, he sprang
back, growling, blood dripping from his mouth. Tara never dreamed
Zed could do anything like that. She called him again, and he
trotted over to her as if nothing had happened.
Lana was still alive. She was covered with blood, and her left
arm, which was her fighting arm, was almost shredded. With her right
hand, Lana pushed herself up to a sitting position. Tara walked over
to help her, but Lana fended off the assistance with a menacing
gesture. "Get away from me, you slut," she growled, dragging herself
to her feet. Then she hobbled over to her sword and dagger, leaving
a trail of blood. After getting her weapons, Lana turned towards
Tara, "This is not the end, Sister. You will not live to see the
Spring, and the next time we meet, your animal will not be able to
save you." Then Lana pushed her way through the crowd and was gone.
The crowd that had formed to watch the fight had not dispersed,
but were shuffling in closer to Tara. Many of them seemed troubled
by the outcome and several were glaring at her. Tara was shaking
now, and all she wanted to do was to get away. She was still
bleeding, and so was Zed, but she knew she couldn't stay here. She
managed to fight off the pain long enough to lift both her and Zed
to the saddle. Then, with a touch of her heels to Boxter's sides,
she found her way through the crowd to the edge of town.
Tara dismounted and found her old tunic, which she tore into
bandages. She tied the large one around her torso, and she used some
of the smaller strips to bandage Zed's head. It was not a very good
job, but it would serve to stop the bleeding until she made camp
that night. Once again, Tara heaved herself and Zed back on to the
horse, and they headed out of town.
As Tara struggled in the early morning sun to fight off the pain
and dizziness just to stay in the saddle, she made a wish for the
rest of her journey to be much less eventful.
-Glenn R. Sixbury
Glasmelyn Llaw
Part Five: The Problem
Je'en followed Maks, who followed Cefn, up the spiral stairs of
the fifth and tallest turret. Previous turret rooms had been
outfitted as sun rooms, studies, or libraries, but the last one they
came to was very different. Cefn recognized various trappings that
indicated it had once been a laboratory, but it no longer served
that function. The walls were draped in heavy, black cloth, covering
the windows that certainly pierced the outer wall of the turret. But
it wasn't dark here, either. The same pallid green light filled this
room, and the source was obvious: the thing that sat on the
massively built table in the center of the room.
The sight of the thing on the table obviously confirmed all of
Cefn's suspicions, but Je'en and Maks' attentions were drawn to the
two figures in the room. Against one wall, a low table had been
draped with some sort of silvery cloth, and a black candle and
holder had been placed at each corner. On that table, naked and
lying supine, was a lovely young woman who Maks' moan told Je'en had
to be Syusahn. She was breathing very shallowly, and her skin seemed
to be very pale, although that was hard to truly tell in the strange
light. Standing by the table, near Syusahn's head, was the shadow of
a young man, or something like a shadow. It had the form of a medium
height, thin, red-haired man, wearing a strange clothes, but it was
translucent - they could see the covered wall through the figure.
Maks' moan attracted the attention of the shadow-man, and it
turned to face the three intruders. Je'en nearly flinched from the
raving madness in the washed-out grey eyes.
When it spoke, its voice was like a whisper, but it echoed
strangely in the room, so all could hear. "So, more new friends
brought to me by my Hand? The woman one can stay, but you two must
flee, or I will not like you, and you will die. Ha ha! Two women
ones! So long alone, and now two woman ones. When the short one has
joined me out of her body, then it will be your turn, masked one.
"Well, you two, what are you waiting for? Get out! I think I
don't like you. You better get out, before my Hand kills you!"
Maks had not stopped staring at his love on the table, and at
the shadow's words, he made to charge the shadow, and rescue
Syusahn. But, Cefn flung out an arm across both Je'en and Maks'
path, and urged them to take a step back. He said quiet enough for
only their ears, "I know what is going on now. Have either of you
ever heard of the Glasmelyn Llaw?
Je'en gasped at the name, but Maks shook his head. Cefn said,
"Long ago, a very powerful wizard enchanted the tower he had built
to protect him from his jealous peers. But, the spell was too good.
It protected him from everything, including age. I think that that
shadow man over there is the magician Tarlada.
"Over the years, the tower had been doing its job. But, at some
point, something happened, and it began to spread its influence. The
vines outside are the tower's way of taking control of the forest -
they are its link to the land around it. And, it is spreading.
"That object on the table is the focus of the enchantment,
almost the brain of the tower. If we can destroy it, we can both get
Syusahn away from that poor madman, and free the forest from the
encroaching evil. Stand back."
Je'en and Maks took another step back as Cefn pointed his wand
at the thing on the table. It looked like a cross between the tower,
a man, and (perhaps) a tree. It was ugly, and glowed a bright and
sickly pulsing green, and thin little green and blue and yellow
strands of itself grew from it, across the table, and down into the
floor. Je'en had been frantically trying to recall the tale of the
Emerald Hand, because she had a nagging sensation that Cefn was
making a big mistake by attack the core directly. But, she didn't
want to say anything, because he was, after all, the mage of the team.
Finally, just as a bolt of light pulsed along Cefn's wand and
flashed at the thing on the table, Je'en remembered. There was
another tale that concerned the exact same spell as the one in use
here which told of the only way to defeat the spell - and what Cefn
had just done wasn't it.
Cefn's wand began to build up a charge again, even before the
first had hit its target. Je'en shouted "NO!!", causing the wizard
to flinch. The bolt fired while the wand was pointed at Tarlada.
The first bolt hit the thing on the table. The thing pulsed
brighter as it did, and then kept getting brighter and brighter. The
oppressive atmosphere got worse, and Je'en knew that the presence
was finally aware of them. Then, the second bolt passed through the
shadow Tarlada, and the thing began to glow with an eye-searing
brilliance. And a sound began, a subtle vibration at first, but
getting louder by the second. It sounded like the tower was roaring,
and that sound frightened Je'en.
She said, "Run! We cannot stop it now - we don't have the proper
materials. Run - it knows we are here and intend to hurt it!" And
she followed her own advice, turning and heading for the stairs.
Maks, though eager to rescue his love from what was sure to be a
horrid fate, especially for one of the Wind Riders, also had an
instinctive fear of magic. So, he followed Je'en without question.
Je'en reached the stairs, and went down three risers before
noticing two things. The first was a horrible pressure on her head.
No, it was not on her head, but on her mind - she could feel the
essence of the tower trying to take command of her mind. And, when
she turned around to see if the other two were in the same
difficulty, she saw that Cefn hadn't moved. She was about to turn
back to get him, when she saw a ripple of light cover him, and when
it was gone, there was a flakey stone statue of him in his place.
Her eyes went wide, and then she began to run again, Maks still
at her heels. The pressure in her mind was getting worse, and she
began to recite the first and second Measures of the first
Apprentice Bard lesson to try and fight it off. She seemed to be
successful - at least she was still running, and not a stone statue.
They reached the sixth floor, and headed for the next set of
stairs. Je'en was very occupied with trying to keep the tower out of
her mind, but she managed to notice something odd about the statues
around the room. First, several were missing. And, another was
moving. She watched as an inert statue began to shimmer, and then
turn into a man. But, before he could raise his sword, he shimmered
again, and fell to dust. One by one, the other statues in the room
came to life, then fell into dust. As she passed those pedestals she
had noted as being empty, she saw the little mound of dust that was
all that was left of them.
Je'en and Maks hurried down the stairs past the fifth, fourth,
and third floor, catching glimpses of powdering statues as the went,
as the tower tried to use previous victims to snare the two
remaining interlopers. As they reached the head of the stairs to the
second floor, one of the statues that flanked it came to life, but
it didn't disintegrate. As it happened, it was one of the younger
and more fit of the gypsies that the tower had captured earlier, and
now, with a vacant stare, and a menacing sword, he tried to attack.
Je'en was startled to see the statue come back to life properly,
but she was so keyed up trying to escape that her reaction was
instinctive. Her sword came up swiftly, engaged the gypsy's in a
bind, and then riposted right into his heart. She was halfway down
the stairs before the body hit the ground.
There were two more "alive" statues to be taken care of, but
they posed little problem to one with Je'en's reflexes and will to
stay alive. When they reached the first floor, the door was still
open, and they could see the vines that lined the path waving and
thrashing madly, some even reaching blindly into the tower, feeling
for their prey. Je'en took several seconds to get out her cutting
knife, and then had an idea.
She dragged a table under the chandelier, and climbed up on it.
She could just reach the oil reservoirs, and she was happy to find
that they were not fixed to the frame (for easier refilling), and
also that they were full. She took several down, and handed them to
Maks. Then, she hastily lit one of the wicks with a spark-striker,
and went to the door. Dodging out of reach of the thrashing vines,
she took one of the reservoirs and hurled it out onto the left-hand
vine-wall. Then, she threw another onto the right wall, making sure
that the oil scattered. Then, she lit one, and threw it to the
right, and another to the left, causing the oil already on the vines
to catch fire. She was gratified to see that the vines weren't
fireproof as both walls flared up, the flames eating up the vines
like they were kindling.
The tower howled, almost as if in pain, and the vines stopped
darting around, and tried to beat out the flames, which only caught
them on fire. Maks and Je'en waited for the right moment, and then
dashed between the flaming walls of vines, unhindered except for the
danger of the fire, and the heat it generated.
When they reached the forest, Je'en turned to look back at the
tower. She saw the vines at the edge of the clearing begin to pull
back from the forest itself, creating a firebreak. As the vines
retreated from the forest, she also noticed that there were several
mounds that ran along the ground from the tower to the trees. They
looked like mole tunnels, or maybe shallow roots - and she knew that
even without the surface vines, the tower was still in contact with
its forest. She began to run again while the tower was busy trying
to put out the fires at its base.
Part Six: Solution
Maks and Je'en slashed their way madly through the vine-infested
part of the forest, and managed to reach their horses in under a
day. Then, by pushing the horses and themselves to the limit and a
little bit beyond, Maks and Je'en managed to reach Dargon in three
more days. When Maks complained about the pace, Je'en just reminded
him of the fate that was creeping closer to his love every minute
that they were away from the tower. That made him shut up and hurry
on in silence for a long while.
She had plenty of time to think as they rode dangerously fast
through the forest. She wasn't exactly sure of the fate of Cefn, but
having seen him turned to stone, she figured that he would be safe
for a while. After all, those of the gypsies that had been petrified
had been alive when turned back - those that had turned to dust had
just been statues too long, she hoped, and the tower couldn't truly
prolong their existence so far past their time of dying. She fully
intended to rescue Cefn long before he reached that limit.
She knew exactly what she had to do to destroy the tower. The
tale she had remembered told of something called 'prenia' which
acted as an antidote, almost, to the specific kind of magic that had
given a pseudo life to the tower. The only problem was that she had
no idea just what prenia was, or even what it looked like. She could
only hope that someone in Dargon did.
Pausing only long enough for a proper meal and bath when they
arrived in Dargon, both Je'en and Maks began to scour the city for
anyone who knew of prenia. They searched everywhere, in the markets,
on the docks, in the business district, everywhere they could think
of - and no one had so much as a clue to the identity or whereabouts
of the thing called 'prenia'.
Two days passed in their search for the mysterious element they
needed, and they were both getting desperate. Then, Je'en had an idea.
The secretary in Kroan's office knew Je'en, and admitted her
with no trouble into his office. They hadn't seen each other in a
while, and they greeted each other warmly. Je'en introduced Maks to
her brother, and then they got down to business.
Je'en told Kroan why Maks had come to her and Cefn (whom Kroan
had met several times, and liked). And then, of what they had found
in the tower, and what had happened to Cefn, and what was happening,
hopefully very slowly, to Syusahn. And lastly, of the thing called
prenia that would save them both. "I hope you know what it is," said
Je'en, "because no one else in this town does."
Kroan searched his memory, but found nothing. He called in one
of his employees, an inventory clerk, and asked the young man to
quickly ask around about prenia. While the youngster carried out his
errand, Je'en and Kroan talked trivially to pass the time.
Finally, almost an hour later, the clerk returned to Kroan's
office bearing no good news - no one in the employ of Fifth I knew
what prenia was, either. Je'en sighed, and wondered what to do next
as she rose to leave. Then Kroan said, "Wait, Sis. Did you talk to
the local physician yet? His name is Aardvard Factotum, and he lives
a little way from town to the east. He has the most knowledge in the
area about things magical and/or ancient."
The man's name hadn't come up before, but Je'en had heard that
he was competent if a little ostentatious. She also knew that he was
unlikely to part with any information he had for free, so, after
thanking her brother for the lead, she went to the moneylender where
she kept her savings and withdrew almost all of what she had left,
converting the disparate currencies into gold marks. And then, with
Maks still following her, they rode off to Aardvard's cottage.
Ostentatious suited Aardvard and his home to a tee. Displays of
his wealth were everywhere, and the cottage itself was almost a
small villa. Je'en hoped that Aardvard was as knowledgeable as he
was rich.
They were admitted to a large sitting room by Aardvard's
servant, Hansen, who then departed with Je'en's request of an
audience with the physician. Hansen didn't return for a long time,
and Je'en recognized the ploy from her years in Court circles. Maks,
however, was not so learned, and he was pacing restlessly, fingering
the various objects that adorned the tables, and wall shelves of the
sitting room. He almost dropped a small, delicate china mouse when
Hansen finally did return, saying, "Excuse me, m'lord and m'lady,
but Aardvard will see you now." With a frown at the sheepish Maks,
who had returned the mouse to its shelf, Hansen led the way through
the house to Aardvard's receiving room.
Je'en studied the man sitting with his back to the only window
in the room as she and Maks were offered seats, and then glasses of
what looked and smelled like a delicate red wine, but which tasted,
at least to Je'en, like grape-flavored water. Aardvard Factotum was
as richly garbed as was his home, and he had the look of a rich man
about him - well fed, a little slothful, perhaps even a little
bored. But his eyes were keen and intelligent, so that Je'en wasn't
quite sure how much of what she saw was a front that he put on for
his rich clients.
The physician said, "So, what can I do for you, Je'lanthra'en
and Maks of the Gold Rim tribe?" Maks couldn't hide the astonished
look on his face when Aardvard addressed him by his full name -
neither he nor Je'en had given so complete an introduction to
Hansen. Je'en, however, was amused by Aardvard's tactics, and kept a
straight face.
She said, "We heard of your widely renowned knowledge, and we
have a question to ask you. Do you know of something called 'prenia'?"
Aardvard's eyes narrowed, and he took a few puffs on his
scrimshaw pipe. "What might you be needing with such a thing, my
dear?" he finally said.
"There is a tower to the south and west of here called Glasmelyn
Llaw. Long and long ago, a wizard enchanted it, and since then, that
enchantment has begun to go awry. The tower is beginning to take
over the whole forest. Prenia is the only thing that can stop it -
and save our two friends, who have been caught by the tower. If you
have any information about prenia, or even better actually have
some, we are willing to pay for it."
Aardvard got crafty at the mention of money. He said, "How much?"
"As much as you want, healer. It is very important to us, far
more important that a few gold marks. Can you help us?"
"Perhaps. I think I have a book in my library that refers to
this - what was it, 'pranya'? But I'm not all that sure..."
Je'en pulled the pouch of gold from inside her cloak, and
spilled it out on the table. "It's 'prenia', healer, and is it worth
thirty marks to you?"
"My, my, thirty marks is rather a lot for just a tiny bit of
information, isn't it. Here, keep ten, and I'll go get my books."
Aardvard quickly scooped up twenty marks, and hurried out of the
room. By the time Je'en had stowed the remainder of her gold within
her cloak, Aardvard had returned. bearing three large, musty tomes.
He placed them on a table to one side of the room, and began leafing
through them. Je'en rose, and peered over his shoulder. He seemed
about to snap at her to stop it at one point, but perhaps the size
of the payment cooled his temper, for he just turned back to the
books silently.
He found what he was looking for in the first book, and, using
some notations in the margin, quickly found what he wanted in the
other two. He turned to Je'en, and said, "As, I thought I was right.
Prenia is an ancient term for what we now call ice-wood. Its a kind
of tree that has no color at all: you can see right through it. I'm
afraid its very rare, though. I've never even seen a piece - its
very, very valuable."
"Ice-wood. Yes, I've heard of that - I've even seen it used as
jewelry in the south." Je'en frowned. "Well we now know what to look
for. Thank you, Master Factotum. I was sure you could help us. Good
bye." She and Maks retraced their way through the house, and back to
where their horses were tethered. Aardvard looked after them for a
moment, then went to stow away the gold. He briefly wondered if it
had been fair to take such a high price - but, she had offered it.
Je'en went straight back to her brother's office when they got
back to Dargon. If anyone would have something as rare as ice-wood,
it would be a large merchant firm, and if Fifth I didn't have any,
then Kroan would know who did.
"We found what prenia is - ice-wood. Does Fifth I have any
stored away anywhere?"
Again, Kroan had to search his memory, but this time, he found
what he was looking for. "Yes, we do! But, gods, Je'en, do you know
what that stuff costs?"
"I have a pretty good idea, Kroan. But, I have no choice.
Ice-wood is the only thing that will save Cefn and Syusahn. And we
need enough to make two small cages. I'll find some way to pay for
it, but I need it now. Please, Kroan, please..."
Kroan was not a ruthless merchant, and he knew that his sister
was sincere. So, he said, "It will take a little time. I'll bring it
to your house, Je'en, in about two hours. Okay?"
Je'en hugged her brother. "Fine. We'll be waiting. See you."
As they walked their horses back to Je'en house, Maks asked,
"Why do we need two cages? There is only one core up in that room."
Je'en said, "I know, but we have to increase our chances of
success. You felt the pressure as we were trying to escape, didn't
you? I don't know why the tower was 'asleep' when we approached
before, but it is sure to be awake and aware when we return. And, it
will know that we are enemies. I think we can sneak into the tower,
but the closer to the top room, and the core, we get, the harder it
will try to capture or kill us.
"Because we are going in, and not out, it is going to be even
harder to resist the influence of the tower. There is a good chance
that, if you concentrate on Syusahn, you will be able to get
through. I...I'm not quite as sure about myself. So, we will have
two cages, one for each of us, so that whoever reaches that thing
will be able to nullify it."
All Maks could say in reply was, "Oh."
By the time Kroan arrived at Je'en's house, both she and Maks
were pacing. Je'en was getting more and more worried. What she had
told Maks was the simple truth. She knew that his love for Syusahn
was great enough to sustain him through whatever mental influences
that the tower might throw at him. But, she had no such anchor, or
at least not such a strong one. Cefn was - well, a possibility. She
was extremely fond of the wizard, and perhaps more, but there was no
certainty, even within herself, much less between the two of them.
So, she would have to rely solely upon herself to carry her through
the attacks of the tower to rescue Cefn.
Kroan was carrying a large, iron, well-locked box when he
knocked on Je'en's door. He opened it, using three keys, and two
secret levers, in her living room, revealing a much smaller cavity
within that was full of four to six inch long twigs of wood that
were transparent. They did indeed look like ice sculptured to look
like wood. Je'en was sure that the box contained a kingdom's ransom
of prenia.
He also produced two spools of silver wire, and then set to work
with Je'en and Maks to build two cages, each a foot high, and eight
inches deep, with open bases. The silver wire served well to hold
the ice-wood pieces together, and was sturdy enough to help the
cages to keep their shape without a lot of wasteful cross-bracing.
When the cages were completed to Je'en's satisfaction, there was
still enough ice-wood in the box to make, perhaps, a third.
Kroan locked the chest back up, kissed his sister good bye,
shook Maks' hand, wished them both luck, and left. Je'en said, "We
had better get some rest. We leave tomorrow, as early as possible."
Part Seven: Rescue
Je'en and Maks could feel the awareness of the tower as soon as
they saw the first of the vines. The sense of an actively malicious
presence was acute, and the vines themselves were far more active
than they had been before.
It was difficult, but not impossible, to move at speed through
the vine-forest. In about half a day, though, they had reached the
point where it was impossible to keep going with the horses. So,
they dismounted, secured the four horses, and went on on foot. Je'en
didn't want to further alert the tower to their presence by cutting
through the vines, so, after a little survey work, she and Maks took
to the trees, traveling branch to branch up above the ground where
the vines were much less thickly interwoven.
By sunset of the day they left their horses, Je'en and Maks
reached the tower. There was still enough light to notice the
changes their previous escape had caused - mainly the absence of the
matting of vines that no longer surrounded the tower. Apparently, it
learned from its mistakes. Je'en could see that it had re-grown the
vines that had been burned away, but now they grew straight down the
wall, and into the ground.
They had come upon the tower directly across the clearing from
the door, and Je'en was surprised and happy to see that the door had
apparently burned away with the vines - all that was left of it was
melted hinges, and some of the other fittings lying in the ashes on
the ground. Fifty feet separated them from the open doorway, and
Je'en could feel the presence of the tower already beginning to
weigh on her mind, though it didn't yet realize that they were there.
She signaled to Maks, and they both unlimbered weapons and the
expensive ice-wood cages. Maks helped her attach her cage to the
bracer on her right wrist - she hoped that she didn't forget and try
to use the bracer to block a sword-blow if there were any
animateable statues left within.
Then, at another signal, they both began sprinting toward the
tower. Almost immediately, vines began to spring up out of the
ground and catch at their ankles. Je'en almost tripped several
times, but managed to keep her balance and footing, and keep on.
Neither stopped running when they reached the door and entered
the tower, but headed directly for the stairs. Je'en noticed in
passing that the fire had been carried into the main room, and very
little was left. It seemed that the tower didn't have a very
effective fire-fighting system.
Nothing physical hindered them inside the tower, but by the time
they reached the third floor, Je'en could feel the pressure on her
mind becoming almost unbearable already. She stumbled once on a
step, but recovered and kept on climbing. The little concentration
tricks that she had been taught as a bard helped, but the pain grew
too great by the fifth floor, and she had to go on to something else.
She continuously glanced at Maks, who was still following her.
There was a faraway look in his eyes, but it was a look of
concentration, not the look of possession. They had both slowed
down, now climbing the stairs to the sixth floor at little more than
a walk, and both beginning to sweat from the effort of moving
against the will of the tower, but Maks seemed to be having the
better time of it.
A sword flashed in Je'en's line of vision, and reflexes alone
moved her own up in time to block it. She focused on her gypsy
attacker, wondering how or why the tower had kept one in reserve.
She attacked back, very glad that the man was very young, and not a
swordsman. Though her movements were slowed by the tower, the gypsy
was slower, and in two strokes, Je'en had disarmed him, and then
disabled him with the flat of her blade on his temple.
Then she dropped her sword, and began ascending the fifth
turret's stairs, pulling herself along the wall with her good arm.
Maks followed, oblivious of everything around him, his mind set on
Syusahn who was being slowly robbed of her body in the room at the
top of the turret. Je'en tried to concentrate on Cefn, just a
statue, fated to be kept here and to be used against further
intruders until the time when he would be reanimated, and fall to
dust. It helped her, that image, but she still had to struggle,
clawing her way up the winding stairs one at a time, with the tower
beating incessantly at her mind.
By the time the topmost room came into view at the top of the
stairs, Je'en and Maks were moving very slowly, with long pauses
between movements. Je'en's mind was moving in tiny circles, thoughts
moving at random, her body moving automatically. The pain was
intense, crippling, and only the briefly glimpsed images of Cefn
that she had created before, but which she didn't understand
anymore, kept her moving at all.
Finally, with a sense of achievement that managed to pull her
fragmented consciousness back together, Je'en reached the top step,
and pulled herself into the top room. Little had changed here,
unlike outside. Tarlada-shadow still stood next to the table where
Syusahn lay, and the statue of Cefn was still in the room, though it
had moved against one wall. But, the thing on the table was pulsing
even more brightly now, and there was a throbbing that coincided
with its pulsing that sounded a lot like a heartbeat.
She began to advance on the table, as slowly as she had climbed
the stairs. Tarlada turned at the sound of her boots plodding across
the floor, and he said, "Ah, the masked one returns! Good. Good.
See, the short one is almost ready - I can free you very soon."
Je'en looked at the low table, and saw that Tarlada was right.
Syusahn was even paler than before, and her limbs almost seemed to
be as transparent as Tarlada. She took another step toward the
table, and looked for Maks.
The gypsy was there, right behind her, still gazing off into
nothingness, but his face had screwed up into a fierce mask of
concentration. His steps were as slow as hers, but Je'en could sense
that his determination to free his love was far stronger than her's
to stay alive and free Cefn.
Advancing a step at a time, she neared the thing on the table.
Tarlada began screaming at Maks and her after they removed the
cloths that had covered the ice-wood cages. Je'en's cage had taken
up the greenish glow of the core, and it began to glow on its own.
She hoped it was supposed to do that.
The tower redoubled its efforts to halt Je'en and Maks, causing
Je'en to cry out, and slow down. She could almost see the waves of
force directed at her form the core. She could feel each one as it
hit her body and sent lances of pain into her head. When she
couldn't take any more standing up, she went to her knees, and
pulled herself along. But, Maks never wavered, and kept going.
Then, just a few more feet from the table, Je'en felt her
control slip. Just for an instant, but it was enough. She was
reaching out her arm to pull herself along another few inches, when
she found she couldn't move. Her head was up enough to see the
table, and Maks, but she could no longer make any movement, not even
to blink her eyes. Maks, though, was still plodding along, step by
step closer to the thing.
The statue of Cefn was within her range of vision, and as Maks
reached the edge of the table, she saw it come to life. The wand in
his hand was still raised, and it pointed at the table. But, somehow
his cowl had been lowered, and just as his body returned to flesh,
and the wand began to glow, Cefn screamed, and covered his eyes with
both hands, dropping the wand which ceased to glow.
Maks raised his left hand, which was holding the cage, with the
same slowness he had moved. Now, his eyes were focused on something
- the table against the wall, and the attenuating Syusahn. Sweat was
streaming down his face, and his dark tunic was visibly wet from the
perspiration that ran down his body, but still he moved.
Enough of the wizard remained in Tarlada to recognize the
composition and purpose of the cage that was nearing the core. The
shadow man finally moved from his position by Syusahn's table, but
he moved as slowly as Maks did. Curses streamed from his mouth,
alternately directed at Maks and the tower itself. The core
responded by glowing even brighter, and the waves of force it was
sending out really did become visible. Je'en saw them hitting Maks,
making him stagger a little or flinch, but they couldn't stop him.
The waves got thicker, and hit harder, but Maks was almost finished
what he had to do. The cage was finally directly over the core, and,
as the waves of force began to draw blood as they struck the gypsy,
Maks began to lower it over the core.
Je'en watched, motionless and free of pain, as the cage slowly
settled into place. She saw the waves being cut off as they struck
the ice-wood of the cage as it covered more and more of the core.
Slowly, with Tarlada beating his shadow fists ineffectually on Maks,
and Cefn recovering enough to slip his cowl back on properly, the
cage trapped more and more of the core's essence. And, just as Cefn
was groping for his wand, ready to make a last ditch defense of his
master the tower, the cage touched the table.
When it did, the whole ice-wood construct flared a deep, healthy
blue, and rays of light joined the base points of the cage,
enclosing the core completely. Then, blue light bridged the open
spaces between the lattices of the cage, rapidly enclosing the core
in a solid form of blue light. As the last opening filled in with
light, the whole tower shuddered, and screamed. Tarlada, getting
even more transparent, added his thin voice to the noise, and then
Je'en was so suddenly and completely free that she collapsed.
Relief washed over her - relief that she was able to move, and
free of pain, and relief that the spell on the tower was finally
broken. She picked herself up slowly, and looked around. She saw the
blue box of light on the table, and noticed the vines that had
connected the core to the floor of the room were shriveling away,
having been severed from the core. She saw Maks, still bloody, over
by Syusahn, who was still pale, but no longer fading in the
extremities. And, she saw Cefn slumped against the wall, also
surveying the room.
After resting up a few minutes, she stood up, and went over to
Cefn. "Are you all right?" she asked.
"I think so. It was strange, though, to be in the control of the
tower like that. Just a momentary confusion, and it had me. And
then, I could see and hear, but not move. Even when I was attacking
you two, I couldn't feel myself move. The tower did it all.
"Well, think we should see about Maks and Syusahn?"
She helped him up - he seemed to be very weak, but otherwise
okay. They went over to the table where Maks was trying to wake
Syusahn up. Cefn knelt down beside Maks, and checked the girl's
pulse. Then he said, "She'll be fine, but I suspect she needs a lot
of rest. Je'en, if she could borrow your cloak..."
When Syusahn was bundled up, Maks turned to the cage with the
core in it. "What about that thing?" he asked. "Will it be safe
there, or do we have to do something else?"
Je'en said, "Once the cage is closed, nothing can open it again.
The ice-wood will slowly leach away the magic in the core, and when
it is all gone, it will disintegrate, along with the core. We have
done all that needs to be done."
"Good," said Cefn. "Let's get out of here."
Maks carried Syusahn, and they all began descending the many
stairs of the tower. On the fourth floor, one of the shelves
standing next to a wall caught Je'en's attention. She detoured over
to it, and stared in open-mouthed amazement at what was there. She
said, "Cefn, Maks, come look at this." They were both as astonished
as she was, but for different reasons.
Set up for display was an exquisitely carved King's Crown game
set. The board was made of dark, polished wood, with inlaid squares
of what looked like some kind of ivory, and triangles of some
lavender colored stone. One set of pieces were carved from what was
probably sapphire, but the most astonishing thing about the set to
Je'en was what the other set of pieces was carved from: firestone.
Each delicately carved piece had an ember of fire imbedded deep
within it, and she knew that that flame would respond to the touch
by flaring up and filling the whole figure with fire.
Maks ogled the storage boxes for each set of pieces. They were
each made of the same material as their pieces, but they were lined
with ysgafn, a kind of soft stone that was a perfect cushion for the
valuable game pieces. And Cefn, alone among them, recognized who had
made the set - a Master craftsman from ages and ages ago, whose work
was very rare and highly prized.
Je'en began picking up the firestone pieces, and putting them
away. Maks followed suit with the jade ones, and found that they
reacted just like the firestones, glowing palely as he touched them.
Je'en said, "I wonder if Tarlada knew what a treasure this is. Well,
he won't be needing this now, will he. I think that this will do
nicely in lieu of a fee, Maks - it'll help Cefn and I through the
lean winter months."
Maks just smiled, and continued to help her pack.
-John L. White
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SEVEN NUMBER TWO
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
Leaving on Vacation Jim Owens
*Spirit of the Wood: 5 Rich Jervis
Ceda the Executioner: 4 Joel Slatis
Choice of Heart Jim Owens
Date: 020387 Dist: 259
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Well, I know you've all been anxiously waiting for VOL7N02, and
here you are. Inside you'll find two shorts from Jim Owens as well
as continuations of the Spirit of the Wood and Ceda series. I'm sure
you'll be entertained. In VOL7N03 watch for the next (and very
significant) installment in the Atros tale, as well as the beginning
of another round of Dargon stories.
Also, I'd like to welcome the large number of new readers who
have signed up since Christmas. For those of you interested in back
issues, several file servers maintain copies. SILMARIL at FINHUTC
and TCSSERVE at TCSVM both maintain complete collections, CSNEWS at
MAINE maintains several recent editions, as SERVER at TAMCBA
maintains some of the most ancient issues.
Thank you all, and enjoy!
-'Orny' Liscomb
Leaving on Vacation
"What!?"
Tom stared down at his screen, his jaw hanging slack.
"Was ist?" Jim looked over from his screen. "Problems?"
"This thing just ate my files!"
"Oh. That happens. Maybe Kitty got hungry. Every now and then it
decides that you don't really exist, and that your whole processor
is a boogum made by a rat to fool the operating system. So it eats
it. Neat, huh?" Jim turned back to his screen. He was one of those
types that read the specification manuals for the fun of it.
"Wait! What about my files?"
"Guess you'll just have to rewrite them."
"Auuuggh!" Tom leaned back, rubbing his forehead. "I'm glad I'm
leaving on vacation tomorrow. Maybe they'll have this fixed before
I'm back."
"What? And kill Kitty? They'd never do that! It'd cost money."
House Kitty was the nickname the programmers had given to the
operating system. Its real name was HOS/CTI, short for Heuristic
Operating System / Collective Terminal Interface. Although most
programmers still used rather choppy sentence structure, it was able
to understand normal English, if there was such a thing. It was
usually a very friendly system to work with, but the last update had
a special addition. It was designed to deal with the problem of
unauthorized system programs, or rats as they had been recently
tagged. These were programs that crept into the system on
communication lines. Kitty would hunt them, and delete them whenever
it found them. It had a bug in it, however. It occasionally ate real
programs. Fortunately the unintentional victims could usually be
recovered. Tom typed in the commands to recover his.
>cti recover last system deletion
CTI: YOU HAVE INSUFFICIENT AUTHORITY.PLEASE NOTIFY SYSTEM OPERATOR
He growled. Stupid machine. Of course he had sufficient authority.
>cti restart virtual processor
CTI: ARE YOU SURE? THE PRESENT PROGRAM STATE WILL BE LOST
>cti yes, stupid
A moment passed.
CTI: THE WARM START IS COMPLETE
>cti recover last system deletion
CTI: THE LAST SYSTEM DELETION HAS BEEN RECOVERED
Tom's screen cleared and then displayed the lost files. Tom
sighed and went back to work.
Later that day the group leader mailed Tom some last minute
instructions concerning the project. The group was currently working
on a payroll monitor, and Tom had been assigned to the protection
schemes. Tom read the instructions, which mostly concerned error
checks on the maintenance password, or back door. He then saved
them. When he left the browse mode, however, and looked at his list
of files, he was in for a nasty surprise. If one discounted the
profanity, however, he didn't have much to say about the matter. Jim
came over, wondering about the cause of this burst of loquacity.
"All gone, eh? Guess Kitty got hungry again. Here let me try
something. Maybe I can get it to stop eating your files."
>cti purge processor state totally
CTI: ARE YOU SURE? ALL DATA WILL BE LOST
>cti yes
CTI: THE PURGE IS COMPLETE
>cti restart virtual processor
CTI: ARE YOU SURE? THE PRESENT PROGRAM STATE WILL BE LOST
>cti yes
They waited.
CTI: THE WARM START IS COMPLETE. NO FILES FOUND. ERROR IN LOGON
Jim frowned. Sometimes these systems could get obstinate. Jim
was stubborn himself, however.
>cti hos vpg * 0000:0 0001<0000/FFFF
"Take that!" Jim rapped the ENTER key viciously. The machine
gave the visual equivalent of a convulsion.
HOS: ACTIVE
"You killed my Kitty!" Tom sounded almost hurt.
"That'll teach 'er! Now we bring in a clone."
>load cti
HOS: LOAD COMPLETE
>run
CTI: GOOD AFTERNOON, TOM. HERE ARE YOUR FILES
A list of all Tom's files spread across the screen.
>cti set garbage collection on cont
CTI: CONTINUOUS GARBAGE COLLECTION NOW ON
"There. Now you shouldn't have any problems. That'll curb
Kitty's hunger pains. That lets her come in and clear out the
garbage regularly. That way she'll keep a current record of you at
all times, and she won't mistake you for a rat."
The next day Tom started off for Florida. His replacement sat
down at Tom's usual terminal, and typed in the password off the card
Tom had left him. He looked at the instructions Tom had left him,
and a look of puzzlement entered his expression. Seeing this Jim
came to the rescue. After reading the note, however, Jim merely
walked off, chuckling. The temporary watched him, and then reread
the message to see if he might understand.
THE PASSKEY IS IN MY MAIL FILES. IF YOU HAVE ANY PROBLEMS
GETTING IN, SEE MY NEIGHBOR JIM. HE'LL HELP YOU. CHECK THE BACK
DOOR, EMPTY THE GARBAGE, AND DON'T FORGET TO FEED MY KITTY!
-Jim Owens
Spirit of the Wood: Chapter 5
The sound of prowling animals awoke Loric the morning after his
sister left. They scratched the bark around the base of the trees
and called up to him. "Loric where is your song?" "Do you fear the
dawn?" "Fear it more than others for today you die!"
Shivers ran through him as he crouched on the wide limb that his
home sat on. The time of his death had come! Perhaps they won't see
me,I can stay here all day. But then Loric remembered who he was .
He straightened up and looked down into the half-dark below him. "Go
find another's bones to chew 'Speaker-for-animals', Loric Tolorion
will die when his song is done and not a note sooner. Kha-vanth
Tolos Andartha!"
He spoke the ritual words of warding and shook loose some shelf-
fungus, "Go eat your tails and gnaw on this!" he cried as he pitched
the hard shell-like fungus down into the dark. His effort was
rewarded with a snarl of outrage. "A special death for you,
Tolorion-son, a slow, painful one." Then silence.
Still shaking, Loric smiled grimly to himself. There will be no
skins drying on Cid'shaa's Tree this morning. None of the Tolorion,
that is.
I wonder how I WILL die today? Stretched across a wasp's bole no
doubt, after taunting the 'Speaker-for-animals' so boldly. There was
no use in avoiding it, so he shook off his fears and went to meet
the day. He said his prayer to the Spirit and just to prove himself
added a new line that just occured to him;
Spirit of the Wood,
Spirit of the Wood
I'd come be with you,
If I could.
The sun's a-risen
and today I die,
My spirit's awakened
to you It flies.
He leaped out to a vine nearby and absent-mindedly descended to
the ground . I wonder if any of the others will die today, I've been
so wrapped up in my own ordeals that I've forgotten that I'm not the
only one trying to become a man this day. Jakul perhaps, Yione
surely. He's never had a hard time doing anything.
Loric walked the hard packed clearing in silence and wondered
where the Downlander's were. He caught a movement on a path that
led to the clearing where he and the other boys were tested for
their knowledge of bush-craft. That's right! He thought to himself,
there was still time to recover his kesh-blade from the pit before
he died. If he could work it loose then it would be much easier to
survive the Shreaving.
A man could do anything once he had his kesh-blade. The forest
would clothe him, feed him, protect him and receive him when his
song was done, the Spirit willing, that is.
With no more hesitation Loric padded swiftly and silently down
the path and round an ancient Liamas tree to where the Pit was. The
log on which Minial had sat while witnessing Loric was still there.
And the Liamas bark rope he had fashioned was coiled up neatly
around one limb. The smell of Liamas was everywhere and its heady
aroma made Loric smile in remembrance of the fever he had when only
four years old, and of Eadie's potions of Liamas bark and pond-scum.
Eadie's hut was set by the river,where it would be a short walk
for her to gather water. Not that she ever did menial work on her
own, she always seemed to have four or five downlanders aiding her
and doing her work. It was there that she kept the roots and herbs,
poultices and potions, and it was there that she kept the Teline.
Loric decided that teline was the only way he could manage to
pull the kesh blade from it's bonding. He had seen men using the
Teline when the limbs of several ice-laden trees had given away and
fallen on the Downlanders huts. They had chewed the green stemed
plant and it gave them the ability to move the heavy limbs and to
think like many hands on the same arm. Loric's father had been on
the nets freeing ice when that happened, and no amount of Teline
could help him when he fell, his song was sung.
With a shiver he went to Eadie's hut and listened, when no one
appeared he went in and searched the many hanging vines and drying
strings for the Teline. Dimly he was aware that somewhere within the
forest the Downlander's were preparing for his death, and that of
the other boys who would chance the Shreaving this day. Pushing the
thought aside, he continued his search with determination.
After a bit of frantic searching he found several small pieces
wrapped in a waxy leaf from the copo tree. Hurrying back he avoided
taking the direct paths. There was nothing wrong in his taking the
teline; everything was there for those who wanted it,he just didn't
want to die before he recovered his knife.
Taking up the rope, Loric breathed a quick prayer and solidly
anchored the rope to a limb on the log. He leaned out as far as he
could and looked down into the dark hole of his last trial.
The bottom was hidden in the early morning shadows but he could
see the hilt of the kesh blade sticking out of the side right where
he had left it.
"Blade of my father, have you been lonely here in the soft
earth? Or have the roots of your brethren kept you warm with talk of
leaf and burr, nut and thorn?"
Loric 'walked' himself down the side until he was level with the
knife and took from his belt a short green stem of the Teline plant.
It was kinked and had tiny hairs along the length of it. He broke
off a small piece and chewed it briefly.
When he felt a burning in his throat he double-wrapped his grip
on the rope and then looped it around the ornate hilt of the knife.
PULL,he thought to himself, pull! It was always hard to think
when he chewed Teline. What it gave in strength, it took in reason.
Until later when it took strength too. Loric felt the muscles in
his neck go taut and his heart raced so loud he was sure that
everyone in the village could hear it.
He took large gulping breaths and felt a tightness in his chest.
When his arms and legs twitched their need to be used he growled and
pulled on the rope. He ground his teeth and tasted blood, for a wild
moment he thought of his position and wished he hadn't chewed so much.
Then the knife began to give, it made a slow sucking noise,
reluctant to leave its earthen sheath. Loric spat on the wall and
pulled all the harder, too far gone to notice the green-red spittle
that ran down his chin. There was a groaning noise, then the sound
of the blade sucking free of the earth. With a cry of triumph Loric
straightened his back and held aloft the newly freed blade. Its
resin-coated length gleamed darkly in the sunlight.
Loric leaped out of the pit and dropped his rope unnoticed on
the ground. In a moment he had run around the Liamas tree and then
kicked the log into the hole with one foot. He felt a rush as part
of him realized that he couldn't have moved the log normally and
that he would have a large dark bruise on his heel to remind him for
many days to come.
He did four backward flips and flicked his knife at the Liamas
tree in mid-spin. It struck the rough bark with such force that bits
of bark went flying in all directions. He laughed uncontrollably at
the sight and walked on his hands over to the tree. When dark ropey
tendrils dropped on him from above he showed no outward concern,
allowing them to envelope him completely. The morning light was cut
off abruptly and his breath began to be squeezed from him from all
sides. There was a sharp pain in the top of his head where the hard
bony beak of the creature was biting him but he could give no
resistance. He welcomed pain and howled his pleasure to the Spirit.
"I marvel that I know no fear Spirit, I have lived as a
Tolorion, and I am dying as a Tolorion! Eee-yoooo, a-yay!"
Loric's cry of defiance did not go unheard, Cid'shaa was at hand
and replied in a loud voice of cracking bone and booming drums.
"You WILL fear Tolorion-son for I have sent a Devathma to
consume you! I promised you a slow painful death and this you shall
have! But as your spirit flies to join the Spirit of the Wood, be at
peace. I will tell your brethren that you died with honor, like a
man. Thus you will be borne anew, like a man!
Darkness began to take Loric and the Teline started to wear off.
He could not have called out if he had wanted to, and he did not.
With a glad heart he went into the darkness...dying like a man!
-Rich Jervis
Ceda the Executioner: Chapter 4
Cander peered nervously over the rail of the ship at the raging
water. He had been sailing for over a weak and was not yet
accustomed to the violent upheavals of the South Sea. He wore the
special dark metal ring (that is commonly referred to as black gold)
typical of Elven nobility on his pale hand which now held tightly to
the railing. A light rain had manifested itself over the area that
the ship was now sailing and was throwing the little vessel all over.
Cander was a large strong bodied elf. He wore a dark cape that
hung loosely about his stout figure effectively covering most parts
of it. If it was possible, which at this point it wasn't, to see
under the hood about his head, you would have seen signs of great
sorrow. This elf was not at all pleased about something, and was on
his way to let someone know about it.
That someone was of course Ceda, who was at that very moment,
half out of his wits in drunkenness about three hundred miles away
in the remote city of Cramstrock. (This city lay up in the far North
of No-Al Ben by the Icy Waters of Plime where Ceda was born.)
It is then quite understandable, that after months of endless
searching, and after finally finding Ceda who was at the time, numb
from Cramstrockian wine, he was in an extremely bad mood.
What had happened was this: Cander had found Ceda in the local
tavern drinking with his father and the few friends that still
remained loyal to him. He entered and demanded that Ceda come with
him to the City of the Elves. One of Ceda's friends, who was not
particularly fond of elves, let alone elven nobility (being a dwarf
himself), remarked that the elf looked like his old grandmother.
The elf, not very happy with the idea that he resembled the
dwarf's grandmother, took it upon himself to teach the dwarf some
manners. He picked up the jug of ale that sat in front of Ceda and
dumped it all onto the head of the now very unhappy dwarf. Ceda, who
did not like having his drink wasted, hit the dwarf in the stomach
with a stool and the fight was on. Almost instantly after the first
punch, everyone in the tavern was jumping in to help friend against
friend; what a scene it was!
Fortunately for the elf, all were drunk but he, so he waited
until everyone had been beaten senseless by one another, and then he
dragged Ceda off and hoisted him onto a horse, leaving for the Port
City of Dhernis immediately.
Ceda awoke the next morning to the sound of the market place in
the heart of Caahah. He wasn't sure at all how he got there, for
that matter, he wasn't even sure where 'there' was! The first
thought that entered his mind was food, and lots of it. He got up
and dressed and then looked around the room to see what he might
find. All the elfs things were there, but he didn't remember that he
had met anyone recently. Everything was strange to him. Many things
were in the room, none his, and he didn't want whomever they
belonged to to find him lying around their room.
He opened the door and went into the tavern down stairs where
Cander was sitting drinking a glass of wine.
Cander turned and confronted him: "Good day, Ceda of No-Al Ben.
You are a hearty sleeper! all the way from the shores of the Icy
Waters of Plime!" The elf threw back his head in laughter. "I am
Cander of Perstanie."
Ceda walked over to the elf and grabbed him by the collar. "Who
in Tavaar's name are you, and where might I be?"
The elf choked, and his hand flew to Ceda's arm. The dark gold
band upon the elf's finger caught Ceda's eye and he released his grip.
"Rackins of the Elves has need of your presence," said the elf,
as he fingered his neck. "It is a strange man that greets people in
such a manner," joked the elf, trying to settle Ceda's temper.
"And what is Rackin's wish with me after so many a month, for it
has been since last October that I last lay eyes upon his noble face?"
"And it is from November to March that I have sought your
company. It is for the most part about evil tidings from the
mountains in South. The dark creatures that dwell therein have
gained control over the crown of Grobst D'arbo's and seek a way to
destroy it."
"About what crown do you speak? For that which I remember had
since returned to the underworld. Be there two of these foul
things?" said Ceda.
"Nay, and you know this to be true," replied the elf. "For what
purpose do you ask such foolish questions?"
"If my memory does not fail yet, The demon that sought the crown
had found the crown. You say that it has been won from him?"
"The spell caster Merth has not revealed to me his thoughts, but
he has summoned you to his palace in the City of the Elves, which in
itself is an honor that rivals even the greatest of nonelven
nobility. But as for now, haste is upon us, for I have wasted many
months in searching and must not delay anymore with idle questions
that will be answered in due time. Make haste now that you have
awakened, for we ride for Dhernis!"
"If it is Merth that seeks my presence, then I shall come, for
it is probably of great importance if I am to be dragged from my
home like a common thief. Let us make haste!"
The elf disappeared for a moment through the doors that led to
the upper rooms and returned with his things. Then they both left
together and rode all that day for the port of Dhernis.
They rode fairly quickly through the country of Ruirse, Ceda on
a light brown horse supplied by the elf.
"And what of your dragon mount, Melgon? I sought him before we
left Cramstrock, but to no avail," said Cander.
"Melgon has returned to Cergaan, though I know not how he did it
without wings. He has been gone for fourteen days, and will remain
gone for another moon," answer Ceda. "There comes a time each year
that he departs without word nor warning, but he leaves message that
it is to his home, far beyond the City of the Elves, that he goes."
At that moment Ceda stopped his horse. He looked off to the far
South Towards the high mountain peaks that rose in the distance as
Cander rode up along side of him. From where they stood, the
mountains were almost invisible being so far away. "We now ride for
the Cliffs of Belos at the feet of the Sarshirian Mountains," he
said at length.
"Why?" cried the elf in dismay. "We must make the greatest of
haste to the City of the Elves, and the Gate of Ploughdom that leads
into the infested mountain and its dungeons and towers interests me
not! I shiver at the thought of the foul stinking things that lie
beyond the pass!"
"And all the same, we will make for it and then for Dhernis.
There is something afoot in those peaks. Methinks that it is best to
look lest we miss the ranks of orcs marching foreword to war out of
the Gate of Ploughdom unnoticed."
"And if they are on the march," said Cander, "it is not this elf
that wants to meet them on their way to whatever their destination.
They have grown strong in numbers since the battle at the fortress
of Num-deaon. And may Tavaar know what draws you to the borders of
that deadly place?"
"I know not what, but I sense that all is not well within the
land of Gate.
"I wish only to see if they have indeed passed through the
border into Ruirse. It is not my motive to battle the entire orcish
legions, or whatever other dark foes that Ileiruon may have brought
forth from the abyss," said Ceda, "and it will lengthen our journey
but a week." With that, he reared his horse to the South and rode
down towards the Gate of Ploughdom.
Further and further South they rode, passing the large forest of
Carne to the East as the hours wore on. The mountains came up and
met the sky in splendor with their snowy white peaks glittering in
the sun. After five days of uneventful riding, they were only fifty
miles from the closest of the Sarshirian mountains, called by the
orcs and other evil creatures, Onibus, after the battle of Ploughdom
13,000 years before when Ileiruon's followers were lead to victory
by a demon called Onibus. Men, Elves, Halflings, Dwarves and all
other creatures in alliance with Sarve, had called the mountain
Barnonoen, the name that was first given to it over 15,000 years
before by the Old Folk that lived in the land before the first
wave of evil swept over the continent from Cergaan.
They passed the ruined castle of Nuum-Orron, brother fortress to
Nuum-Deaon just visible against the Northwestern sky, and veered to
the Southwest in order to meet the cliffs of Onibus (the cliffs were
called Belos as a whole, but when referring to a certain area, they
were called the cliffs of the mountain that they belonged to) a day's
ride from the gate.
The sky was growing steadily darker with clouds the closer they
got, even though they were still a day's ride from the closest of the
mountains. Clouds were coming up from the south and a cold wind was
blowing harshly hampering their progress. They decided to return to
the sheltered walls of Nuum-Orron for the night before they
continued on to the gate.
The castle was large and supposedly deserted for many years.
They rode through the long open gate into the vast courtyard and to
the far side where there was a door large enough to admit their
horses. Ceda dropped from his mount and went to search the castle
while Cander set up camp.
When Ceda returned, Cander approached him. "I don't like this
place, Ceda, It has a foul reek and the horses are uneasy about it."
"The night air will offer no cover from the wind and the on
coming rain clouds should they decide to spill on our heads, and it
is foolish to risk camp outside so close the the threshold of Onibus
and the Gate. I have looked around and have seen naught nor heard
footfall, alas we may be safe the one night that we spend so close
to the Dark Doorway!" answered Ceda, not at all pleased with the Elf
for his timidness.
"Then here we will stay, but I am against it all the same." And
with that final word, Cander went to sleep leaving Ceda the guard.
Early the next morning they were off, towards the dark figure of
a mountain that loomed before them. The peaks now rose high above
their heads into the clouds and out of sight. Every moment brought
them closer to the dark opening that held so much terror for the Elf
and wonder for Man. The nearer they got, the more the Elf seemed
uneasy, but with good reason, the tales told of those that were held
there, and by some luck escaped were horrifying. Tales told of the
foul creatures that lived therein hewing off limbs of captives for
pleasure. These thoughts did not comfort Ceda or his companion.
Finally they reached the mountain's base and turned now toward
the West to come to the gate riding in the shadows of the tall peaks
to their left. All around the Borders of the Sarshirian mountains,
steep overhanging cliffs towered up hundreds of feet. The only
entrance was through the Gate of Ploughdom that the Dwarves of
Psardon had made in centuries past.
After another hour of riding, they approached the gate. It
looked like any ordinary cave to them, a dark hole in the face of a
large mountain side; but somehow, it seemed threatening, menacing
almost. A pungent smell issued forth from the crack filling the air
with an unholy odor of some vile creature or creatures.
Ceda dropped from his horse and went forth. Cander started after
and grabbed his shoulder. "Have you not seen enough? If they do not
await your coming outside the Gate must you go forth and present
yourself to them?"
At that moment, four husky looking creatures dropped from a ledge
in the cliff far above landing squarely on Ceda and Cander. Ceda was
knocked to the ground under the weight of the beast and Cander fell
from his mount with a heavy thud on the dry ground.
Before any could draw their swords, they were both subdued and
totally unable to move. Ceda saw one of the beasts strike Cander in
the back of the head with a heavy club, and then he too felt a blow
from behind and remembered nothing more about that day.
Darkness followed in the days to come; wherever Ceda was, it
was pitch dark and noisome. The smell was enough to drive a man to
tears, and it took its toll on the prisoners. Ceda awoke to the same
vile odor as before, but much nearer and stronger. His head hurt and
he was very hungry. He was sprawled out on a flat surface in a pitch
dark cave or room somewhere in the Sarshirians.
And so he lay, bound in heavy chains at his heels and wrists and
surrounded by total darkness; needless to say that he knew not for
how long. Hour after hour dragged on and still he heard no sound.
The smell grew in his nostrils to the point where he was screaming
in agony, and still no one--or nothing came.
After what seemed like years, a creaking noise was heard and a
faint light shone in the room he was in. The walls were covered with
a faint ooze like substance. He lay on a bed of solid rock against
the far wall, and all around him dark shadows moved upon the ground.
The light grew stronger and before Ceda knew it, there were four
tall Orcs before him. The light hurt his eyes and he cowered back
turning his weak head to the wall.
They undid the clasps at his wrists and feet and lifted him up
setting him on the floor. He fell over again was placed on his feet.
Then they started out of the room and down a long corridor. Ceda
fell to the floor many times and was dragged when this happened.
They didn't speak. Not one word. And the smell was beyond imagination.
The corridor seemed to go on far a long while, and frequently it
would bend suddenly and resume itself in another direction
altogether. Sometimes they passed other corridor entrances from
which came the same vile smell, and sometimes great stone doors that
were shut fast had a dim outline in the dark walls.
At length, they came to a large door set at the end of that long
passage. One of the Orcs entered and the remaining stayed outside
with Ceda. After a while at the door, the door was thrown open and
Ceda was lead into a great hall. It spanned far and wide, and in it
were a great many foul smelling beasts like those that had captured
Ceda to begin with. At the center of the far wall, raised high above
the heads of all Orcs and other beasts, sat a mighty being, one that
Ceda had never seen before in all his travels. He was lead before it
and dropped by the Orcs to the ground, as he could not stand by
himself in his weakened state. All he could think about was food,
for he had not eaten since he was captured some days before, though
he knew not how long ago.
There was a onset of hideous laughter as he struggled to stand
but could not, and finally was content to sit up in front of the
great seat that loomed before him.
"Well," it hissed. "We seem to have caught a spy. From Ruirse
perhaps? or be it from New Grandydyr? Weuyrt? From whence do you
ride, Elf tamer?"
Ceda did not reply, his mind was too tired and he was far to
hungry to even pay attention to the thing, but rather sat and gazed
up past the throne into the darkness of the ceiling that stood far
over head.
The beast continued, "or be you from the weak realm of Pirintar
in the north or Prass to the far east by the great water? Answer
me!" it shouted. but Ceda still gazed at the ceiling high above with
a partial smile on his pale lips.
Then the beast signaled to one of the Orcs and it stepped
foreword kicking Ceda in his back with all its might, its heavy
studded boots digging deep into Ceda's flesh. Ceda screamed with
agony and fell unconscious to the floor.
"Remove him until later," said the Beast. And a smile crossed
his lips, "and see that he is well fed!"
When Ceda next awoke, he was back in his cell, now chained only
at at one ankle. His mouth was dry and it pained him to swallow. He
rolled over onto the floor just in time to see an Orc leaving his
chamber. Before him on a dirty plate, lay a large piece of meat,
freshly cooked and spiced. A feeling of wonder passed before his
eyes accompanied by disbelief but there was the meat, steaming hot,
its smell god-like to his nose. At once he grabbed at the food and
began to eat as if it was long forgotten to him (and indeed it
had been for some days), the fragrance of the spices overcoming the
noisome stench of the stale dungeon air.
When Ceda had finished, he sat back against the wall and rested,
for after not eating a long time, the food sat heavily in his now
full stomach. Some time later, the faint creaking of a door echoed
though his chamber followed by foot steps. Before long, a beast much
like the one on the throne appeared before him with a water pouch;
until then, Ceda had not even been aware of the thirstiness that had
long grown in his dry mouth until now and grabbed at the sack in
desperation. The Beast let it fall and the precious liquid ran onto
the floor.
"That's all you'll get for today, scum," it said. "Better you
learn to use your tongue or you'll not drink 'till the morrow," it
laughed. "Lick, scum, lick from the floor as do the beggars!" and it
left the cell, with one final word: "enjoy your meals while they
last!" it said and choked with laughter. And then heart stricken,
Ceda began to lick.
Ceda sat back after a long and disgusting drink trying not to
think about it. He thought for a moment about what the beast had
said 'while they last,' he said to himself. 'While they last,' and
coming to no conclusion, he forgot about it and went to sleep.
And the days wore on in the same manner. The beast would bring
him strange meat (for Ceda had never before tasted it) and Ceda
would eat and drink his fill. Presently he became accustomed to the
smell and it no longer troubled him. And he grew stronger.
After what had seemed about a month (by Ceda's reckoning), once
again the Orcs reappeared and took him down the long corridor the
throne room. This time, Ceda entered with pride, for he was now
fully healthy again, and as strong as ever before. He stood above
all other beasts in the room with his head held high before the
might of the ruler.
"Now, scum," it started. "I trust you have eaten well?" It smiled.
"Yes I have, Lord. From what beast is this meat, for it has
strange virtues?" answered Ceda, thinking that he did not want to
know the answer.
"Elf," smiled the beast.
Ceda was right: he really didn't want to have known what he had
been eating thus far, a feeling of dread filled his face and he
thought about Cander for the first time since being captured, and
the terrible fate that had become of him. At last he knew what the
other beast had meant by its remark about how long the food would
last. The room was again full of hideous laughter and Ceda's
confidence was wavering. To the end of his days, he never forgot that
moment that he had been told of his meals, nor could he bear to be
with elves for any length of time before guilt got the best of him.
Anger welled up inside of him. He thought to smite the beast
where it sat. His hand flew with lightning speed to his side, but
his sword had long been taken away from him as had all other things
save his cloths
"From whence do you ride," it now asked in a grim voice. "And to
what purpose do you dare approach the Passage of Ploughdom?"
Ceda did not answer, but instead he stared in hatred at the face
of the beast that loomed over him. It repeated its question but
received no answer still. Then it lashed out bending foreword and
with one great arm knocked Ceda from his feet to the floor.
Still Ceda said nothing to the growing anger of the chieftain.
Finally, after many strikes from the Orc guard and a few from the
ruler himself, they gave up. "Take him back to his cell and we shall
see how long he will remain quiet to the face of hunger!" It yelled
as Ceda was led from the room.
Down the long winding and twisting corridor was Ceda lead by his
Orc escort until his own room was in sight. As they drew close to
the door, Ceda leapt foreword pushing the two Orcs in front of him
to either side as he sped off down into the darkness of the passage.
Great was his speed as he outran the pursuing Orcs, but their
cries brought still more terrible things forth from the surrounding
openings and doors until the way behind was filled with angry
creatures running fast and tireless after him.
The corridor sloped down, then up and bore right, then left.
Twisting and sloping the tunnel wore on in an almost never ending
path. Finally, a faint glimmer of light could be seen ahead.
presently The glimmer grew into a opening and without stopping, Ceda
ran forth and out into the sunlight for the first time in well over
a month.
But the trouble was not over yet. Ceda was out, but he was
alone, unarmed and without food. Still he continued down the rocky
slope of the mountain side he had come out of at a fast pace. Pain
welled up in his chest but still he ran on, pursued only now by the
beasts like the one on the throne, for Orcs hate sun light.
After a while, Ceda had to stop. Being faster than his pursuers,
he had long since stopped hearing the sound of running feet behind,
but that would not last long, for if the creatures behind him could
not track, the Orcs could, and would soon be after him as the sunset
drew near.
Now almost at despair, he started out for the borders of Ruirse
in the hope of finding a place in the steep cliff low enough to jump
from. It was his only hope, and that in itself was small.
He had been silently moving at a steady pace Eastward but was
extremely tired. The sun had dropped behind the tips of the Western
mountains and his shadow grew long. 'Time for a rest,' he thought to
himself as he climbed up a tree and sat down among its branches far
up out of sight. Then, breaking a few of the larger branches, he laid
them out making a crude but safe bed among the loftier limbs. Soon
it was pitch dark. The moon was hidden behind a rocky peek off to
the north leaving Ceda stranded in the tree should trouble pursue.
The air had a dank smell of burning flesh that came up from the
East; the direction that he was now headed.
During the night, all seemed to change. Even though Ceda was
being pursued, he had noticed that the country was gradually
becoming emptier of any and all things that usually dwell in those
parts. Not a sound was heard all that night, and the only life he
could see were the plants and trees. The quiet was discomforting,
Ceda would have been more at ease were he attacked or something,
weird though it was. Finally, sleep took him.
The next morning, he woke up and to his surprise, he had not yet
been found. He was so tired that last night, that it didn't even
matter to him weather he was caught or not, and indeed Orcs could
climb trees as well as they could track. Something wasn't right, but
Ceda had not the time, food or energy to even care. He should have
rightly been dead or captured by then.
The morning was young, and the sun was just creeping over the
eastern peaks. Ceda climbed higher and peered out through the
branches over the trees Eastward. The land about a mile off dropped
suddenly into a valley and all beyond, between the mountain that
Ceda was on and the mountain bordering Ruirse was hidden from sight.
That valley went for about thirty miles before Ceda could see the
slope of the next mountain climbing steadily upwards. 'About 3 days
journey on foot,' he thought to himself, 'if the valley is flat and
straight'. Then, climbing down the tree, he set off.
The valley was further than the trees had shown. After the mile
of tree tops that Ceda had seen, the trees had suddenly stopped and
a long barren field continued for another mile. The morning was
waning and Ceda still had not eaten. After reaching the end of the
field, he took digging up roots for food, much to his distaste.
From the end of the fields, the valley descended acutely into
more trees far below. A small winding path in bad upkeep led down
the almost cliff like face into the valley. This he took.
Walking all day, he finally reached the bottom of the mountain
and ate more of the roots that he had found. After a little
searching he found a stream that ran into a small lake. Drinking his
fill, he swam the lake and continued walking on the other side.
Upon reaching the valley, the trees began to reappear until the
forest was like a dense wall all about him. Moving now would be slow
and cautious.
Before long, he realized that the smell of the burning flesh had
returned and it was now growing stronger. The ground was now level
and things were beginning to look as they should. Bats flew
overhead, noises returned to the dismal mountains and in the
distance, Ceda could hear the faint shouts of Orcs. He continued in
the same general direction but away from the shouts.
After a while longer of walking, the yells became unavoidable.
They were all around him now, yet not to close, and to go back meant
death by the other Orcs or a long journey around the valley that
would take more time then Ceda had to spare.
Cautiously he ventured foreword towards the sounds and at length
to the edge of a clearing. Here shielded by the trees and shrubbery,
Ceda could see many of the same creatures moving about in the
sunlight where the trees had been quickly uprooted and burned. Some
Orcs were about but not many; They were kept busy by the orders of
the other beasts at whatever they were doing. Ceda could not see
much, but it looked to him as if the beasts were preparing for war.
Many of them were around going here and there with wagons full
of tridents and axes, others were running all over the camp on
errands of their own. Far off in the Center of the clearing, a large
hole had been dug and many Orcs went in and out. They all wore mail
armor and carried the axes that were made in the fields. They also
carried bucklers with a golden crown painted on it. The crown was
richly inlaid with Malthoogian gems. All the shields were new as
were the axes and the armor, and in the distance, Ceda could see the
faint glow of blacksmiths hard at work forging more.
Ceda stayed and watched, not daring to move until the sun had
long gone down and night was upon them. The moon was still hidden
behind the mountains and it was totally dark except for the torches
that were in and around the camp. Many of the beasts, Nuadrin, as
Ceda began to call them, had gone into tents that were set up in the
camp. Now many Orcs were about here and there shouting orders at one
another and arguing amongst themselves in there own harsh tongue.
The night drew on and presently Ceda fell asleep in the scrubs
where he hid. Morning came and he was awakened by the sunlight as it
rose above the far off mountains in the East. The burning was much
closer now and he could finally see what it was: men.
He sat and watched all day growing very disgusted at the ghastly
sight, yet very hungry as well, until nightfall. Then, using all his
talent, as a master assassin, he crept quietly from the edge of the
clearing back into the forest where he found both food and water in
a shallow stream that ran down the mountain slope from the West.
After eating, he began the slow journey of encompassing the
entire camp of about ten thousand troops of Orcs and two thousand
troops of Nuadrin (as well as he could reckon).
The night went slowly but at length Ceda had reached the other
side of the enemy camp and had begun again his path toward the large
mountain that towered above him.
Leaving the bloody camp behind, he had travelled almost another
ten miles from the Eastern edges of the camp when daybreak overtook
him. He settled down and went to sleep among the branches of a tall
pine tree out of the sight of all watching eyes of the mountains.
That night after a long rest, he awoke to the tree's gentle
swaying in the breeze leaving him with a slight chill. Tonight if
all went well, he would reach the base of the next mountain, Psom,
and would climb about half way to the point where he thought he
could see a pass between it and an adjacent mountain that Ceda did
not know the name of.
The night drew onward. Walking very surely and quietly, Ceda
slowly approached the mountain. Nuadrin were everywhere, walking
about in heavy plate mail with long black tridents and small round
bucklers; all with with the sign of the crown on them. They passed
commonly on a road that Ceda now followed about twenty yards to the
right so as not to be seen when troops passed. Now and again, ten or
more Nuadrin would pass with about fifty men chained together in
some heavy grey metal. Their faces were sad and they did not speak
to one another. Sometimes, he could hear the crack of one of the
long leather whips that the Nuadrin carried on some mans back, then
a yell of agony, then silence.
Orcs also trudged up and down the road, but not as frequently.
They were usually led by one of the Nuadrin, who were larger and
stronger looking.
After an hour or two, Ceda left the road altogether and made
his way towards the mountain pass. It was not long before he came
upon the road again going in the same direction. 'Must have changed
course,' he thought to himself and followed on. The road veered
South as it came to foot of Psom and widened a little. He decided to
follow it a little to see where it headed.
Even on the mountain, the trees grew just as big and as thick.
They may even have become denser, but because of the general
incline, his way was hampered in many places. Now and again the road
would turn and head either North or South as the slope became more
acute but for the most part the road went up towards the pass.
Then all of a sudden, the road ended. As it came up the slope it
became so wide that it was not really a road any more. Then it just
gradually disappeared out of sight. Ceda walked along the area for a
while before a troop of Nuadrin came marching up the road.
When they reached the end, they walked along south for a while
until they came to the base of a small cliff. Then, the Nuadrin
leader went foreword and pushed at the wall of rock. It opened into
darkness and all the troop entered.
Then the door closed swiftly leaving no trace in the side of the
steep wall.
Ceda ran to the door and put his ear to it. He could hear the
Nuadrin singing until their voices vanished into the depths of the
cave. Their deep voices echoed in the cavern as they sang:
"Plunder we shall,
and spill the blood of the enemy,
until all their vast kingdoms lay
dead at our feet.
Kill their old Kings,
and spill the blood of the enemy,
until all their hearts beat at the
sound of our feet.
Pay them we shall,
and spill the blood of the enemy,
until all their men band together
and meet.
Fight them we shall,
and spill the blood of the enemy,
until all their great gold lay down
under our feet.
Drive them out, we shall we shall.
KILL THEM and BEAT THEM until they all flee.
Out we shall pour
from the new gates of Psom and Dearn,
continuing the work of our
Lord Onibus.
plunder we shall,
and spill the blood of the enemy,
until all their vast kingdoms lay
dead at our feet."
Then their voices were lost to the tunnels under the mountain.
The sound however was replaced by feet coming up the path. He leapt
from the opening into the cover of the trees just before around
thirty Orcs came marching up the path. Then he went as quietly as he
could up through a worn path away from the company.
Soon he heard the voices of the Orcs below as he left. They
spoke in common tongue so they must have had a Nuadri with them. (As
do all other forms of speaking beings, Nuadrin have a unique tongue
than most cannot comprehend, therefore, they are forced to use the
Common Speech when talking to things of other races.)
"Blyazax," hissed the leader to one of the Orcs in the first row
of company. "I smell Men here. What tunnel do they march the Men
from now?"
"From the North opening, you know that. Let me smell." Replied
the Orc coming foreword. Ceda froze and listened intently. Faint
rustling among the ranks was heard and then a sniffing sound, long
and loud.
"You're right Aejr. There were men here, and his smell leads up
from here. They've probably seen the entrance now! better take the
troop up after him before Ifaduk finds out and throngs us all! Come
on guys, after him! They can't be far from the smell of things!"
There was another rustling among the men, and then many foot
steps in Ceda's direction. He jumped up and ran with all his speed
up the side of the mountain towards the pass high above him. The
Orcs were making good speed up the mountain but were slowed by their
heavy armor and weapons. Ceda was far stronger, faster and didn't
have any armor to hamper him so it was not a problem to outrun them.
Soon the sounds of pursuit were faint and the yelling between
them was remote. He sat down against the trunk of a tree unable to
run any longer without a brief break. The night was almost over and
day would make him visible to all eyes. He got up and went on. The
voices were much clearer now than they were before. They were
tracking him well.
Gradually the mountain's slope increased until continuing was
only possible by crawling almost vertically. Trees grew all over the
mountainside and made his way up easier, but there was still a long
way to go before even reaching the pass, and after that it was not
certain that he would find a way through and then down from the
dangerous cliffs of Psom.
After another hour of climbing, the pass was within sight but
the sounds of feet were still close at hand. The going was slow
for both Ceda and the Orcs, but they were making headway faster than
he. The vile smell of the dungeon at Onibus was in the air as the Orcs
gained on him up the slope. They would soon reach him at their
current pace.
The smell grew in his nostrils until the remembrance of the
Elf, Cander, came to mind. That drove him on up the slope and
finally to the pass with an outburst of hidden strength. Anger now
drove him and welled up within him as he climbed up onto the narrow
ledge that was formed by the merging of two lower parts of the
adjacent mountains.
The ledge was not altogether flat, but it was firm and narrow.
Ceda decided to turn and face the enemy before all his strength was
gone. He turned and leaned against the wall of the mountain on his
left and rested until the first malformed head of a Nuadri soldier
popped out of the trees below. Then it was only a matter of seconds
before it was at the edge of the pass.
It looked up and saw Ceda waiting for it. Then with a Cry in
another tongue, it hastened up the remaining feet to the pass. Ceda
was ready. He stood back letting the Nuadri up and then like
lighting threw both his fists down on its large head knocking it
down. Then he jumped on it catching its head in his hands and
turning it until its neck it broke with a shuddering crack!
Then he undid the small buckler from its back and took the
trident from it where it lay at the Nuadri's side. Then finally he
unfastened a pouch that hung about the beast's side and waited for
the rest of the Orcs to catch up.
It was not long before one, then three, then ten had poked their
heads out of the trees underneath Ceda. Seeing their leader dead at
his feet demoralized them a little, but seeing that there was only
one man to deal with gave them the courage to approach.
Then Ceda threw the body down at them knocking two of them off
the side of the mountain into the trees far below. The rest climbed
up towards the pass with malice in their eyes.
Ceda stood his ground until they had gotten within reach of his
trident. Then he slowly backed up through the ledge of the pass
until they were all on the pass in a single file line before him.
The one in front fell first. He had made a charge at Ceda which was
easy enough to block with a simple thrust of his own driving his
weapon deep into the belly of his opponent. The second came up the
pass and tripped on his fallen comrade, he died quickly afterwards.
The third and forth Orcs fell in the same way and the rest turned
and fled over the side of the steep ledge in the direction that they
had come. Some crashed into the the trees far below dying instantly,
while two or three made it down without serious injuries. Gathering
the things of the fallen Orcs and placing them with the things of
the Nuadri leader, Ceda started down the Eastern face of the mountain.
As soon as he left the Western side of the mountain, the climate
changed as if by magic. What was calm and humid was now dry and
cold. Nothing grew there and no water ran down in streams so
frequent on the Western slope.
The sun was shining down nearly overhead by the time Ceda found
a place that he thought was safe to sleep without danger of pursuit.
The Orcs were all underground by now and the Nuadrin would have to
climb up through the pass in order to find his trail; so he went to
sleep peacefully for the first time in nearly six weeks.
That night when Ceda awoke, he found that nothing had changed.
He looked at the things that he had gotten from the fallen Nuadri
leader and Orcs. Finding one sack full of a strange kind of wine, he
gladly quenched his growing thirst. Then rummaging through the
remainder of the things he found some dried meat (that he threw away
quickly), three more skins of the wine and a golden medallion (from
the Nuadri) with the symbol of the crown painted on in dark grey and
black colors.
Then he started down the mountain. Going down was far more
dangerous then going up. Below him about five hours away, were the
cliffs of Belos that surrounded the entire Sarshirian mountain range.
The way down was quite steep. This made five hours into ten and
then twenty. The trees that had earlier helped Ceda up the other
face of the mountain did not grow on the face he now tread. Trying
to keep his feet in a sure place, he made his way slowly down
stopping only to find food among the berries and to rest his legs.
Day came quickly, but not without being wanted. Ceda's legs were
tired and his back ached from the continual stooping. Finding a
place to lie on one of the many jagged rocks that jutted out of the
mountain face, Ceda fell into an uneasy sleep, for the next night,
he would reach the cliffs.
When he awoke, the sun had already set and the sky was full of
clouds. Rain! Ceda jumped to his feet and looked down. He was closer
to the cliffs than he had thought the previous night, but it was
still a long way down, and with the rain, he could be washed off the
face entirely. He opened a skin of wine and drank most of it.
Replacing it at his side, he started down.
It was about an hour before he had reached the tops of the
Cliffs of Psom. He lay flat on his stomach and looked over the edge.
About four hundred feet below him was the foot of the cliff. Looking
in each direction showed that the same distance down was held all
along the face as far as the eye could see. Then by the pale light
that the moon cast down through the clouds, he saw it. To the North
towards the border of Grobst D'arbo's desert, a tiny figure appeared
out of the face of the cliff. Before long, about 20 of them had left
the cliff base and Ceda could see that they were Orcs. They wore the
same armor and had the same weapons as he had seen earlier. He
watched the band until they were out of sight then he got up and
started South along the head of the cliff, searching for a way down.
The clouds were growing thicker and the night was drawing on and
getting steadily cooler. He walked along for sometime wondering what
would become of him. Then he found what he had been looking for: in
the cliff, a deep gash ran up from the ground to the top of the
cliff just wide enough for him to fit in.
He sat down on the edge and inched himself into the ravine.
Pushing on either side with his hands and feet, he held himself
while he made his way down. The way was slow and tedious, but the
rain did not fall and the ravine did not widen.
About a third of the way down, he came upon an opening along the
chasm. It was big enough for him to fit inside, indeed even room
enough for him to stand and walk around in, and soon he was fast
asleep on the rocky floor out of danger for the time being.
The midmorning sun roused him as it shone through the hole into
the cave upon his face. Drinking some of his wine and eating the
rest of the berries he had collected along the way down the
mountain, he soon started again.
It had rained while he was asleep and the way was treacherously
slippery, but he managed to find handholds and not to fall. By
midafternoon he had made his way almost to the bottom and slid down
the rest of the way to the ground.
He was finally out of the Sarshirian mountains in the wilderness
of Ruirse.
-Joel Slatis
Choice of Heart
Phil stepped out of the mess hall just in time to hear the final
call, and to hear the CRACK of the rifles. He and everyone around
him just stopped for a moment, not quite looking at each other, and
then continued with their business. Phil and four other men from his
squad continued toward their barracks. As he walked towards the
bunkhouse, Phil saw the door to the old warehouse open, and the
soldiers filing out. He counted sixteen. That meant that four people
had just been executed.
Phil and his buddies joined their squad leader in their room.
While the five soldiers strapped on their gear their leader read off
their assignment. It was a typical one. Phil had been in Miami only
four days, and already he had lost count of how many missions he had
been on. He had no trouble remembering how many deaths he had seen,
however, nor how many he had caused. An image of a young, pleading
face hung before his mind's eye, and only when one of his buddies
nudged him did he realize that his assignment was being read off.
Phil and the other men in his squad marched out of the building
to where their plane was waiting. They climbed in, the squad leader
going in first, Phil going in last. Phil dogged the door shut, and
then the plane was rolling. It lifted off quickly, it's fat wings
using the airstream to best advantage. The plane climbed steadily,
pushing the soldiers against the floor with extra weight. More than
one wished for a window to look out of. There was no talking. Phil
checked his rifle carefully. He counted his rounds, he made sure
that the chamber and flues were clear, and that the generator
operational. There would be no chance to do that later. As he
checked his equipment, Phil had a chance to think about what he was
about to do. He had joined the military out of financial need, but
when the President had declared a national emergency because of the
drug problem, he had welcomed the action he saw as a result. Finally
he had a moral reason to be carrying a weapon. It was only when he
was transfered into a domestic area that he started to have doubts.
They had been in the air for about ten minutes when the leader
started giving last minute instructions to the men. Phil listened
intently, as did all the others, being especially careful not to
misunderstand their role. The squad leader spoke until the light
above the door came on. He then gave one last encouragement, then
shuffled over to the door. He pushed the door open, and tumbled out.
One by one the others followed, with Phil pausing to push the ALL
CLEAR button before jumping.
The squad leader struck the roof of the building with the force
of a small car. Unfortunately the roof was sound enough that it did
not break, removing some of the element of surprise. The next two
soldiers landed on the pavement in front of and behind the building,
however, effectively blocking escape. The next soldier, and Phil,
also landed on the roof. Phil managed to hit an air conditioning
unit, which broke through the roof, providing quick access. The
other two on the roof quickly followed Phil through the hole.
Phil and the other soldier, John, immediately secured the room.
It was a large studio, which hadn't been cleaned for quite some
time. While they were doing that, the squad leader pulled a thermal
scanner from his pocket and quickly searched for all the heat
sources in the building. The nearest one appeared to be directly
below them.
John took point, and Phil took up the rear, as the trio quickly
but quietly left the studio, and started down the hallway. They
froze when sounds could be heard from below, but the scanner did not
show any of the sources to be moving, so they continued.
At the end of the hallway they found dozens of brown paper
boxes. While Phil and John watched, as witnesses, the leader quietly
opened one. It was no surprise to Phil when the squad leader pulled
out a plastic bag full of white powder. The squad leader pulled a
small probe out of his belt, and sank it into the bag, but it was
more of a formality than anything else. Phil could recognize Slam
when he saw it. The drug was responsible for more death than any
other illegal drug since heroin, and much of it to innocent people.
Mere possesion of it was a capital crime under martial law. Four
people had been shot that morning for owning it. Phil hated it.
They reached the bottom of the stairs without making a sound,
the force fields around their bodies supporting them millimeters off
the concrete steps. The stair emptied into a hall, with two doors on
the left and one on the right. The scanner showed one large heat
source behind the first door to the left. Phil hugged the wall, just
to the left of the door, facing in, with John hugging the wall to
the right. The leader put away the scanner, readied his rifle,
switched his field to assist, and kicked.
The door was a cheap wooden one, and it gave way spectacularly.
The remnants of the flimsy barrier bounced across the room, waking
it's inhabitants. The man, probably the main pusher, yelled and
rolled across the woman, who screamed and clutched the blanket. The
squad leader covered them, and started to shout an order to freeze.
The drug dealer grabbed a small automatic off the night stand as he
fell from the bed. Just as Phil stepped into the room, the dealer
sat up, and aimed the gun at the squad leader.
The roar from the weapon blanked out all thought in the room.
Phil stepped back and aside, to get a clearer field of fire. John
did the same. Before either of them could really aim, however, the
shooting was over. The squad leader stood with his legs apart,
holding the railgun at his waist. The drug dealer was lying on the
floor, his body almost bisected by two gaping wounds. The bed was
lying in two pieces, the body of the woman mostly hidden in the
bloody blanket. The three stood there, frozen for a moment. The
woman's body slowly slid off the bed to the floor, on top of her
dead lover. The leader carefully approached, and checked for any
vital signs. There were none. It was probably just as well, thought
Phil. Better a quick killing here than to have to take them in and
have them shot.
The leader headed for the door. Phil turned and followed him.
The leader stepped into the hallway, and there was the sudden bang
of a large caliber pistol. The squad leader was pushed aside by the
force of the bullet encountering his force field. Phil stepped into
the doorway, rifle up, back against the frame. The attacker was two
doors down, on the right. He fired before Phil had a chance to aim.
The slug hit Phil's breastplate like a well-thrown fastball. The man
ducked back into the room. Phil didn't even really aim. He held the
trigger down, and tracked with the muzzle. The incandescent rounds
converted the cheap concrete of the walls into deadly shrapnel as
they punched fist-sized holes in the cement. Phil stopped after six
shots, and John scuttled down the hall, weapon ready, while Phil
held his position. John's expression let Phil know that there was no
longer any danger. Phil turned to the leader, who climbed to his
feet, a little embarrassed at having been caught.
While John checked the drug runner for life, Phil and the squad
leader checked each other for wounds. Then the squad leader broke
out the scanner again. It showed no definite targets. As they were
on the fourth floor, however, they still could not relax. They
reassumed their positions and started down again.
Phil had just started down the next flight of stairs when the
feeling he had dreaded hit him. It hit him after every successful
mission, and sometimes during a mission. It was terrible feeling
that he had just participated in someone's death. Sometimes it only
happened afterward, as in this case. What was worse was when he got
it beforehand, as he often did when testifying in the short,
formalized trials that had been held daily for the last four days,
where the soldiers were required to help convict the people who they
brought in from the drug raids. Phil had watched a seemingly endless
stream of people standing before that awful table, as he and his
fellows had told of drugs and weapons found on premises, found on
persons, found in cars. What was really awful was when they were
young, say his age, and when they were female.
The next floor was clear, as was the next. A heat source
appeared when they reached the ground floor, however. It seemed to
be coming from the basement. Cautiously John started down the stone
steps, the leader and Phil right behind. At the bottom there was a
locked door. John carefully picked it, and pushed it open. It opened
on a panorama of chemistry. Tubing, stainless steel, and chemicals
littered the large, well-lit room. As Slam was synthetic, it was
possible to produce it almost anywhere, with the right knowledge.
>From the looks of the setup, a little of the right knowledge was
soaking into the rugs four stories up.
The leader indicated a door on the other end of the room. It was
open, and the three slid in. Phil could see that the signal on the
scanner was a strong one. The hall they entered was short and
narrow, with a door at the end, and one on the right. The leader
indicated the far door, and John stepped up to it. He switched to
assist, and was about to kick it in when the leader tapped him on
the shoulder. As the leader waved John off, Phil could see that the
signal was so strong as to be indeterminant. The leader turned to
Phil, and motioned at the other door, which Phil was standing
beside. Phil's heart started pumping. The squad leader motioned for
Phil to do the honors. Phil switched on, readied his gun, and kicked.
In the gloom it was a moment before he saw the stubby tank. He
immediately recognized it as a water heater. The leader stared at it
for a moment from the doorway, then gave a grim chuckle. He turned
and started for the stairs, John behind him.
Phil stood there for a moment, grateful for the reprieve. He
started to turn to leave, and saw the foot.
It was mostly hidden under a rag. It was bare, and dirty. Phil's
heart started hammering. Suddenly everything seemed to become
crystal clear. He could hear the gentle rustling of some papers as
John knocked them to the floor on his way to the door. He could hear
the soft, electric hum of the water heater. It was almost as if
someone else was in his body, and he was just watching, as he leaned
forward and looked around behind the tank.
She couldn't have been more than nineteen. If the look on her
face hadn't been so terrified, she might have been pretty. She had
long blond hair, and blue eyes. And she was staring straight at him.
He opened his mouth to call his companions, but as he did she
silently mouthed a desperate "No", and the words froze in his mouth.
It was then that he saw the patch on her arm.
Slam is a strange drug. It has mild halucinogenic effects, as
well as being a powerful stimulant. There were rumors that any
sensation experienced while under it's influence was magnified a
hundred times. It was also very volatile, making it possible to
absorb the drug through the skin. The standard way to use it was to
sprinkle some on gauze, and tape the gauze to the skin with plastic
tape, allowing the user's body heat to evaporate the chemical. The
usual place to put the patch if one was a solitary user was the arm.
The girl was still staring at him, pleading. She knew her life
was in his hands, Phil could tell. He stared at the patch, thoughts
and images running through his head. The squad leader, knocked aside
by the pistol slug. A young pleading face, blood sprinkled on the
forehead, the eyes fixing, glazing. A friend, a comrade, lying on
the sidewalk, eyes up, as if to look at the small hole punched in
his forehead. The woman upstairs, her hair flying slightly upward as
the leader's rounds sprayed her internal organs on the rug beneath
her bed. Another pretty, young woman, crying beside her car, which
held the body of her young husband, an innocent bystander killed in
a drug war.
"Please," Phil heard her whisper, "I'll do anything, anything..."
Phil stared at her. He imagined her, handcuffed to the wooden
pole, her back to the four soldiers, aiming their rifles.
"Please, no..." He looked at her. She noticed the patch for the
first time, pulled it off.
"Phil?" John called from the stairs. Phil turned aside,
startled, then looked back quickly. She hadn't even moved. She had
her eyes closed. Phil realized that she could think of nothing she
could offer Phil for her life. Indeed, Phil realized, there was
nothing here, in her whole way of life, that was of value to anyone.
"Lieutenant, John! I think you'd better come here."
-Jim Owens
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SEVEN NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
*Through the Veil: Atros 5 Joseph Curwen
*Duty John White
Date: 021687 Dist: 274
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Welcome comrades to glorious issue VOL7N03 of electronicheski
magazine FSFnet, hot on heels of last very glorious issue.
Unfortunately, due to inexplicable and unforseen circumstances,
many readers did not receive their issues until several days after
the issue had been sent. Hopefully, the situation will not continue.
In this issue, you've really got a treat. For those of you who
have been following Atros, there is a pivotal installment in this
issue, and an excellent well-spun tale by John White. I'm sure you
will all enjoy the issue.
-'Orny' Liscomb
Through the Veil: Atros 5
Atros dreamed for the first time in many weeks. It had taken a
great effort of will to break the bonds of the nepenthe still
tainting his blood, but Atros had succeeded. Still, there was much
more to been done, much more to experience. Atros should not relax
now that he had overcome the first, and possibly the easiest, barrier.
In spite of this, for several moments Atros hesitated to open
his eyes. He needed more time to solidify his resolve. Atros let his
attention turn inward. He knew that he was dreaming. Something deep
in side him sensed it, but he also knew that this was a dream unlike
any other. His mind was clear, unclouded by the fog of uncertainty
or forgetfulness. Not only could Atros remember his identity as a
rogue scholar in Dargon, but Atros could also recall in detail a
hundred other lives that he had led in previous dreams. This
terrified him. He remembered the pain and loss, but he also
experienced a sense of detachment that helped support him against
the pull of insanity. His mind was very clear, his thoughts precise.
>From a solely inward inspection, Atros could be certain that he had
arrived where he had wanted to go. It was very difficult to believe
that this was only a dream.
Atros slowly opened his eyes. He lay on a vast floor composed of
huge, gray stone blocks. Above him was a high vaulted ceiling
sloping gradually down to the floor on two sides. The stone ceiling
bore criss-crossing arches whose shadows gave the chamber an eerie
organic feeling. There was a distant light in one direction and
darkness in the other. Atros raised himself to his feet before
noticing his clothing. While he bore the same body that had settled
to sleep in Pravo's house, he now wore a soft white robe belted with
a thick black ribbon. He felt very healthy and strong. There was no
trace of the fatigue or wounds that he had received in the street
fight only hours before.
Atros' course seemed obvious. Though he was suspicious of being
led, he set out in bare feet across the coarse stonework toward the
distant light. After several hundred yards, Atros could dimly
discern a figure standing before the light source. Impatient to
finish this destined meeting, Atros quickened his pace.
The figure was that of a healthy old man. His face was ridden
with the wrinkles of age but he stood tall and straight. He too was
dressed in purest white with a belt of black. Atros took a long look
at the man's smiling countenance then glanced down as he approached,
unwilling to face him.
"You have found what you have sought. Though you don't know what
that is," the man spoke mirthfully. His voice was deep, fatherly.
"I thought perhaps you were gods?" Atros suggested rather weakly.
"No, Atros, we are not gods. We are something other than that,"
He pronounced and then lapsed into quiet contemplation for long
moments. "Do you remember reading Fendle, Jung, Carstoe, Van Keltii,
Reinhelm, and the others?"
"...yes..." Atros replied in a hollow whisper.
"We are a fraction of Siger's world-soul, a splinter of Byron's
oversoul, an isolate disembodied collective subconsciousness. We are
a collective entity which germinated in minds such as your own but
has grown to surpass such boundaries," he paused for a moment.
"Well, at least partially. Your and our mind overlap in a region of
your subconscious, though only a small part of ourself is yourself
and vice versa. You understand that I use the pronoun 'we' only
because such constructs as 'I/we/you' are very awkward in your
language. I am an individual, a collection of individuals, and a
portion of your own mind. I am empowered to speak for each of these
entities. You have many questions which I now will attempt to answer."
"What are you called?" Atros' mind was struggling with these
ideas. He cast out this question to buy the time he needed to adjust.
"We could ask the same of you. At this instant you could
rightfully answer to half a thousand names, which you remember
bearing during some part of your existence. Yet none of those names
adequately describes the individual that you are now. We are much
the same. We have both too many names and no suitable name, but if
you prefer, you may call us Morpheus as that might best describe us
from your point of view." Morpheus' tone seemed almost too friendly.
"What is this place?" Atros asked. He had decided that if he had
to meet his maker, he did not wish to show weakness. And yet, he was
still confused. Too much seemed to be happening too quickly to
follow. Perhaps, he should have waited until he was better prepared
for all of this.
"A creation based on patterns deep within your own mind. We have
gone to the trouble of making everything appear as closely as
possible to the way you inwardly expected it to appear. Even my own
appearance is drawn from your own imagination. We chose to craft
forms that would be meaningful to you, literally and symbolically.
We wished to convey our message with the least amount of confusion
or fright." Morpheus spoke without gestures.
"Then you can eavesdrop on my thoughts?" Atros asked suddenly
feeling vulnerable. He sought to conceal his fright by straightening
his shoulders, raising his head, and peering deeply into the black
eyes of the man/enigma before him. In the long verbal pauses, Atros
could hear only the sound of his own breathing.
"On that portion of your mind that is part of us already, yes.
With the rest, let us just say that we can do a fair job of
anticipating your mind," Morpheus answered meeting Atros' glare.
"What do you want of me?" Atros asked trying to sound defiant.
"Very simply, we would like you to join us. To allow us to
experience a greater portion of your mind and to allow you to
explore our being as well. We wish to live with you, teach you, and
work with you. We have need of you and we have much to offer in
return." Morpheus' tone was even and his voice smooth. He portrayed
no emotion except fatherly concern and fatherly strength.
"What do you offer?" Atros was tempted to sneer but he realized
that it probably wouldn't be convincing.
"Power, knowledge, a near infinite number of new experiences,
and an end to your loneliness," Morpheus offered smiling. His
mention of loneliness struck Atros as a blow.
Atros spoke before he was fully recovered from this, "You must
know that what you imply frightens me. The alienness of it...the
loss of individuality."
"Individuality will still be possible in a fuller, more
integrated sense," Morpheus pronounced with a glistening polish.
"Integrated individuality? How can that be possible?"
"You are accustom to thinking of life and consciousness in
discrete organic units. The separation between souls is much less
distinct. Yes, your consciousness would lose its boundaries but the
center of your consciousness, its seat, can preserve its
individuality untarnished," Morpheus replied.
"After all that you have done to me...the torment...the anguish,
do you seriously believe that I will join you willingly?"
"Perhaps we know you better than you know yourself. In time, you
may see things differently. Until then, you need not commit yourself."
"But why? Why have you led me into cycles of love and loss, fear
and hatred?" Atros' shield of cool intellect was cracking.
"We have tried to explain that. You remember the dream of the
forge?" Atros confirmed this with a nod. Morpheus' voice took on a
lecturing quality. "Pain and suffering are the only true sources of
wisdom and strength. Think of what you have undergone as a
necessary, if painful, initiation."
"An initiation I did not chose to undergo," Atros accused.
"No one truly chooses their role in life. We believe free will
to be be even more of a fallacy than it obviously appears."
"You believe? You do not know?" he said with a touch of mocking.
"We are not omniscient. Not nearly so. Proof of the existence of
absence of free will is far beyound our means. We accept our
beliefs, and in fact all our knowledge, as provisional.
Interestingly, though we doubt the existence of free will, we
recognize the force of will as the source of our power. If one
considers it, this is not contradictory. But even if it were, we are
not above a bit of hypocrisy if such a stance is the only pragmatic
solution." Morpheus remained unresponsive to Atros' jibes.
"How do I know that everything you've said isn't a lie and your
proposals a trap?" Atros proposed.
Morpheus' expression suddenly changed. He burst into a heavy,
haunting laughter that echoed through the hollow chamber. Atros'
anger grew with this obvious mocking, but he kept silent until
Morpheus abated and spoke more, "Excellent! We have crafted you well."
"You desired cynicism and distrust?" Atros asked angrily.
"No, we desired that you be wise enough to continually question
and doubt, so you can be an independent thinker. We do not need
slaves. We have enough of those and we can always fashion more
Gilmans. We need equals...partners." Morpheus used his eloquence in
an attempt to soothe Atros.
"You could still be lying to me," replied Atros.
"Yes, Atros, we would delude or misdirect you to obtain own
desires and we have done a bit of that in your past, but now we are
truthful. Though we realize that what we say might frighten you,
truthfulness now is best in the long run."
"You can see the future?" Atros asked incredulous.
"Only its possibilities. But that is usually enough."
"You still have not given me sufficient reason to join you."
"You are already with us. You have been so since birth. Your
subconscious has always been with us. Much of what your
consciousness is comes from your association with us. We are lodged
deeply in your being."
"Then I can escape you only in death," Atros stated in a whisper.
"No, Atros. We will go beyound that barrier with you. There is
no escape. What happens between us is destined to be. It cannot be
avoided." There was just the slightest hint of sadness and regret in
Morpheus' voice.
"I could keep increasing my dosage of nepenthe. I could evade
the dreams," Atros suggested clutching at faint hopes.
"But surely you realize that these are more than just dreams.
Already it intrudes on your waking life. How long will you be able
to withstand attacks like the one you experienced last night?"
"What do you know of that!?!" Atros' anger flared. Only reason
prevented him from bodily attacking Morpheus.
"Calm yourself, Atros. Remember that it was our servant Gilman,
whom we sent to watch over your safety, that came to your rescue."
"Yes, that is true," Atros admitted.
"Many more such attacks are possible. It seems your connection
with us has been discovered by an enemy of ours. It seeks to hurt us
through harming you or perhaps converting you to their cause."
"What is this enemy?"
"It is a collective consciousness much like ourself but slightly
weaker and younger. We are rivals for the same resources."
"And it has attacked me and Darla because of you?" Atros accused.
"Our enemy is a bit irrational and blood thirsty. It will
continue harassing until you until it succeeds or grows bored. It is
a threat to our continued existence and growth as well. We need your
help in combating it as surely as you need us."
"How could I aid you in fighting such a thing?" Atros asked.
"We will teach you how to use your undiscovered talents. This
instruction comes with no obligation. Do you consent to let us teach
you to defend yourself against our mutual enemy?"
Atros hesitated a long while. But his mind kept returning to the
a single question: How else could he protect Darla and himself?
Finally, on this basis he decided, "Provided that I may withdraw
from these lessons at any time I choose."
"Of course. Even if you will not join us now, we have no desire
that you be killed or enveloped by our enemy. Go now. Rest. Prepare
your mind, your lessons will begin in several days." With Morpheus'
pronouncement, the scene began to quickly fade. Atros began the slow
return to wakefulness.
-Joseph Curwen
Duty
Morion caught himself staring at the moon again, and turned his
attention back to the roll of parchment on his desk. He snorted in
disgust when he realized that he had read the first paragraph at
least four times without understanding it. He hated having to wade
through legal documents. They were written in the most obscure and
lengthy terms so that lawyers were never done out of a job by
someone with the ability to read. He trusted the lawyer he employed,
but he refused to sign anything until he understood exactly what he
was signing. Elaref, his lawyer, had explained over and over the
basic terminology, but Morion was a fighter, not a scholar, and it
took time and practice to master those knotted words. Grimacing and
steeling himself for the effort, he went back to the thick parchment
with the intent to get through it this time. It was the last one he
had to sign and seal.
Half an hour later, he was startled out of a reverie concerning
the signet ring he wore on his left forefinger and how he had come
to bear it by a knock on his chamber door. He glanced at the scroll
and realized with dismay that he had only read to the second of six
paragraphs. Rolling it up to do tomorrow, he said, "Come!", and
turned his attention to the door.
He had been expecting his seneschal, Riachon, calling him to his
late and probably cold supper. The water clock in Morion's study
worked perfectly, and Riachon hated it when people ignored
appointments, even dinner ones. His seneschal always made sure that
Morion got dinner if he didn't come down by himself. But, he made no
guarantee as to its condition.
The figure that stood limned in the torchlight of the hall was
not the middle-aged and somewhat portly one of Riachon. The tall,
slim, young man that stood there was wearing the official tabbard of
the Falcon Herald of Baranur, colored gold and green with a blue
falcon displayed in the center. His long black hair was held back
with a silver circlet bearing one small stone in the center of his
forehead. An amethyst of that deep and pure color was very rare. It
identified him beyond doubt as Coridan the Falcon Herald. The stone
had been a gift of the Queen when Coridan was given the Tabbard, the
Staff, and the Keys to the Great Books of Arms upon ascending to the
position of Royal Herald of Baranur. Coridan was not dressed in
riding gear and Morion wondered how long the herald had been in the
castle before knocking on his door.
"Castle Pentamorlo is honored in receiving you, Master Coridan.
Please, enter and have a seat. Shall I have some wine or other
refreshment brought for you?" asked Morion.
"Thank you, Baron. Perhaps a little of that wonderful Huulon
wine, if you kept any for yourself. I must thank you again for the
wagonload you gave me - it is the best wine I have ever tasted."
Morion stepped over to the dumbwaiter, wrote his wishes on the
slate inside, and sent it down to the kitchens. "Come, Master
Coridan, let us sit before the fireplace and be a little more
comfortable." The young herald settled himself while Morion poked up
the fire until it was roaring. Little bells in the dumbwaiter
jingled, and Morion retrieved the tray bearing two crystal goblets
and a cool bottle of the golden wine of the type that he had given
to Coridan as an Elevation gift.
After he had poured the wine and settled into a chair across a
small table from the herald, Morion said, "What brings you to my
school, Coridan?"
Coridan sipped his wine and smacked his lips. "As good as ever,
Baron. Ah, but my news. Well, it seems that the King needs your help."
Morion's ice-grey eyes narrowed, and his mouth compressed into a
thin, hard line. He had anticipated Coridan's words, echoing as they
did almost countless other pleas from the Crown he had received
month after month for years. But, the King had never sent so
important a person as the Falcon Herald to ask his futile question.
"For what?" Morion demanded. "He has an army, and a whole legion of
instructors. I wouldn't teach his soldiers anyway. What could he
possibly want that I would give him?"
Coridan looked at Morion, his aquamarine eyes seemingly wide and
innocent. He said, "He needs your help, Baron. It IS your duty."
Morion shouted, "No it is not!" and slammed his goblet down on
the table between them hard enough to snap the thin stem and shatter
the base. He looked at the broken goblet in his hand. With a
muttered, "Sreth!" between clenched teeth, he hurled the bell of the
goblet into the fire where it smashed loudly.
He stood and whirled around behind his chair, an angry scowl
marring his face. Less loudly, but no less angrily, he said, "When
is Haralan going to understand that I pay fealty to no one. My lands
are my own, not held in fief for the Crown. You know as well as I
that I and my family received special dispensation from King Nun as
reward for a personal service I rendered him. That parchment was
sealed in turn by Arenth, his brother, when Nun died and Arenth
received the Crown, and then by Haralan, Arenth's son and present
King. That third seal made the dispensation permanent and
irrevocable. My lands are my own and my family's, with no
requirement for fealty to anyone. The taxes I pay, I pay out of
courtesy. I owe the King or Crown nothing. And no one calls me Baron
- I gave back the six-pearled coronet to Nun, to Arenth, and to
Haralan when they each tried to give me that title, with all the
strings that go with it. I will not help!" His knuckles were white
on the back of the chair by the time he finished.
Coridan bore Morion's outburst with the air of one expecting it.
He patiently waited while the older man ranted about the severing of
his feudal obligations to Crown and King, granted and affirmed by
the past three Kings. He knew about Morion's refusal to bear the
identifying coronet of a Baron, but a King's award could not be so
easily denied. The fighter had refused the obligation of further
fealty to the Crown by refusing the circlet and title, but Coridan
was a herald, and titles were important to heralds - especially
acknowledging with respect one who bore a title, at least on paper.
When Morion was finally done, the herald said, "I must apologize
for not making myself clear, my Lord. The duty that the King calls
upon is not that of vassal to liege, but a duty that you, yourself,
have taken on - the responsibility for those you have trained in
this thriving school of yours.
"Reports have been coming in for several months now of trouble
to the south. At first, the news was of what seemed to be an
unconnected series of outlaw raids on caravans and other travelers.
But, the attacks were not robbery. In every attack the travelers
were killed to the last draft animal and all of the posessions were
burned or broken and left behind.
"Then, three months ago came word of the first village
destroyed. As with the caravan raids, everyone in the village was
killed, and the buildings were set afire. The villagers didn't have
a chance.
"The attacks have been getting more and more frequent, from two
a month to almost one a week. King Haralan has had legions of the
army in the area, but the outlaws attack randomly and the King has
had no success at all in even spotting them.
"However, our best seers have located the outlaws' hideout. In
the valley where the Zyaran river flows out of the Skywall Mountains
there is a vast lake that Zyaran feeds and flows from. On an island
in the lake's center there is now a fortress without window or door,
nor is there a bridge or causeway that links land to fort. Even
knowing the location of the outlaws' stronghold is no help to the
King for the island is unassailable. Also, the leader controls a
magic that is able to transport his men and himself directly to the
scene of their attack. The few surviving observers have likened this
magic to a giant floating mirror that the outlaws ride into, but not
out the other side.
"The leader of these outlaws names himself BlueSword, and we
have learned that he is a former pupil of yours. Two weeks ago in
the ruins of a small village he had just sacked, the King's men
found a man, cruelly mutilated but still alive. He bore a message
branded into his flesh. It was a challenge. BlueSword wants to fight
you, Morion, and he intends to kill you, and then to destroy Baranur
little by little. King Haralan asked me to deliver this news to you,
in the hopes that I would at least get to your ear before your ire
got me thrown out. It seems that he did choose the right messenger,
although just barely."
Coridan's open smile eased the sheepish tension in Morion, and
the teacher returned to the comfortable side of the chair and sat
down. He sat silently thinking for a time, then said, "I must
apologize for my outburst, Coridan. I was just fed up with Haralan's
incessant petitioning of my talents to 'mold his fighting men into
an unbeatable force.' I...ah, souls and swords, I just never
expected this of Kyle. Something is strange here." He was silent for
several moments more, trying to fit his memories of Kyle, who had
been nicknamed BlueSword while learning here, to what he had just
been told. Finally, he remembered his duties as host, and said,
"Please accept the hospitality of my house, Master Coridan. If you
can stay until lunch tomorrow, perhaps we can talk further, but now
I must think on this. Thank you for bringing me the news. If I don't
see you tomorrow, you can assure the King that I will respond to
BlueSword's challenge to the best of my abilities." Both men rose,
and shook hands, and Morion walked the herald back down to the Main
Hall. Grabbing a platter full of dinner leftovers, Morion then went
back to his study to think about Kyle, now known as BlueSword.
Once again seated comfortably in the chair before the fire,
Morion idly nibbled at the food on the tray, sipped from the leather
flagon of mead he had brought up with the tray, and stared into the
fire remembering Kyle. Young, mid-twenties, of an age with Coridan,
fair haired, open-faced, very likeable and pleasant. He had come to
the school with just enough money, mostly in small denominations, to
cover the entry fee. But, he had exhibited plenty of raw talent and
Morion had accepted him readily. He had taken to training like a
goat to a mountain side, rapidly climbing the ladder of ability that
Morion privately used to grade his students. In three and a half
years, he had learned all he wished to, and had graduated with
appropriate honors. He had left a little more than a year ago, and
now it seemed that he had turned into some kind of monster bent on
death and destruction. That just didn't sound like him.
BlueSword. A nickname given to him by his fellow students, and
for good reason. He had painted the blade of every one of his wooden
and rattan practice swords a deep, almost purple blue. He didn't
tell anyone why until he passed the test of beating Morion himself
using a large shield and a long sword against the teacher's single
short sword. At the simple ceremony after dinner that night, Kyle
had brought out a magnificently wrought sword, said it had been in
his family for generations. It had a simple yet elegant silver and
gold hilt, with gently curved quillions and a large polished ball
for a pommel. It also had a beautifully blued blade; a deep,
metallic blue that rivaled the twilight sky. From then on, BlueSword
wasn't a joke any more - Kyle had earned it, and carried it proudly.
It bothered Morion that this should fall to him to resolve. He
had no worries about beating Kyle BlueSword on the field. Morion's
skills had been earned over long and hard years of practice and use.
Kyle's months at the school and the months after could not have made
him a match for the former soldier. Except for the thing that had
turned Kyle into a madman. Morion almost fell asleep staring into
the fire and wondering on that point, his mind circling the problem
endlessly. Riachon finally came up and herded him off to bed,
clucking absently about the leftovers that Morion had wasted by not
eating what he had taken to his room.
After his morning workout and several sparring sessions with his
pupils, Morion sought out Coridan and they talked over a light
lunch. The herald said, "The note BlueSword left named a time and
place for the duel. 'MeredsDay of LastSummer' is what it said. What
might MeredsDay be, if you know?"
"Kyle's people have many gods and they name each day of a month
by one or another of them. MeredsDay is the 15th or 16th day of the
month, depending on the month. LastSummer is next month by their
reconning. Not much time - just a little over two weeks. Where?"
"The east end of the lake that holds his island. He wants you to
come alone. Don't." Coridan's face was sincere, and even a little
apprehensive as he gave the teacher his advice.
"I'll leave tomorrow. Two weeks leaves little leeway to travel
so far, but Staarion is a fine horse. We'll make it, and hopefully
with enough time to rest up a little before the battle. I will go,
and hope that his honor hasn't been lost along with his sanity."
"Fare well, Sir Morion. May all of Kyle's gods smile on you, as
well as all of Baranur."
Morion just smiled as he went to talk to his two assistant
teachers, to tell them of their impending responsibilities. Morion
was a man who believed in himself and little beyond that. The gods
had little or no place in the reality he perceived. Still, he was
glad the young herald wished him well. He would need all the luck he
could muster if there was more than Kyle behind the upcoming duel.
Nine days of perfect riding weather ended in a thunderstorm so
fierce that it forced Morion off the road. Huddling in a makeshift
camp under some trees, using Staarion for the little shelter the
horse could provide, he spent the balance of the day, and all night,
soaking wet and miserable.
The next day, he tried to ride on through the still hard rain.
But just before noon another heavy thunderstorm forced him into camp
again. Morion began to worry about having lost two days so far. He
fervently hoped that the morrow would be drier.
It was, but not by much. The rain still fell, hard and fast, but
the violence of the thunderstorm had passed. It was not traveling
weather, but Morion had no choice. The rain would slow him down to
less than half his normal speed, and that wasn't enough time to make
it to the lake. Morion mounted Staarion and, pushing the animal to
the limits of safe movement, rode off trough a grey-walled world of
chill wetness.
Around mid-morning Morion suddenly had company in his wet and
short-horizoned world. The strange horse and rider loomed up out of
the hissing raindrops to his left and stopped athwart the road,
halting Morion's slow progress.
The horse was larger and so captured his attention first. Once
it did, he stopped calling it a horse. There was something
distinctly goatish about the mount - the cloven hooves, the tufted
tail, the ears, and the little growth of hair under its chin that
gave a name to the way some men wore their beards. It was easily as
large as a horse, with the glossy fine hide of a horse as well. And
then, Morion saw the flickering of a white, horn-shaped flame that
hovered over the beast's forehead. Unicorn.
Immediatly, the fighter's attention was drawn to the rider. She
sat tall in her saddle, back stiff and straight. Her face was turned
toward Morion, appraising him as he examined her. She had long hair
that seemed in the uncertain light to be pale blue, bound back by a
thin copper wire around her head that bore a small, dangling
ornament at each temple. Her face was long and thin, much like the
rest of her, and her eyes were the strangest color. Red, not like
the washed-out pink of an albino, but a deep, fiery red, like a fine
ruby. Her nose was long, her mouth small and almost lipless. Her
long throat was hidden by a thin, silklike scarf that matched the
rest of her clothing. She rested her hands on the high cantle of her
saddle; there didn't seem to be any halter or reins on the unicorn.
Her long, slim legs came out from under her skirts and went into
soft high leather boots, which rested in large stirrups. A flowing
cape attached to her tunic by copper buttons reached down her back
and across her mount's whithers. And, most amazingly, she seemed
totally dry.
She opened her mouth to speak and strange, music-like sounds
came out. But, the song of her words did not fit the movements of
her small mouth. When the song reached his ears, words he could
understand popped up in his mind.
The words in his head said, "The Dance of Ahar'yKinel enters its
second mode. Thyerin's webs have drawn you into your proper place in
the pattern of the Dance, which will end with the freeing of a
spirit too long held captive, and the end of an evil that could
unmake this world."
With the words came an understanding of their meaning, so that
Morion 'knew' that Thyerin the Weaver was a god from a pantheon he
had never heard of. Apparently, he had been drawn into some kind of
scheme by this Thyerin, a plan that the god and this woman named a
Dance. As the woman spoke/sang, the magic of her words enabled
Morion to almost see the pattern she mentioned the way she saw it,
like a half-finished piece of cloth on a loom, with part of its
pattern finished and showing, but the rest of it hidden in the
strands that would go into its making.
However beautiful the imagery, Morion resented the implication
that he was subject to the whim of an idea some people called a god.
Also, he was being delayed even further in his mission by this
woman, and he had no idea why she had stopped him. He said, "My good
Lady, while I would at some other time love to discuss this fantasy
of yours, I am late for an important meeting and have no time to
waste on mythical gods and the many ways stories are told about
their intervention in mortals' lives. If you would pardon me?" He
put his heels to Staarion to ease his mount forward, but his horse
refused to budge.
"Your belief in Thyerin does not affect his reality. Everyone
believes in something, even you, Sir Morion. The code of honor you
serve is as much a god to you as Thyerin is to those who follow him
under that, or any of his many other names. Even believing in
nothing is believing in something.
"I am named Kimmentari, and I know of your appointment. It is
part of the Dance, the meeting between you and Kyle BlueSword. I
have come to tell you three things. First, Kyle and his raiders will
attack the village of Belliern, which is just over a day away if you
shift your path to the east from here. Your King has been informed
of this by another agent and has sent two companies of the Army to
meet you there. If you meet Kyle there, and defeat him, the King's
soldiers will take care of the rest of his outlaws. If you wait
until the time and place that he has chosen, then there is no place
in the pattern for your victory.
"Still, wherever you choose to meet BlueSword, beware. He is not
the man you knew. Do not take for granted the skill you believe him
to possess. Also, you must kill him. The path that he has taken he
cannot be delivered from except in death. Do not let your former
friendship blind you to what must be done.
"And, lastly, when he is dead, remove from his left wrist the
bracer he wears and place it upon your own left wrist. For a short
time thereafter, you will be able to enter his citadel as he did
through a dimensional lens. Once within, you must find a
silver-bound crystal circlet that he had made for himself. It is
unfortunate that he never had a chance to use it, but it has a
further purpose. When you have the circlet, you must take it to
Dargon and deliver it unto one of your former pupils, the one named
Je'lanthra'en. She, too, has a part in this Dance and the circlet
will be of immeasurable aid to her.
"Once that is accomplished, your part in the Dance will be over,
and you can go back to your ways of not believing. From here, the
choice is yours. If you do not go to Belliern...that, too, is in the
pattern, and we will have to get someone else to play your part.
Farewell, Lord Sir Morion. I shall see you again. Until then..." And
she rode swiftly back into the greyness and vanished.
Morion stared after the strange woman for quite some time. He
couldn't quite believe the matter-of-fact way she had dictated the
next couple of days of his life to him, giving him the option to
reject her counsel but expecting him to follow it. Long after she
was gone, he still sat and thought, already so wet that he could sit
in the rain for days and not get wetter. Finally he decided to heed
her advice. More for practical reasons than anything else. He
suspected that Kyle would have something devious planned for their
proposed meeting on the shore of his lake. Even if he didn't, and
Morion succeeded in killing him, there would still be his outlaws to
contend with. If Kyle were truly going to attack Belliern, then
meeting him there with the King's men would be the smartest move he
could make.
He urged Staarion into motion again, and rode on thoughtfully
through the driving rain.
Morion propped himself comfortably against the lip of Belliern's
public well and looked around. The village was deserted and had been
since the King's men had arrived to tell them of BlueSword's coming
attack. Not a single resident of the village had elected to stay.
The infamy of BlueSword had spread swiftly, and no one wanted to
challenge it.
The village square, which should have been the busiest spot in
Belliern, was lifeless except for Morion and a few hidden sentries.
The shops that faced the square were closed and shuttered. The four
main spokelike streets were empty, as were the alleys that poked
between shops around the perimeter of the square. The day was
overcast, grey and cool for the end of summer. A gentle wind stirred
the dust on the ground and the sparse brown and green grass
scattered about the square. There were very few natural noises to
break the unnatural stillness of the village.
The two companies of the King's army were hidden in strategic
places around the village waiting for the attack that would occur
sometime that day according to Commander Rian's information.
Sentries were posted to carry information on Kyle's coming to the
ready soldiers. The waiting was the hardest part for them, of
course. Even after two days of good sleep and fair food at the
village's largest inn, waiting in hiding for an uncertain attack was
wearing on the nerves and body. They were at the mercy of Kyle whom,
if this day went right, they would never have to worry about again.
Morion sighed, and settled himself a little more comfortably on
the well's wide edge. He had resigned himself to this combat over
the days since he had diverted to Belliern. He had answered or
pushed away any hesitations and questions in his mind about whether
this was the right thing to do. As he drew his sword and settled it
across his knees, he thought about his reluctance to kill. He picked
up the whetstone and soft cloth lying beside him and began to hone
the blade that had been his livelihood for many years. He had done
his share of killing, both in the service of the King and on his own
later when he became a mercenary. And somewhere in that time, he had
become tired of killing. So often there had been no wrong or right
in the battles he had fought, just a desire for land, property, or
blood, and a sum of money to buy swords to fulfil that desire. It
had eventually become more than he was willing to deal with, and he
had packed away his blade forever. But, the inactivity was almost as
bad as the killing, so he had opened his school, trying to instill
in his students more than just the ability to destroy. As part of
his philosophy of 'restrained violence,' he tried to teach when it
was right to fight. He had finally convinced himself that this was
such a time and that he wasn't engaging in this duel for himself.
Kyle was destroying whole communities and killing innocent,
defenseless people. Someone had to stop him, for the innocents' sake
at least. Kyle had issued the challenge, and Kyle would have to face
the consequences.
Polishing and sharpening his sword calmed Morion. His world
narrowed to that blade and the coming fight. The simple activity
pushed moralizing out of his mind and got him ready to fight, made
his body and mind one. Soon, he was again the fighting machine of
his sellsword days and ready to duel Kyle BlueSword.
Shortly after noon, Morion felt a tingle, faint and subtle, move
like a wave across the square. He looked up, putting his polishing
materials down, and turned his gaze to the east-facing main road of
Belliern. He saw a thin grey line draw itself from the ground up to
ten feet in the air. It broadened into a thin, pointed-ended oval
which hovered for a moment and then twisted strangely,
eye-wrenchingly, like a lens of glass seen first edgewise then
turned broadside to vision. It twisted until it was a large grey
circle that filled the near end of the street. With a shiver and a
ripple, it flashed a bright silver, mirrorlike but reflecting nothing.
After another ripple brushed across the its surface, Morion saw
a shape begin to bulge out of the lower portion of it. It looked
like a man walking through a sheet hung on a line to dry. The
surface of the mirror stretched around the advancing form, then,
silently broke away from it to reveal a man dressed in fancy, fluted
blue plate armor with a lightning bolt on the breastplate that shone
like real gold. He wore no helm unlike his men who were armored in
ganbezons of leather. They were popping out of the mirror behind
their leader and forming into ragged ranks around him.
Even though the leader's head and face were uncovered, Morion
had some difficulty identifying Kyle. If not for the sword he held
naked in his right hand, Morion could not have been certain at all.
Kyle's face was darker, coarser, with a scraggly beard that altered
the planes of his face. There was something subtly twisted about the
face; something that made Morion think that perhaps Kyle had been
driven insane. And, the man's eyes glowed with a pale green light
plainly visible in the muted daylight. Only the sword assured him
that the leader was Kyle - it was the heirloom that Kyle was so
proud of.
Kyle BlueSword stepped through the dimensional lens into his
latest target, Belliern. Kyle immediatly noticed that the village
square was deserted but for one. He recognized the black armor and
the stylised gryphon on the breastplate. He recognized the black
helm with the silver decoration around the eye-slits that the man
was lifting from the edge of the village's well and settling on his
head. Lord Sir Morion of Pentamorlo, his former teacher.
He laughed, and said, "Ah, Teacher! You want to duel now? Fine,
just fine! Men, you know your jobs. Get to it while I take care of
this fool. I'll join you in a minute or two. Hah hah!" He waited a
moment to watch his outlaws slipping away in twos and threes down
the lanes of the village, destruction and mayhem on their minds.
After setting the lens to vanish, he walked to the square to meet
Morion. Kyle was as confident of victory as he sounded even without
the little surprises he had set up for the pre-planned duel.
Morion walked calmly to a position midway between the well and
the now vanishing mirror, ignoring Kyle's bluster. He watched the
outlaws moving away into the village. He hoped that the sentries had
alerted the soldiers. However, that was in the hands of Commander
Rian. He had a duel to fight. He located a level patch of dirt and
planted his feet firmly, shifting them slightly until he felt the
feedback of solidity that made him almost part of the ground. It was
a part of his favorite and best technique, the Rooted Form, a
fighting style that made the fighter immobile, rooted to the ground;
a rock in the face of his opponents. Morion lifted his blade in a
loose two-handed guard and waited, ready for anything.
Kyle strolled toward Morion, sword held loosely, point down, in
one hand. But, barely ten paces from his former teacher, Kyle
blurred into action faster than an eye could track. In an instant he
brought his sword up into a guarded attack position and began to run
at Morion, full speed from the first step.
He moved much faster than Morion thought possible. It was all he
could do to wrench himself from his rooted stance, move his sword
between himself and Kyle's blade, and dodge as Kyle barreled through
the space where Morion had been standing. Morion whirled around,
shuffled his feet until he found the feedback of the proper stance
and faced Kyle again. He was more prepared this time for the rush
that Kyle was already mounting. Part of the Rooted Form involved
stopping and engaging an opponent to keep him from darting in and
out and around one. With a skill that almost surprised Morion
himself, he leaned into Kyle's attack, feeling the strength of his
stance pour up his legs and into his body. With a darting sword and
a braced body, he let Kyle crash into him. Morion watched as the
speeding man simply bounced off of the front that he put up, the
inertia of Kyle's rush absorbed and syphoned off.
Kyle recovered with the same lightning swiftness that he had
charged with, and soon Morion was encased in a web of flashing blue
light from the multitude of blows that rained down at him from
Kyle's impossibly fast arm. It took all of his skill to keep himself
from being wounded. Morion had done his best to eliminate any
prejudging of this contest by what he knew of Kyle's skill and
ability because of what the strange woman Kimmentari had said. Now
he had to rethink his moves in terms of this incredible speed. He
gradually came to realize that he could not possibly defeat Kyle if
he stayed in one place. He knew that it was just a matter of time
until his reflexes didn't respond fast enough to block one of Kyle's
blows. The speed of BlueSword's attack left him no time to riposte.
The smile on Kyle's face told Morion that the outlaw had him
right where he wanted him, almost as if he had expected Morion to
use the Rooted Form and knew that it was futile. Morion decided to
use a change in tactics to surprise Kyle to perhaps gain an advantage.
He gradually eased his feet free, surprised by the increased
difficulty he now had blocking Kyle. He hid any differences from his
opponent, making it seem that he intended to stay Rooted until he
was killed. He gathered his resources into himself, storing them up
until he felt he could manage a fast burst of action, blocking with
more and more economy he hoped would seem to Kyle like weariness.
Finally ready, Morion sped into action. Judging his moment to
the half-second, he dodged to the left under an almost-patterned
blow. In the slight hesitation Kyle made when his blade didn't meet
the expected resistance, Morion was able to bring his blade around
and under Kyle's defence. He swung with all of the force in his body
and connected with the armor under Kyle's right arm and dented it
enough to at least bruise if not break some ribs. Continuing the
motion smoothly, Morion slipped out of range and took up a light,
shifting stance, ready to move, dodge, run, or whatever else was
necessary to defeat BlueSword.
Something was wrong. Kyle wasn't charging after Morion. He stood
and turned just enough to look at his former teacher. Morion noticed
that the swarthy look and the glowing eyes were gone, as if a mask
had lifted, leaving a very bewildered, weary and recognizable Kyle.
Kyle took a hesitant step toward Morion, and said, "H-help m..."
The return of the mask cut off his plea, and once again Kyle was the
dark-skinned, evil-eyed man who had walked through the mirror. "Good
try, teacher," he said. "First blood to you. I didn't think you
smart enough to leave your stance even when it was killing you. But,
you still have no chance of victory. I shall not be caught off
guard, and I am better than you! Diiiieeeeee!!" He charged with the
same speed as the first time, not even slightly slower. It was as
though the minutes of fighting hadn't tired Kyle in the least.
Although feeling the fatigue that Kyle was not, Morion was more
ready this time than before. He spun and swung with Kyle's rush,
moving with the midnight-blue armored man so that he didn't have the
time to turn and run again before Morion's sword was there to be
blocked. Kyle attacked in a flurry of blows that Morion blocked. Now
that he wasn't hemmed in by his useless stance, Morion recognized
that there was more speed than skill in Kyle's attack. There was
also a fatal tendency to attack in a pattern. As he and Kyle fought
back and forth across the village square, Morion grew more and more
certain that, given half a chance and enough time to discern the
pattern in Kyle's attack, he could win.
Neither dueler noticed when the fighting in the rest of the
village reached the square. The King's men had reacted swiftly to
the advent of the outlaws, ambushing and slaughtering the small
groups as they searched the village for something to kill. Of the
original two and a half score only ten survived the initial attacks.
With the advantage of more experience in guerilla tactics than the
soldiers, the outlaws, though few in numbers, managed to take a high
toll on the King's men as they slipped through the alleys and houses
of the village. Finally the outlaws were driven into the square
itself by the numbers of King's men alone. There, one by one, they
fought and died, outnumbered but not surrendering.
Morion finally got his chance. He backed Kyle up against the
well with a flurry of hacking blows that seemed wild but were not.
Using every trick he knew to keep Kyle from breaking away from him,
he studied Kyle's pattern, even going so far as to take a hit or two
to judge the man's reaction. When he was sure, he made his final play.
He attacked, and Kyle followed up as predicted. Another
half-dozen blows, all as planned. One more, two, three, and - as
Kyle's blade came up from terce in a backhand return, Morion moved.
His blade went down, forcing BlueSword's to slide up and out. His
blade came up from the same place and angle that his opponent's had.
It caught the man in now-dusty blue just under the lower edge of his
breastplate, cutting deeply. He recovered the blade quickly, and,
while Kyle was staggered with the first blow, he swung with all his
might, leaving himself dangerously open, and struck home deep into
Kyle's left side, his blade piercing the armor and sinking deep into
Kyle's chest.
Kyle's face twisted even more as he grimaced in pain. For a few
moments, there was nothing left of Kyle's features, but rather
something out of a nightmare. Fangs, horns, pointed ears, excessive
hair, no eyes but rather twin orbs of flickering green light nestled
under its brows; the green light that had shone through Kyle's eyes.
In a voice that was deep and gravelly, and very loud, the thing
said, "You have won, mortal. But, I never forget. You will not be so
lucky next time. My time is limited on this plane now, but I shall
have my revenge. Beware, Sir Morion. Beware!" And, the alien
features faded leaving the now pale but familiar features of Kyle.
Kyle's body sagged, knees buckling, sword falling from nerveless
fingers. Morion released his own blade, still wedged in Kyle's
chest, and the body dropped lower until he was sitting propped
against the rim of the well. Morion dropped into a crouch beside
Kyle, bewildered by what had driven Kyle to this pass, and saddened
by his friend and pupil's imminent death. He briefly wondered if
Kyle could be saved, but from the amount of blood that was pooling
on the ground below him from the two wounds he had received, Morion
knew that Kyle was as good as dead.
Kyle's eyes fluttered open, and their grey-brown irises locked
on Morion. Weakly, he said, "M-Morion. Th-thank you. Really, thank
you. Y-you have released me. Th-thank y-y-y..." He slumped down,
eyes shutting again, not yet dead but not strong enough to speak.
Morion knelt beside him, wondering whether or not to help his friend
to a swifter end.
Then, the woman with the pale blue hair and ruby eyes was beside
him. Kimmentari touched Kyle's forehead lightly, and he seemed to
receive a jolt of energy from her fingers. As his eyes opened, she
said in her music-voice, "Kyle, explain."
"E-ex-x-plain?" quavered Kyle.
Kimmentari's fingers pressed more firmly on Kyle's brow, and
Morion thought he saw their tips glow faintly blue for a moment. In
response, Kyle's eyes regained some of their normal glitter, and he
drew himself up a little, ignoring the shaft of steel in his chest.
The strange woman said again, "Explain, Kyle. Discharge your duty,
and then go to a peaceful rest. Tell Sir Morion your tale."
"My tale." Kyle looked almost healthy, the color back in his
face. No more blood dripped from beneath his breastplate, but Morion
wasn't sure if this was because his wounds had been staunched, or
because he had no more blood in him. "My tale," Kyle repeated.
"I came to Pentamorlo School not..."
I came to Pentamorlo School not knowing exactly what I was going
to do with the training I might receive. My father had died four
years before, and my mother remarried into a family I didn't care
much for. I dearly wanted to be able to use the sword that was my
only heritage, so I sold everything I could and went to study under
Sir Morion.
One day, while I was visiting Tench, about a year after I joined
the school, I met a man named Mygrul. I liked him the first time I
saw him. There was a kind of energy, a happiness in everything he
did that drew me to him. We talked, bought each other drinks, talked
and drank more, and decided that we were buddies and planned to see
each other again. He was a mercenary who mostly hired out as
travelers' guard, so he knew when he would be in town again.
There was much in Mygrul that made me want to be like him. He
was good with the sword, learned mostly by a five year stint in the
King's service. He had managed to keep his sense of humor by taking
easy but lucrative jobs, ones that didn't involve a lot of
unnecessary killing. When we had gotten to know each other better
and had become friends, he offered to team up with me when I got out
of school. His reputation was such that he had the pick of guard
positions, and with me as part of the team, he could get even better
pay for both of us. I readily agreed. It was perfect, exactly what I
was hoping for.
When I graduated, I went to Tench to wait for him. A few days
later, the caravan he was escorting arrived. With a few words to the
master of the caravan, I was hired on the spot, and Mygrul and I
began our partnership.
That first caravan was uneventful, but during the second one we
hired out with, the train was attacked twice. Mygrul and I, with the
help of the sling-armed drivers, drove off nearly a score of
half-organized raiders. When we reached our destination, Mygrul and
I got drunk in celebration of our victory. He made some comments
about us being a perfect team. That got me thinking. Still a little
tipsy, I suggested we swear ourselves blood-brothers, knife-kin by
the custom of my people. He agreed, and we swore the never-parting
oath and sealed it with blood. Then, we went back to the taproom and
got drunk again.
My life was perfect after that. I had a brother, something I had
always wished for. I had a job that I loved, a purpose in life.
There wasn't anything I lacked, not even women - our gold and
reputations gave us free run of the red-lantern district in every
city we visited. Until four months ago.
Mygrul and I had just escorted a caravan from Baranur to
Easryun. As soon as we arrived, we had offers for a return trip from
a dozen merchants. But we wanted to rest, so we rented rooms in the
best inn in the city, paying a week in advance, and went out to
explore the city.
We were walking down one of the streets that opened off the
upper marketplace. Here the more prosperous merchants had shops that
had stood almost since the walls of the city were built. We stopped
by a trinket shop and were looking at the wealth in the window,
arguing about whether the jewelry was real or not, when we were
challenged by a quartet of young toughs with more steel than sense,
and more ale in them than both. They were well dressed, not part of
the underside of the city but probably merchants' or nobles' sons
out looking for trouble.
They taunted us, trying to goad us into a fight. Mygrul refused
to even draw steel, and kept me from drawing, too. He tried to
reason with them, and finally even offered them gold to leave. They
were intent on their evening's fun. They edged closer and closer
until one, probably the leader, lunged forward almost awkwardly and
skewered Mygrul low in the chest.
I cleared my blade a second later, and attacked. I didn't reach
Mygrul's killer because the other three were crowding me. With more
fury than skill, I disarmed one, knocked another out of line, and
disabled the last by nearly cutting his sword arm off. When they
realized that they were up against someone more skilled than
themselves, they backed away cautiously, and when I didn't keep pace
with them they turned and ran.
I went to Mygrul, who was coughing weakly, blood trickling from
the corner of his mouth. I tried to help, but the wound was too
deep. I thought of a healer, but I had never been in Easryun and had
no idea where I might find one. As I was ready to go for help in the
market, Mygrul said, "Ah, what a fool. Never trust bared steel. What
a way to d...." And he was dead.
Rage burned through me, rage and anger at those hotheaded fools
that had killed my best friend and brother, a lesser anger at Mygrul
for letting them kill him, for not wanting to fight. Vengeance was
what I needed, what I owed to Mygrul. It was my duty, what I had to
do. The oath we had sworn saw to that, as well as the nagging
thought that I should have protected him, even from his own folly.
A glow caught my eye as I thought those things. I looked up and
saw that one of the displays in the window was glowing. A polished
quartz egg sitting on a blackwood stand was giving off a bright,
pearly light. As I looked at it, I felt a pulling in my head, a
feeling that if I touched the egg, if I took it, I would be able to
get my revenge. The feeling pulled at me, feeding the rage and
hatred inside of me, showing me images of the dead and tortured
bodies of those Shuul-damned kids. It urged me to break the window
and take the egg. I tried to resist, but not for very long. The
images, the promises were too good to let go. I stood and shattered
the window with the hilt of my sword. I reached in and took the egg.
I stared into the depths of the egg as a voice said, "Pact.
Freedom for vengeance. Accept?" I didn't even need to say yes. When
it voiced the question, it gleaned the answer from my immediate
reaction, which was acceptance. With a flare of light that startled
me into dropping the egg, the creator of the voice flowed into my
arm, and then into my entire body. I watched distantly as the egg
shattered as if it was made of shell and not stone. When it did, the
thing in me laughed. It told me that my last hope had been that egg
and that now it would live in me forever.
That in me which was myself was pushed into a small corner of my
mind, able to see what the invader did with my body but unable to do
anything about it. I watched while the murderers of Mygrul were
hunted down and killed. I watched while the invader searched out
magic that was hidden in secret vaults. I watched as the outlaws
were gathered and as a citadel was built on an island in the center
of a lake. And I watched as the invader murdered and destroyed in my
name and finally challenged you; and, at the last, fought and lost
to you, Morion. Thank you again, and farewell.
Kyle sighed peacefully and died without pain, his body and soul
at rest. Morion turned to the blue haired woman who was sitting on
her knees a little back from the pair. As his eyes fell on her, she
said, "You needed to know. As a lesson. Do not let your honor or
your sworn word overwhelm your sense of right. I know that you try
not to, but I know that your honor is your life to you. Do not let
it be your death.
"One more meeting is given to us by Thyerin in this Dance.
Beyond that I cannot see, but I could wish for further contact.
Beware the citadel of BlueSword, Sir Morion. All is not as it seems.
Remember your friend's story and go warily. The circlet must get to
Je'lanthra'en by DorthsDay in Harvest to be of use to her.
Farewell." She lifted Kyle's sword gingerly by the hilt, took a
step, and vanished.
Morion stared after the woman wondering at her words yet again.
In his own terms, DorthsDay was the last day of Ober and over a
month away. More than enough time to get to the citadel, and then to
Dargon. He looked around the square and saw that the battle with the
outlaws was over. The King's men gathered in the square to report to
their captains on their individual fights. No one was looking his
way, probably, he thought, part of Kimmentari's work.
He looked down at Kyle appearing asleep rather than dead. Kyle's
tale had been strange, and he wondered briefly if all of this, from
Kyle coming to his school to this moment, had been arranged so that
a crystal circlet could be given to another former pupil of his.
Briefly, his temper flared at the thought of callous so-called gods
meddling deviously and catastrophically in mortals' lives. But that
anger caused him to abandon the thought as useless and dangerous. He
would never know, nor truly want to, just how much immortals dabbled
in his life and those around him.
Morion took hold of Kyle's arm and saw the bracer there. With
some difficulty he unlatched it, and slid it off. It was plain steel
except for a little sigil near the cuff that looked like a grey
lens. He closed it about his own left wrist and wondered how Kyle
had used it to control the mirror. However, just thinking that made
the little sigil light up, and he watched as the mirror opened up in
the street as it had before.
Now, the soldiers noticed him, the dead BlueSword and the travel
mirror. Commander Rian was striding over to him, but Morion didn't
feel like talking to the man. With the last of his tasks in mind, he
walked over to the mirror and stepped in.
It was strange walking inside the mirror, like traveling through
a mountain pass blanketed in heavy fog. He took two steps that
seemed to stretch for days, and then he was out of the greyness and
standing in a courtyard.
He looked around and saw the mirror vanishing. The courtyard,
castle on one side, protective wall on the other, was deserted.
Cautiously, Morion climbed the set of stairs that let to the top of
the wall and he saw, peeking between two merlins, the vast lake that
protected the citadel of BlueSword far more effectively than the
wall he stood upon.
As Morion cautiously explored the castle and out buildings, he
found the whole complex was as deserted as the front courtyard.
There were signs of occupancy - the outlaws were not very neat
housekeepers - but they left no one behind when they went on a raid.
Morion wondered briefly whether there were servants chained away
somewhere, but he found none.
When Morion was sure that he was alone in the citadel, he began
searching for the circlet. Remembering that Kimmentari had mentioned
a time limit of sorts on his use of the mirror at their first
meeting, he decided to be as methodical as possible in his search,
to be sure that he looked everywhere in as little time as possible.
He went through the cellars, where there was much treasure but no
circlet. He pried into every nook and cranny from the first floor
up, searching for secret panels and hidden rooms, anywhere that
valuable items might be hidden. He looked behind curtains and
arrases, under furniture and around shelves, even under the rugs.
Finally, on the top floor, in what had to have been Kyle's room,
Morion found a panel behind the bed's headboard. In the small
opening it revealed was the circlet, a thing of simple beauty,
resting on deep blue velvet. Also in the cubbyhole was a smaller
square of black velvet, on which rested a small, reddish stone.
Morion reverently lifted the circlet and examined the pure
craftsmanship in it. He lifted the blue velvet out and wrapped the
circlet in it, then set it aside for a moment. He picked the red
stone up off of its rest and held it cupped in his palm. In the same
instant that he realized it was egg-shaped, he felt needles spring
into his palm. The pricks weren't very painful at first, but fire
began to course through him from each needle tip, pain that raced
faster and faster throughout his whole body. He tried to shake the
red egg from his palm, but it seemed to be holding on as it pumped
poison into him.
Morion fell on the bed, body rigid with escalating pain. He
looked at the stone and could see the thing that had possessed Kyle
standing in a cloudy, grey place. The being said, "Sir Morion. I
said I'd get my revenge. You are dying, and with you dies the thread
that circlet would have woven. My masters will be pleased with me, I
think. Die slowly and in much pain, Sir Morion." The being's
laughter faded with its body into the greyness. A convulsive twitch
finally loosened the little egg from his palm, and it rolled onto
the floor. The last thing he saw as blackness welled up behind his
eyes was the blue-haired woman Kimmentari coming through the door
and stepping casually on the egg, a look of dismay and concern on
her face. She said something in her music-voice, but he couldn't
hear her through his pain. And then he knew no more.
-John L. White
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SEVEN NUMBER FOUR
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
A Death in the Attic Jeff Girard
Lifesong Aiwu Lian
Shakka! H.D. Baumeister
Seer's Doom John L. White
Ceda the Executioner: 5 Joel Slatis
Idol John L. White
Date: 033087 Dist: 312
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Hello one and all! No really exciting or motivating news to
report, so I'll just jump into a description of this issue. There is
no Dargon work in this issue, although you'll find a couple choice
tidbits from some unexpected sources. However, for those of you who
actually enjoy the Dargon material, here's a hint of what's in the
works for the near future! John White is working on a new tale which
I have seen parts of, and it promises to be a classic. Joseph Curwen
is plowing through the next tale in the Atros cycle, which should
also be out soon. I am, of course, humbly plugging away at my story,
which should be ready very soon (no promises, however).
It is at the close of the editorial that I historically welcome
our new readers and emplore people to spread the word about FSFnet.
Well, as we have over 300 readers who get the file directly and
uncounted millions (?) who get the magazine from servers, secondary
distribution sites, and who knows where else, I've decided that I
can finally sit back and pass up the opportunity to remind you to
help get others interested in FSFnet. Of course, this doesn't mean
you should stop spreading the word...
-'Orny' Liscomb
A Death in the Attic
Tina slowly closed the door behind her and proceeded up the
attic steps. The fading light of the autumn sunset cast a beaming
ray through the only window that caused all it touched to shimmer
with a golden hue, while at the same time it cast dark, forboding
shadows about all that were out of its reach. Tina paused for a
moment, and smiled to herself at the sheer irony of it. How much it
was like her own situation now.
She flicked on the light, and immediately all but the most
hidden corners were were bright and visible. She stepped around the
trunk which held her mother's wedding gown and high school
yearbooks, crossed over her grandfather's antique clarinet, and
stopped in front of a small coffer. She paused for a moment, then
reaced for it and undid the latch. Trembling, she opened the
silver-lined box and picked up the ring that lay inside. It looked
ordinary enough - carved out of silver with a ring of rubies and
emeralds encircling a medium sized diamond in the center. Definitely
a treasure by any standards, but also much more. Tina held the ring
tightly in her hand, and thought once more about what she was about
to do. She had spent the last hour just trying to decide what to
say. She was sure this was what she wanted, but at the same time she
couldn't help but feel a great dread deep in her soul, and for a
moment considered just putting the ring back and forgetting the
whole ordeal. At the same time, the caring nature of her soul kept
crying out for her to do it, that this was the greatest thing she
could ever do. Eventually, her caring side won out. She unclenched
her hands and slid the ring on her finger. At the same time she
glanced at her watch. It read 6:47. She would have to hurry, or she
would be late for her job.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on the ring, just like she
had accidentally done earlier today. In a moment, she felt a small
gust of wind, and then heard the voice. "Yes, Tina Redgrave, have
you thought of your first wish yet?"
She opened her eyes, and gazed directly at the man she had just
met a little over an hour ago. He stood about six feet high, with
dark black hair and a very heavy build which matched his voice. A
nearly perfect specimen of a man, and Tina felt the same surge
within her again. This time, however, she was prepared and replied,
"Yes, I have."
"And what is your wish?"
"My first wish is this: I wish there was no longer any death."
The man frowned. "Have you thought long and seriously about
this? Are you absolutely sure that this is what you want."
For a moment she considered crying out No, I'll think of
something else. But when she thought about all the suffering she
could alleviate with just that one phrase, she had to do it. "Yes,
I'm sure. That is my first wish."
The man sighed. "It shall be as you have it." He gestured into
the air, and a huge spark of energy flew from his fingertips out the
window and disappeared from sight. "Are you ready for your next wish?"
Tina, still staring at where the energy ball had passed through
the window, jumped slightly and said, "No, I'll have to think on my
next one too. How about if I call you again tomorrow morning?"
"Whatever you wish, Tina Redgrave," he said, then faded away
into nothingness.
Tina took off the ring, placed it in the coffer, closed it, and
then rushed downstairs. It was now 6:50. If she hurried, she still
could get dressed and make it to Kmart before her 7:30 shift.
Tina could hardly keep in her excitement as she jumped out of
her car and practically flew into the store with minutes to spare.
She took off her coat and walked briskly over to her station at
booth number nine. Stacey, the girl who worked the previous shift,
was standing there totalling up the price of an old man's sweater
and pipe.
"Hi Stacey, how's it going tonight?"
She turned and smiled, but there was a note of concern on her
face. "Hi, Tina. You seem awfully bubbly tonight. Here you go sir,
and thank you for shopping at Kmart."
The man walked past them with his purchases. Tina looked at
Stacey carefully and said, "What's wrong? And don't you dare say
nothing - I know you better than that!"
Stacey turned up the portable radio she kept next to her.
"Haven't you heard? Listen to this."
Bill Artwood, the local news reporter, was talking. "-admitted
just a few mere minutes ago. Apparently, he was the victim of a
mugging in Central park. He has suffered multiple stab wounds,
including one right through his left lung, but is still alive. He
has been placed under heavy sedation, but the doctors don't expect
him to live. They were totally amazed that he lived this long.
Whether this has any connection to the terrible accident on James
and Third is unknown."
"James and Third? That's nowhere near Central park. What does he
mean about a connection?"
"You didn't hear? You mean you didn't listen to the radio on the
way down to here?"
"No, the time kind of flew by for me today."
"Well, at about 7:00, I guess you would have been on your way
soon after, a tractor-trailer lost its brakes and plowed straight
through a red light into a small Subaru. The Subaru was flattened.
Of course a big pile-up occured, and three more cars were
demolished. But the strange part is, no one died. The two people in
the Subaru were horribly mangled, and another had his rib cage
completely collapse against the steering wheel, but all of them were
fully alive and conscious too. they were screaming, those that
could. One paramedic was so sick he had to leave the rescue team for
a while - Tina? Are you OK, Tina?"
Tina just stood, shocked. What could have gone wrong? How could
this be happening? This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen.
She had said, I wish there was no more dying, and- no, that wasn't
what she said. She heard her own words now as plainly as if she was
in her attic again - "I wish there was no more death." She hadn't
said dying, she had said death. She turned hard and ran for the door.
"Tina? What's wrong? Tina?..."
Tina pulled into the driveway and leaped out of the car. Her
keys fumbled with the lock, and it took her three tries to unlock
the front door. Finally she succeeded and slammed open the door, not
even bothering to get her keys. She ran inside, up the stairs to the
second floor, and into the attic. switching on the light, she
stumbled her way across the littered floor to the coffer. Tears were
streaming down her eyes now as she put the ring on her finger and
concentrated. In a moment the man appeared again. "Yes, Tina
Redgrave, have you thought of your second wish?"
"I want to change my first wish!" she nearly screamed. "I didn't
mean to say it that way except that I was so excited but that wasn't
what I meant to say and you've got to change it, please!"
He looked at her with a gaze that chilled her to the bone, and
she quieted down. "Normally, you could use another wish to undo a
previous wish, but this is a slightly different case. You wished for
there to be no more death, so I destroyed him."
"Him? What do you mean, him?"
"Death is an entity whose touch causes the soul to be released
from the body. Without him, all souls are bound to their hosts, and
can't die. This doesn't mean they can't be hurt. They just can't die."
"Well, bring him back! That isn't what I meant to say!"
"If it was a normal person or thing, I could. However, death is
an entity of great power, and it will take time to create him again."
"How long?"
"I would say about 36 hours."
"36 hours? But what about all those people out there who are
supposed to be dead now? I can't simply let them go on suffering!"
"You could find a replacement."
"What?"
"A replacement. Someone who could temporarily take death's place
until I can re-create him."
"How? Do I just walk up to someone and say, 'Hey, this genie
just granted me a wish and I wished for no more death so he
destroyed him and now we need a replacement'? I hardly think that
will go over.
"I'm afraid that that's your problem."
Tina thought for a moment, then came up with an idea. "Alright,
here's my second wish. Let me become death while you try to recreate
the original."
"As you wish, Tina Redgrave." He waved his arm, and suddenly
Tina felt different. She was dressed in black robes. She looked at
her hands, and saw that they were nothing but bones. Suddenly, she
felt a surge of power, and knew what had to be done. She flew out
the window at an incredible speed and soon found herself next to an
old man in a hospital bed. She touched him, and a white globe
floated up skyward. She then flew across the continent and touched a
young boy just as he hit the ground after leaping from the eleventh
floor of a hotel. His soul floated out of his body. Then she flew
elsewhere, again and again for thirty-eight hours without a stop.
When she was caught up, she used her powers to temporarily stop time
for a while, then flew back to her attic.
She stood for a moment, shocked and appalled by all she had
seen. Some people she had to touch were in such a horrible shape
that she felt like throwing up her last dinner, except that death
couldn't do that of course. She walked over to the coffer, opened it
up, and put on the ring. In a moment, the genie appeared. "Yes,
death, can I help you?"
"OK, here's my third wish. Return me to normal and let death
resume his job. I'll never forgive myself for wasting my wishes, but
I guess it's too late to change that now."
"I'm sorry, death, but I can not help you. My services are
currently being given to a young woman named Tina Redgrave. You are
not Tina Redgrave, you are death." With that he vanished into thin
air, leaving death to stand and bemuse the fate befallen on her.
-Jeff Girard
Lifesong
Viam ad Infinitum
Space...a void not empty. Planets and moons, followers of the
great ones, the stars, move in time with the great music which is
not heard with their children, the comets and asteroids. These ride
the coattails of their parents, occasionally breaking away to amuse
themselves with the games of the innocence of youth before becoming
planets themselves and taking the orbits planned for them. The
planets for the most part cared only for themselves, but the stars
were constantly shining light upon them all, and because of it many
of the planets reflected the light of the great sun and began to
live, and walk toward the path of becoming a star.
There stood in the darkness of night and the cold of death,
alone in a prison of metal a man, with his face in the direction of
the east, eyes shut, waiting. Flint-faced and unmoving in the icy
wind of Altus V which probed with invisible fingers any living
flesh, his clothing could not keep out the intangible members
feeding on his comatose mind. It was dark, the dark of a remote
planet near the edge of the universe; no stars and no moon shone on
the forbidding ebony landscape. The man's gloved hands were nearly
frozen to the bars they clutched, the heavily booted feet were a
part of the deck on which he stood. All was utterly silent. Behind
eyes shut and ice-coated, there was blackness.
The sky before his face suddenly grayed, casting upon the face
of the watcher. Slowly but steadily the horizon paled, and the forms
of a few unhealthy clouds appeared, a dirty white. Now the winds had
ceased to blow, though still the landscape was anything but
appealing... and with the luminescence a smell became apparent to
frigid nostrils: the smell of death and rot, of terror. Exposed by
the steadily-brightening light was an expanse of bare rock pocked
with the remains of plants and animals long vanquished. Bones and
ash, fragments of unburned roots and cinders adorned the surface of
the dead planet.
Now the glow of the firmament grew more quickly, showing the
black of his robe, tunic, and trousers. A cape of red completed the
costume, and his gloves and boots were likewise as unliving blood.
Black hair, moustache and long beard, caked with ice, testified
somewhat to his middle age. ragged clouds of moisture escaped his
lips, though there was no other sign of life in him, and this but
infrequent.
But behold! for at this time, a voice carrying one wonderful
note of music quiet yet powerful, was imposed upon the world,
drowning the sounds of silence. The sweet voice increased its
volume, and the grey of the edge of the horizon glowed faintly
pink... it increased again; the planet shuddered. Yet again. And the
planet shook this time; and reaching its peak the music of the
morning shattered the walls of silence! As the walls of ancient
Jericho they crumbled before the trumpet's blast, the mighty Singer.
The first streaks of color ripped apart the grey of the
sky...fragments of cloud disintegrating, the heavens burst into
flame. On Jason's world the sun rose.
And as it then looked upon the planet, there appeared at the
man's feet, green in the midst of the destruction. A single flower
of blue and gold grew, bloomed, and around it sprang up grasses and
flowers of every kind, until the surface of the world was covered
with the fresh, living color and there was no trace of the former
cataclysm! Now also began trees to sprout, and there were forests of
mighty Sylvan specimens to rule over and care for their younger
cousins and remove from the air the horrible stink. When this was
accomplished, it was yet the first hour of morning. The note which
had broken the walls of death and darkness now became Song. In sweet
liquid voices it flowed over Altus Five and collected into paths and
channels, where followed cool water for the sake of the living things.
Now Jason had not moved in all the time previous, being nearly
dead from the cold but the rays of the sun focused upon him and the
song once more changed. Now growing bold and strong, beauty became
handsome; the music washed over him as the rains of the spring. A
drop of filthy water dripped from beard and fingertip, moustache and
boot, and collected at his feet in a growing pool of red.
And as this man's flesh began to live, yet another wondrous
thing happened. As the Song washed his flesh, the powerful light of
the sun also washed over him...and the dye of his garments faded to
be replaced by a sparkling white. Trembling with all the excitement
of a newborn, the emerging butterfly which sees light after so long
in darkness, the eyes of gold opened; Jason began to live. And there
was much rejoicing in the galaxy, and the sun and the song were
happy at these works and rejoiced long. For after years in the grip
of death a man gained the eternal life of one whose soul has seen
the morning.
-Aiwu Lian
Shakka!
It was a day as any other, Jardell awoke to the smell of
smoldering wood outside his father's campaign tent. His mother
quietly rattled with her pots and spoons which she used to prepare
breakfast. He gently attempted to recall the dreams of the night
before, but he could not fathom their nature. Then he remembered
that today was to be a special day: He would go on a hunt with his
friends of the surrounding tents, and Lenda, daughter of Jast, the
merchant travelling with them for their protection, would join them
at a secret meeting place later in the day. Lenda's father was a
coward, and as Jardell thought of this large, heavy man with the
constantly dirty hair, a jeer spread across his face. The only
reason why he let Jast treat him as he did was because of Jardell's
desire for Lenda's love. Today would be the day of fulfillment.
He smiled as he thought of the day's plans: He and the gang
would go out to track down a few coyotes and maybe even attempt to
kill and hide one, just so as to be able to show that they had
indeed done something useful upon their return. However, hey would
cease this activity as soon as the sun reached it's peak and would
then meander to the Shakka tree a league away from their camp.
Shakka trees were strange creatures: They were plants, but then they
weren't. Whoever sat within it's Sphere of Dreaming, or Shadow as it
was called by the elders, would mindlink with the Shakka entity
which, according to legend, resided not in the tree itself, but in
the netherworld - reputedly near Odin's Valhalla. This, mixed with
the lack of factual knowledge, made Shakka-sitting, as it was
called, a very adventurous thing to do. The elders forbade it, the
young ones craved it. It was addicting, to an extent, but not to the
point where one could not rip oneself free from the Shakka's grasp.
Once mindlink was established, the Shakka would, upon deposition of
a small part of one's lifeforce, create any phantastic circumstance
one desired. One could reenact anything one could imagine, and
always escape unscathed, as the Shakka thrived on lifeforce, and
would not destroy his guests for fear of them not returning should
they be mentally scarred. The elders disapproved of such unworldly
pleasures, as deposition of a fragment of lifeforce weakened the
character and shortened one's lifespan, or so they said. Also, there
had been reports of Shakka's that had extracted all of a guest's
lifeforce while they were journeying in the land of make-believe.
Such stories were told by hardcore users to Virgin Dreamers, as
first time users were always called.
Today would be different from other Dreamtimes, however, at
least for Jardell and Lenda. They would commence to make their way
to man and womanhood while in the shadow of the Shakka. It was
considered the ultimate act of love to copulate in it's shadow, and
Jardell had always desired for his Passing to be of such a high
caliber. He was excited and fearful, and for the first time since
the plan had evolved out of their young minds did he discover doubts
in his mind. His father had concluded his Passing in the same
manner, much to the disapproval of the elders afterwards, and he had
given Jardell only one piece of advice on the matter: "Wait until
you feel that it may be the wrong thing to do - then you will know
that you are ready...". These words reverberated through Jardell's
young head over and over, pushing tears from his eyes and causing
him to tremble all over his body. He wanted to call it off; he
suddenly thought it was the wrong thing to do after all. He would
tell Lenda that he didn't think it was such a good idea, she would
certainly understand.
After having dressed and eaten breakfast, he quickly gathered
his hunting implements and headed for the meeting place just outside
the camp. Two of his friends were already there, evidently in eager
anticipation of the day's coming events as they hastily greeted
Jardell and then went back to discussing any possible evasive
actions should such be required. Jardell sat next to Rhun, one of
his better friends and inquired why they were even considering such
possibilities, as they all knew the Shakka was their private secret.
"Because, Jardell, one of the elders COULD have found the Shakka
on one of his spiritual walks. It is unlikely, but possible. It is
true that we planned this well by telling your father that we would
be hunting coyotes by the old cave, as that one can draw a straight
line from the Shakka to the cave, and it will pass right through the
camp, but all possibilities MUST be considered!" Rhun had always
been a pessimist. In either case, Jardell had already made up his
mind that he would not make the Passing under the Shakka's shadow
after all, so all that could happen to them is mild reprimand. The
other two participants in their campaign arrived soon after, and
they set out for the old cave.
The trip lasted an hour, which was normal for Drytime, and their
waterskins were soon depleted. They arrived at the old cave and
promptly made their way to the hidden stream inside to refill their
water supply and to quench their thirst. Then they sat upon the cold
clay floor of the main dome and proceeded to devour their brought
rations hungrily.
After a short rest, they headed out to hunt coyotes. They needed
not search long, as their tracking and hunting skills were much
improved from the previous year. They had soon entrapped a confused
dog in their midst and were jabbing the snarling animal with their
spears. As they continued their deadly game with the doomed
creature, they debated who should give the fatal blow. It was
decided that Jardell should do so, as he would be consummating
Lenda's love and completing his Passing on this day. All involved
smiled jealously as the decision was passed, all except for Jardell
who blushed. He nodded silently, saying nothing about the decision
he had met earlier. He prepared for the deadly blow, and the others
tightened the circle about the crazed animal. Jardell aimed and
thrust his spear at the coyote's head, thrusting with all his might.
The thrust struck the animal beneath the right eye and glanced off.
The entire group fell silent for a split second - a glancing blow
during a hunt was an omen that any decisions passed that day were
bad. Jardell fell back in horror - only he knew that the omen could
apply directly. The others fired him up, yelling to complete the
kill, and Jardell thrust again. This time, the coyote was stuck
squarely in the eye; the spear head pierced it's brain and a shower
of blood burst forth from it's nostrils as it jerked in a few
spastic motions and finally remained still. The boys gathered about
the dead animal and congratulated Jardell on his excellent kill.
None even thought of the omen, no one thought it applied, no one but
Jardell, and while he shook his friend's hands, he quietly thought
about his decision this morning. He felt a nudge beneath his
stomach, and suddenly the decision not to follow the plan was wiped
from his mind. He began to smile in eager anticipation and
disemboweled the coyote with such fervor that it even surprised
Rhun, who knew Jardell to be the hardworking type under all that
lazyness. The carcass was skinned and the hide was hung up to dry.
Rhun built a fire and stuck five neatly cut pieces of coyote meat on
a thick stick which was kept in the storage area of the cavern. The
boys gathered about the fire and began the almost ritualistic
telling of stories. One could tell that they were all ready for the
Passing, but only one member of a Circle of Friendship was allowed
to do so every phase of the moon. Soon the time to travel to the
Shakka came and they gathered their posessions and wandered off.
Jardell wore the completely dried hide about his waist, a feature of
the ritual for which he was thankful for, as it helped him hide his
display of anticipation.
At the start of their trek the sun was still high in the sky,
but going around the camp to an area roughly the same distance from
it as the old cave took a long time and when they finally arrived at
the Shakka, the sun was just an hour away from setting. There was no
breeze, and the Shakka's huge stationary form sent a shudder down
even the most expert user's spine. It's branches were grotesquely
twisted arms that reached out toward the boys in blind desperation.
Even though they were out of the Shakka's mindlink shadow, the
unworldly creature could still transmit empathic emotions to them.
It was hungry for their life force, that much was obvious. Jardell
began to think of the stories told by the elders about Shakkas
devouring the entire lifeforce of a user while he or she was under
the Shakka's influence. He shuddered: Such stories were merely used
to try to scare them away from the strange dreamlike state that the
tree produced.
They were to meet Lenda when the sun fell behind the horizon, so
they sat atop a nearby rock and wearily gazed at the Shakka. "I
don't like what I just felt close to Shakka!" Rhun said. The others
nodded in agreement, but Jardell thought differently.
"Guys," he said, "we're just overwrought with anticipation,
that's all... I don't think there will be a problem. We never had
one with the Shakka before, I don't see why we should now!" The
group fell into silent thought which was only interrupted with the
spectacular display that rippled across the clouds covering the
horizon: The sun was dying and spilling its blood into the white
cloud cover. They gazed in awe at the spectacular display and only
Jardell noticed that the Shakka was moving. He wordlessly pointed it
out to Rhun. The Shakka's root system seemed to have disappeared,
leaving a system of ten or so leg-like appendages. It appeared to be
stretching it's newly found legs as it slowly folded and straightened
them. The other three now noticed this odd display and fear riddled
their faces. Janten was the tallest of the Circle, and also the
first to run in fear, the other two followed him, loudly yelling
unintelligible phrases as they raced back towards the camp. Rhun had
tried to stop them, but gave up when it was apparent that nothing
would change their minds at leaving the Shakka far behind.
Both Rhun and Jardell were as fearful as they, but Jardell
thought of Lenda who should be arriving soon, and Rhun would never
have left him in a dangerous situation such as this. They had heard
the myth of the Rising of the Shakka, but neither of them had
believed it. The myth told of a certain day of each year when one
Shakka was allowed to move on to another location; the magic was
invoked at sunset and lasted until dawn. As this was only possible
once a year, the Shakkas made certain that they could pick the best
spot to settle down again, and many tales of horrible violence upon
mortals were linked to the myth.
"Look, over there! It's Lenda!" Rhun exclaimed as he pointed
towards a small moving figure silhouetted against the horizon. The
Shakka shuddered again, producing whistling sounds from it's
branches whipping through the air. It whirled around and seemed to
gaze at Lenda with invisible eyes. Then it made it's way toward her,
slowly at first, but with ever increasing speed. Jardell jumped to
his feet, quickly gathered his possessions and ran behind the Shakka
as fast as his leg would carry him. Rhun was right at his heels,
panting loudly. They made a wide circle around the Shakka which was
headed straight for Lenda.
"Why doesn't she stop? Can't she see that it's coming her way?"
panted Rhun.
"Maybe the Shakka has taken her mind into control?" Jardell
muttered. They ran towards Lenda, but as they passed close to the
Shakka, they realized that this had been a bad move. Rhun was the
first to feel the effects, but as they got closer to the Shakka,
Jardell was also beginning to feel the effects of the spell.
"Run back!" he screamed at Rhun, just in time. Rhun slowed,
blinked and with a surge of concentration broke free long enough to
make it out of the Shakka's Shadow. Panting, the two boys huddled
together and tried to decide the best plan of action.
"It's best if we just run around it at a great enough distance,
don't you think?" Rhun commented. "Otherwise, it'll get to her
before we get help or do anything else." Jardell agreed, and they
made their way around the Shakka at a safe distance. When the two
had finally reached Lenda, she indeed seemed to be in a trance.
Jardell stood in front of her, breathing hard, and called her name
over and over. Lenda gave no response, and Jardell had a difficult
time trying to stop her moving even closer to the rapidly advancing
Shakka. Jardell slapped her face lightly, and for a split second, it
seemed that her eyes cleared, but then they quickly took on their
previous state. Almost ready to panic, Jardell picked up on what he
had just seen: Pain seemed to break the spell. In desperation, he
whipped out his hunting knife and made a short, clean cut on her
lower arm, trying his best to stay away from any areas that
contained major blood vessels. Her eyes cleared instantly, she gave
a quick yell and looked at Jardell questioningly. He grabbed her
unwounded arm and pulled her behind him as fast as possible.
"Don't ask questions, just run!" He screamed at the top of his
lungs. He noticed that in all the confusion, the Shakka had come
within twenty paces of them, and it was high time to get out of it's
way. Jardell, Lenda and Rhun darted to the right, out of the
Shakka's path, and this seemed to confuse it enough for them to gain
some distance.
They stopped, and panting, Jardell tried to explain the
situation to Lenda. She understood immediately what had transpired,
and told Jardell and Rhun of a short story that her father had
related to her some years back. It seems that he, too, was a Shakka
user in his prime years, and had come to the local Shakka on a day
like this. He was the only one of the group to survive unscathed,
but he never related to Lenda how he had made his escape. She seemed
to remember him muttering something about Rabbits, but he never
would tell her more.
"Rabbits?" Jardell exclaimed. Just then, the Shakka changed
direction and was heading toward the group once again. "Come on,
let's move!" Jardell yelled.
"Rabbits!" he thought to himself. It was too obvious: The Shakka
seemed to have a limited intelligence in certain ways, much as a
predator had when trying to chase a rabbit. When rabbits fled, they
would not run in a straight line, but zig-zag their way to safety.
This not only wore the chasing foe down, but also confused it to the
point where the chase seemed fruitless.
"Come on... let's go! Do exactly as I do!" Jardell screamed, and
immediately changed his direction to the left. Lenda and Rhun,
astonished, followed his example. The Shakka slowly realized the
directional change, and altered it's direction accordingly. Jardell
now changed to the right and the other two followed his example. The
Shakka took even longer to realize this change and had moved away
quite a distance before it turned in the correct direction.
"One more should do it!" Jardell exclaimed. Once the Shakka was
on their tail again, he suddenly ran towards it in an almost
straight line, veering off to the left at the last moment. The
Shakka didn't even notice that they had passed it and were
successfully escaping its wrath behind its back. It just kept moving
forward, eventually slowing down to conserve resources. It was well
on its way to a new location, having already forgotten its prey.
Jardell, Rhun and Lenda stopped running when the Shakka was but a
tiny speck against the growing dusk. They hugged each other,
exasperated, but happily laughing, and after a short rest started to
make their way back to the camp.
-H.D. Baumeister
Seer's Doom
The man freely checked his sword and knives to the child at the
flap of the garishly colored tent before entering. The dim interior
of a thelavran, or seer's, tent was not a familiar place to him, but
Baranya was rumored to be the best forecaster alive, and he wanted
to be sure, for his wife's sake.
He knelt on the cushions before the low table and waited for the
thelavra to appear. His eye was caught by the many-faceted crystal
spheroid on the a black velvet padded stand in the center of the
table, and so he didn't notice Baranya's entrance. One moment her
chair was empty and the next, she was sitting serenely before him.
"Pose your question," she said without preamble, sliding
gradually into her trance by narrowing her eyes to slits, breathing
shallowly, and concentrating on her personal thendera, or
concentration point, which was a painted wood toy knife her brother
had owned as a child.
The man said, "My wife wants a child. But, she's a small woman.
The healers aren't sure that she can safely carry and bear one. My
question: If my wife becomes pregnant, will she succeed in
delivering it safely, and will it be...normal?" There was a history
of deformity in his family, and that worried him as much as his
wife's possible problems.
The thelavra began humming softly, and closed her eyes in full
concentration, sinking fully into her trance. Presently, she opened
them again, and, still humming, gazed deeply into her crystal.
"I see...your wife." Baranya spoke slowly, humming between, and
the man had to concentrate in his turn to understand her. "She's
pregnant. She's delivering...a son...safely." He breathed a sigh of
relief. "I see...a limit. If...you...she conceives within...six
months, ...all will be...well with her...and the...child."
Baranya sat back, a slight frown on her face. She shook her
head, as if unable to quite leave her trance, and her eyes unglazed.
She looked at him, and asked, "Was that satisfactory?"
"O, yes, my lady. Thank you, thank you so much. Here, for you,
and all your help." He set three gold Stars on the table. "Thank you
again." He stood, turned, and left, smiling.
Baranya's frown deepened as the tent flap closed. She had seen
something else, but she knew from experience never to give a
customer more than he wanted. Still, she was curious, so she
breathed deeply, re-entered her trance, and stared into her crystal
ball. Her frown deepened, then her eyes widened in horror. She
muttered, "No. No! Stop!" She stared for a few more moments, then
she screamed, "Gods, NO!" and slumped in her chair. She breathed
once more, then died.
The man never knew what he had engendered. The thelavra had
looked into the future a little too far, and seen her own death, and
the result. And, seeing her death had brought it about, just as she
had seen it - slumping back in her chair and expiring right then and
there. But, such were the circumstances, and her power, that her
psychic death-gasp was transmitted throughout the whole of Eastland,
setting up a chain reaction among all of the mentally gifted - the
so called magicians - and, in forced empathy, killed them, or burned
out their powers.
Unknowing of the disaster foreseen, the man went home to tell
his wife the good news. His son was delivered some months later.
On the man's son's first birthday, barbarians from the Steppes
invaded quietly. They poured into Eastland unnoticed, and attacked
from within. Their conquest was easy and uncontrolled, due to the
demise of most of the witches and wizards the year before.
-John L. White
Ceda the Executioner: Chapter 5
The day was getting on and there was still a long way to go
before he was safe. If the Nuadrin had made a new gate then they
were almost certainly watching for him.
The sun was on the other side of the mountains now casting
shadow of Psom far out into the wilderness past the cliffs. Darkness
stretched as far as the eye could see, but in any case, Ceda waited
for the sun to go down totally and the darkness to be complete
before he left the shelter of the cliff face.
That night he set out. Being on the east of the mountains, he
had the moon to guide him, but the way was dangerous. Trying to
avoid roads as much as possible, he tramped on slowly, being most
sparing with the remaining food that he had left.
A couple of hours march brought him a newly made crossroad. The
way South undoubtedly led to the Port of Breanduin or Naz'Clow and
the North, it probably led up the Cities of Pheeng'Am, Bilfneuin or
past the Gate of Ploughdom to the far City of Naudsman on the
borders of Old Grandydyr beyond the desert.
The way West led back to the Cliffs of Belos. East was the way
that Ceda went, though he was not sure at this point where it led.
After a short time, The dry atmosphere that hung about the mountains
vanished and woods sprang up all around. Soon the road was deep into
a forest surrounded by the pleasant sound of birds.
The road was now slow and hard. The road climbed now up some
unnamed hill and twisted constantly. Soon all sense of direction was
lost and continuing meant following the road or being lost in the
endless wood.
Then Ceda heard footsteps coming up the path in front of him. A
great many footsteps, 'around fifteen of them', he thought. 'Mayhap
they can tell me where I am.'
They were getting very close when Ceda heard a commanding voice
call out an order in the common tongue. "Halt! We hold here for the
night! Beniza, chain their feet and bind their mouths. I don't wish
to meet any Bilfneuin Axemen. Now! Any of you filthy men decide to
try anything and I'll personally cut your fingers from your hands.
We reach the gate tomorrow." The voice was Nuadri. The laughs that
followed were Orcish-- and the cries were Human.
Ceda jumped into the woods. His first thought was escaping, then
remembering the fate of the men that reached the mountains, he
decided to help them. Taking a long sip of his wine, and throwing
away the last skin, he slipped into the woods and approached the
camp under the cover of the trees and the darkness.
Soon he stood just outside the camp. There were indeed fifteen:
one Nuadri, four Orcs and ten men. The sun was just crawling over
the trees in the east when they had settled down and the Orcs drew a
little into the wood to shield themselves from the coming sunlight.
The Men were bound in heavy chains at their feet and necks and were
anchored to a nearby tree and Nuadri slept down the road out of
reach of the men.
Ceda waited until the sun was over the trees shining down on the
company before he moved. Then taking his trident in both hands, he
crept forwards and silently killed the Nuadri. Then walking to the
trees the Orcs slept, he killed all but one, then he put his foot on
the Orcs chest and yelled.
The Orc and the rest of the company awoke with a start. Ceda
lifted it to its feet and took its weapon casting it away onto the
road by the Men. "Now, Orc! tell me, what is your business on this
side of the Gate of Ploughdom?" The Orc looked at Ceda in dismay,
then spat at him. The Orc died quickly.
Then Ceda turned to the dead Nuadri. A brief search revealed the
keys to the chains that bound the Men. Then they all sat and talked.
"I am Aroth of Leafholm, City in the Wood of Carne," said a man.
"And I am Ceda of No-Al Ben"
"Thank you for your kind service. My men and I were taken
prisoner of the Nuadrin some three days ago," said the man before he
was cut off by Ceda.
"Nuadrin? How came you by that name?"
"The Beast you killed there, it is called by our people a
Nuadri," replied Aroth. "So have we decided after none of the elders
could find any text with description or word of them. We have never
seen them before."
"Nor have I," said Ceda. "But I also have come to call them
Nuadrin though I know not why. I thought of such a name in folly for
I could not remember ever meeting such an odd creature as this in
all my travels. But let us come to this later, first we must leave
the road, for there are many of these Nuadrin about now, they have
hewn a new gate from the mountain of Psom."
"Aye, and from Dearn. But this is old news. We shall speak of it
later when we reach Leafholm. It is six hours stride from here."
"Nay!" cried Ceda. "I'll not travel the roads now! they are
infested with the vile Nuadrin!"
Aroth laughed. "We are native to this wood, Ceda of No-Al Ben.
We need not contend with The Orcs new masters! We know the wood like
as well as the Elves of Carne. You need not fear!"
Then he leapt to his feet an bounded into the wood followed by
the rest of the men. Ceda went to the Corpse of the Nuadri leader
and took a skin of liquid that was tied to its waist. Then he
followed into the woods after the men who were singing a merry song.
Carne! the merry wood
We return to Thee
Coming home.
Carne! where all is good
As we enter Thee
coming home.
Leafholm, the City in the Trees
Where all is well and good!
From the Days of Old when
Elves wrought gold and ruled
The kingdoms untold.
Then came to Leafholm.
And Leafholm! I return to thee
In bliss and glee
And smell the sweet nectar
That flows in Thee!
Coming home!
Strong wind and rain,
And Tainian's Bain,
And all the Ice of Plime;
Nor Orcs or Barnonoen
Or Dragons of Khuss
Shall keep me from my
Beloved Leafholm!
Coming home!
The air is sweet!
The food a treat!
All is right
In Leafholm!
Carne! love me please!
Let me live under your leaves!
Carne! I return to you!
I come home!
And rest I shall
In Leafholm!
Coming home!
And so they sang as they bounded through the forest as though
they were in an empty field hindered not by the trees of the hills
that they passed. At times they had to wait for Ceda who had a great
deal of trouble keeping up with them.
Finally, after some hours march, they came to a large wall that
stretched into the trees in either direction. The wall was as green
as the trees themselves and they turned and followed it for a little
while until they came upon a great gate.
Upon the gate were many Elves cloaked in dark green robes drawn
tightly about their heads. In each ones hand was a a long bow and on
their sides rested long knifes. Seeing Aroth, the gate was drawn
open and they all entered.
"Do the Elves of Carne and the men of Carne dwell in the same
city?" asked Ceda as the gate was closed behind them.
"Nay," said Aroth. "There are no men of Carne."
Ceda stopped short. He looked up and down at the row of Men he
had entered with. All appeared to be human. Then he looked sidelong
at Aroth who stood smiling at him.
"Ceda of No-Al Ben," he said. "We are not Men, but are Elves.
Come, we will hold now a council with the King, and you shall be
there to tell of your ordeal. There you shall learn all that you
wish to know.
Ceda was led up many streets until they reached the gate to the
palace of the city. The walls were made of a strange silken thread,
which Ceda commented on and was told that its properties were that
of the strongest metal and the thickest rock yet inclimbable.
All over the city as Ceda passed, trees towered over his head,
their tops disappearing into the clouds above. Green leaves covered
the paths (in Elven tree cities, there were no set roads to disrupt
the natural area, but paths were maintained for convenience) never
dying, and the soft singing of birds was never absent.
Inside the great walls of the palace, a great ring of pine trees
acted as a palace wall, which was only enterable through the Gate.
The trees were much larger then all the others and even as their
mighty trunks rose into the clouds above, they gave no hint of ending.
Into the tree gate they went and discovered a large stair. The
stair went both up and down, they went down. Torches lined the walls
and which were delicately carved out of the dirt among the roots.
Finally after a long descent, they came to a large door guarded
by four Elves. The doors were made of an odd yellow metal which
lighted the passage. Ceda was told to leave his weapons and enter.
The hall that he had entered was like none he had ever seen or
even heard the likes of in any tale. The walls and ceiling were that
of the living tree root of the magnificent trees that grew in the
Palace Ring. They were nicely cleaned and polished to the
magnificent color of orange which Ceda guessed was their natural
color. The floor was of the same yellow metal that the doors had
been made from. The room was full of Elves the like of which Ceda
had never seen before. They were dressed in many different shades of
green, their hair was and well groomed (mostly in braids) and their
faces were stern but gentle. They welcomed Aroth and turned to Ceda
as he and his men left the chamber.
"Welcome," said one of the larger Elves coming forward. He was
well dressed in a light green robe and wore a helm of orange leaves
about his head. "I am the Lord of Leafholm. Rakine I am called by
most of my Elves; Rakine of Leafholm. What is thy name, Sir?"
"Ceda of No-Al Ben," replayed Ceda.
There was some muffled talking around the room. Then Rakine
spoke. "The finder of the Crown has come to us! Welcome again, Ceda
of No-Al Ben. Tell us your tale and then ask us what you will, for I
see great concern in your eyes." He signaled and chairs and a great
table were brought forth.
Ceda sat at the middle of the long table. Elves were all about
him, but they were silent and Ceda spoke. "When the winter had
passed, I was hired and left for the city of Caffthorn. Then, as the
sun rises and the moon sets, it was ten days and three when I found
the Tree of Grobst and came upon the Crown."
"Aye," said Rakine. "This we know. We have been in close contact
with Rackins, for he is my brother, and we hide nothing."
Ceda stared at Rakine for a moment and then continued. "Then I
will start from the time that Cander of Perstanie reached
Cramstrock. It was ere two months that he came to me, and I was
drunk and could not talk. He took me like a dog onto a horse and we
rode for Dhernis stopping in Caahah. It was only there that he
counseled me that we made for the City of the Elves.
"Upon leaving, about four days ride from Dhernis on swift horse,
we went astray by my leave to the Gate of Ploughdom, for I had
misgivings about the Dark Doorway, though I know not why. Methought
it best to check and see lest there be something afoot.
"You dared to approach the Dark Gate in times of war? and what
of Cander, we knew not that he had reached you! where is he now?"
said Rakine.
"Cander," said Ceda slowly. "Met his end in the Caverns of
Onibus, but what is this talk of war?"
There was more quiet talking in the room and Rakine looked to an
Elf at his side and spoke a few words. The Elf answered and then
Rakine continued and the room grew silent.
"The Mouths of Arnmere and the Gates of Ploughdom, Dearn and
Psom have been spewing forth their vile laborers in war for nigh two
and a half months!" said Rakine. Caffthorn, Ruirse, No-Al Ben and
all the little countries of the East, North and West have been in
violent struggles to defeat their might, but as yet they are strong
and well armed. And they have with them the Nuadrin to command them."
"Aye," said Ceda. "I know of them, though I do not yet fully
understand them. I had no name for them, and in folly did I begin to
call them Nuadrin, for I had naught else to refer to them as, and
yet you use the name as do I, yet none have heard me speak it."
"They are to us a nameless people, not in song or story, but yet
they are here, and we call them now the Nuadrin for we also have but
naught else to call them but must speak of their deeds. Continue."
"After seven suns had passed since we had departed from
Cramstrock, we were taken prisoner by Nuadrin not fifty dragon
lengths from the Gate! I know not of anything else but that I lay
for sometime in a dark room bound in chains at my feet and hands.
Then I was led before a large beast that bore like to the Nuadrin,
but was bigger and stronger. He was the ruler, and he mocked me and
smote Cander, and that was the last that I saw of him.
"After a while in my cage I escaped and found my way to a pass
in Psom and learned of the new gate. There I fought with a Nuadri
and some of its pet Orcs and found this:" he reached into his pack
and retrieved the medallion with the crown on it.
"Aye, we have seen many of the like," Said Rakine.
Ceda returned the medallion to his pouch and went on. "There was
one other matter of the mountains that troubles my thought: on the
night that I had escaped from the pursuit of the Orcs, I came upon a
place that was barren of life. Naught lived there, it was as if all
creatures were dead and gone save the trees and plants. It was to
that place that the Orcs from Onibus did not follow me as I fled."
"Aye, there are places in the mountains that even the Orcs will
not tread. You were lucky that you found not what did live there
I'll wager."
"It is there that I slept. When I awoke, I journeyed down into
the valley below and there I found a camp of the enemy. They did not
spy me though I sat and watched them for a time. There they burned
men and made many weapons in ready for war.
"I sat until the sun fell and then I circled the camp making for
pass in Psom. And it is there that I first discovered the new Gate.
"I fled Orcs over the pass killing some and gaining the
medallion and traveled down the other side of the mountain to the
Cliffs of Belos and then found a way down the following day."
"You found way down the cliffs with naught but what you have
now, or did your luck provide you with rope from one of the dead
Orcs?" asked one of the Elves that sat at the table.
"Luck it was, but not with rope," he answered. "Down the cliffs
edge Southward I walked until I came to a crack in the cliffs edge
that descended until the ground. That was the night that it rained.
Almost half way down I came upon a cave and rested there until the
following day.
"When I came down the mountain the following day, I traveled
East until I came so Carne and met your men in the hands of the
Enemy. They led me here, and that is my tale."
Rakine sat for a while in thought until a another elf entered
the room. And Ceda stared at him in wonder, for it was Aroth, yet he
was no longer a human, but an elf; the face was the same, with
perhaps a more smooth look, or perhaps his eyes were more stretched
and thin, but this was Aroth, and anyone could see that. He bowed
low before the king and took a place at the far side of the table
with a nod to Ceda.
"Well," said the King at last. "We must send word to Rackins at
once. Ceda, it is upon you to accompany them to the fair city of
Perstanie in the Learis Islands. This time, however, I hope that you
shall go there without any short side trips. Go now directly to
Dhernis, and take the Ships of Tearny by my order to the Captain.
"With him we shall need to send escort. Aroth, go with him, and
take whoever you would with you, but make haste! It is nigh one year
since he was sent for, and we have as yet heard nothing from my
brother in forty suns and forty moons. Go now, and may your speed
compete with the raven!
'uentu descern shyen svequ seju!'"
"We shall leave at first light, cousin" said Aroth to Rakine
with a nod to Ceda.
"Nay," said Rakine. "First we wait for word from Rackins,
messengers have already been sent telling of his arrival. As for
now, go and make yourselves ready, for you leave within the week."
With that final word, Ceda and Aroth got up and left the room.
"Cousin?" asked Ceda as they walked down the hall.
"Yes."
Aroth led Ceda to a room where he was to rest and before long he
was sound asleep on one of the most comfortable beds that he had
ever slept on.
It was a week and three days before they had left. No word had
come from Perstanie and time was ever fleeting. Ceda lay on his bed,
thoughts drifted though his mind and slowly he fell into a slumber.
It felt like he had hardly closed his eyes before Aroth once
again stood before the foot of his bed, clad in a dark green riding
cape with a hood and light riding boots; and it was not long before
they were on tall horses riding for the city gate. Aroth seemed of
good cheer and was full of energy as was Ceda who was once again
under way to the beautiful City of the Elves on Cergaan.
Before the sun was in center sky they were deep into Carne many
leagues from Leafholm. The light could just barely seep through the
leaves of the treetops high above their heads bringing small showers
of blissful illumination to the undergrowth and small animals that
bathed in the tranquility. On the look-out for Orcs and Nuadri, they
continued onward, but met none. And by nightfall, they were a days
ride from the border of the forest.
They pulled off the road about a hundred yards and set up their
camp. The horses were put on watch while they set up. Then they sat
down to have a meal of some cakes that they had brought from
Leafholm along with some fresh water from a near-by stream.
The pleasantness lasted during the night and at length both Ceda
and Aroth were deep in slumber while the horses watched over the camp.
At first light they awoke and packed up their gear for the days
ride. The red pinnacles of light were barely visible through the
branches above stemming over the early morning sky and the air was
rich with the soft sounds of birds. Reluctantly they stowed the last
of their things, had some berries and started for the borders.
The second morning since they had left Leafholm was peaceful.
Although they were in a hurry, they could not ride though the great
Forest of Carne without slowing to wonder at the somber trees that
stood so noble in their path. Soon they took to walking, first
quickly, then slower and finally barely moving up the path at all.
After a few hours the sun was over head and they stopped to have
a meal in a small patch of sunlight that managed to sneak through
the upper branches of a tall tree and form a large circle of light
on the ground near its trunk. They took a few cakes from their packs
and sat down to eat when they first heard the noise; hoofs, running
at great speed up the road from the direction they were headed.
"Arnea seek Duval! We were not careful! They will see the horses
and will know we are here," cried Aroth as he leapt to his feet. "We
shall perish from this folly of ours!" He ran to the horses and
pulled their reins jolting them off the road in a frenzy.
Ceda also got up, but not as hastily. "I think not, Orcs ride
not on steeds of any kind."
"True, but can the Nuadri ride?"
"I know not, but it is too late do debate, alas they are upon
us!" He through back his long hair and reached for his sword that
hung loosely at his side. At that moment the riders came into sight,
and Aroth relaxed for they were Elves.
"Hail!" shouted the foremost rider seeing Aroth. "Greetings."
"Hail," answered Aroth with a long sigh of relief. "I am Aroth
of Leafholm, cousin to Rakine the King. We seek knowledge of the way
up ahead by the forest gate, is it save to travel?"
"Aye, we have seen and heard naught for a days ride, it is safe."
"Good, and what is your business? Are you messengers?" said Aroth.
"Yes, we travel with message from Rackins. Pardon me, but are
you Ceda, for our message is for you be you he."
"Ah!" said Ceda with satisfaction. "Rackins has word of our
arrival then! What were his words?!"
"He spoke not as much as Merth. They want you to ride for the
Caves of Arnmere and seek what lies there, thou I know not what. He
said you would know about what he speaks," said the rider.
"The Caves? Is that old fool wizard in his right mind?" cried
Aroth. "Even in times of peace I would not venture within fifty
leagues of the hideous Caves!"
"Aye," said Ceda. "I know of what he speaks."
With a glance from Ceda, Aroth bid the riders continue to
Leafholm and inform Rakine of their new destination.
In a spring the horses had drawn away bearing the riders onward
and were soon out of sight. "To Arnmere?" asked Aroth with a lump
welling in his thought.
"Aye," said Ceda with the same feeling of dread. "I know what I
must do. Come if you will, but I force you not."
"I will come, for only a coward would leave you, and I am of
noble blood!" he said thrusting his fist into the air revealing the
pitch black ring that encircled his forth finger.
"Then let us ride at once!" shouted Ceda with a smile.
They finished what remained of their meal and stowed their gear.
Then mounting the horses they sped down the road and out of sight
into the distance with swiftness of the eagle.
-Joel Slatis
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SEVEN NUMBER FIVE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
*A Difficult Recovery: Atros 6 Joseph Curwen
*Two Journeys Rich Durbin
*The Treasure: Part 1 of 4 John L. White
Date: 042787 Dist: 352
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Well, as opposed other recent issues, we actually have a rather
significant amount of news. Firstly, I've taken the plunge and
bought myself a new Amiga 1000 personal computer. Very nice. But
that's really not FSFnet material, now, is it?
The big news is that after some consideration and deliberation
with the Dargon authors, it has been decided that in the near future
subscriptions to FSFnet will be available via standard
non-electronic mail. This policy will enable persons with no network
access to get the zine, and permit people who lose their accounts
but wish to continue receiving FSFnet to do so. I also will be
printing up issues using desktop publishing on the Amiga, and
possibly including artwork. Of course, because postage isn't free, I
will have to charge postal subscribers a distribution fee, which
will basically cover postage and printing costs. At this point the
costs of postal subscriptions is unknown, and I'll be setting up a
policy regarding them in the next few weeks. If you are about to
lose your account, and are interested in a postal subscription, you
might drop me a mail file with your postal address, and I will
forward you the information as soon as I get it all ironed out. I
will also be announcing the official policy in FSFnet, for those of
you who might be interested.
Well, that's all the news for now. Remember, if your account is
going away, please drop me a line so I can remove you from the
distribution list. Now, on to the issue!
-'Orny' Liscomb
A Difficult Recovery: Atros 6
After an instant, Atros awoke on the rough pallet in Pravo's
house. The full light of the sun bore down upon his face through a
high window. Atros shielded his eyes in the shadow of bundle of
roots hanging in the window to dry. He guessed that was very late in
the afternoon. Pravo must have let him sleep through the morning.
Atros was still wrapped in his tattered gray cloak, which he now
noticed was spattered with black mud. He had even slept in his high,
calf skin boots. A myriad of small untreated cuts lay across his
arms and chest. His arms and back were very sore from the exertions
of the previous night and the ravages of the hard pallet. Atros
wondered at this. Pravo had been so meticulous in his care for
Darla, spoiling her with a luxurious down bed and an expensive
physician, while ignoring Atros entirely. Hadn't the physician been
concerned for a bleeding man lying across the entrance to the house?
Yes, Darla was a more serious case and should be treated first, but
wouldn't it be natural to see to him after she had been dealt with.
It was very puzzling. He wished to question Pravo though he was
uncertain whether he should draw attention to Pravo's oversight.
But now, he must see to Darla's health. He rose carefully but
was still rewarded with fresh stabs of pain. He would pay dearly for
over spending himself last night. Seeing that he was already
dressed, he could avoid going through that morning ritual, at least
until after he saw Darla. It was rather obvious that he would need a
fresh change of clothing soon though. Still, it would worry Darla
unnecessarily if she saw so much mud and dried blood. Trying not to
make too great of a mess on Pravo's floor, Atros quickly brushed off
the cakes of dry mud from his clothing. Availing himself of the
pitcher and basin he found on the shelf next to the low pallet,
Atros washed his face and hands. Fortunately, most of his wounds
appeared superficial if painful. He was very glad to be spared
tortuous treatments of stitching or cauterizing. Having thoroughly
prepared himself, he set out to find Darla.
With a few quick strides down the narrow back hall and around
the corner, Atros arrived at the closed doorway to Darla's room. He
knocked softly but heard no response, so he slowly inched the
doorway open and almost instantly gasped. Darla lay motionless,
breathing only shallowly. The portion of her face not covered by
thick gauze was white with pallor. The sight caused intense memories
to overwhelm Atros momentarily. Memories of another life.
He entered the white and gray semi-private room slowly, timidly.
The hollow echo of his footsteps had haunted him since leaving the
elevator. The partial translucency of the fringeless partitioning
curtains muffled the light of the drab, overcast day visible through
the distant window. He passed the first partitioned bed without
trying to glimpse one of the contributors to the intermittent buzzes
and beeps plaguing the ward.
His steady stride faltered and stopped as his eyes fell on the
tiny, pale figure lying rigid on the wide, white mattress next to
the low window. For a moment the sight paralyzed his his body and
mind in a flood of contradictory emotions: compassion, disgust,
sympathy, terror, love, loathing, satisfaction, and remorse. But his
mind choked them down.
How could she have deteriorated so much overnight? (A sleepless
night for him, apparently something much worse for her.) The
hospital frock dehumanized her in its half effort to allow modesty.
It would have been better if they hadn't made any pretenses. Her
back was arched unnaturally upward in a tense strain. She seemed so
much like a turtle that lay upset in the middle of the highway,
waiting motionless..stunned for the next in an endless series of
inconceivable abuses. He glanced at the pain stricken face peeking
out from under the thick, restrictive bandaging, but he quickly
looked away. Her eyes were open, staring unfocused at the wall lamp
above her head.
"Mother..." he said softly, tentatively. She did not respond.
"Mother..." he called again, taking her hand in his own. It was
cold...lifeless. The fatty flesh of her arms hung loosely from her
bones. He saw a flicker in her eyes, almost a response.
"Mother..." he repeated leaning close to her ear, clutching her
hand in his own.
"Dewar...Dewar," she murmured turning her head from side to
side, her eyes still unfocused.
"No, Mom, it's me, Statsul...your son. Can you see me?"
But it was no use. She squirmed and thrashed about, so that
Statsul was afraid she would pull the sensors off her neck and
chest. He released her hand and it dropped to her side. She
continued to call out "Dewar" for some time...the name of Statsul's
father, dead for more than a decade.... Finally, she became calm
again. It was as if nothing had happened.
Statsul shrunk from the room and into the hall. Hands trembling,
he took a plastic bottle from his coat pocket. He fumbled for a
moment, took two capsules from the container, and popped them into
his mouth. With the open bottle still in his left hand, he triggered
the stainless steel water fountain with his right and swallowed the
pills as the water gushed into his mouth. He turned and she was
there, he choked. The ward nurse, a dark, middle aged woman with a
once stunning figure and tired eyes. She took the bottle from his
hands, glanced at it, closed it, and returned it to Statsul.
"Don Diagoros?" she said. Her accent was hardly noticeable.
"Yes...hmph...What can you tell me about my mother's condition,"
he stammered.
"We're not allowed to discuss the patients, Don Diagoros. You'll
have to see a physician or an ablegate. The Legals, you know?"
"Oh," he resigned and began a hesitant turn.
"But if you won't tell anyone. I guess I can help." The same
qualities that made her a good nurse prevented her from not helping
this man. "Dona Diagoros... I'm sorry, but she's not responding to
the medication, transvection treatments, or microsurgery. I'm sorry,
but it doesn't look good." She hadn't fully considered what she'd
have to say when she agreed to help him. She was out of practice at
this sort of thing.
"Oh..." he whispered barely audible.
"Her a..illness is just too advanced. If we'd only known
sooner.. She should have had a genome map done years ago."
Statsul mumbled something about her being a Dissenter.
"I see...Well, that's her right...I'm sorry Don Diagoros but I
must go now. The patients...." She made a brisk half turn on her
flats and was gone in a blur of blue and white.
Statsul began a slow return to his mother's bedside.
Atros was recalled from his flashback by the force of the door
slamming into him from behind. While his mind had been distant, his
body had walked into the room and closed the door behind him. He did
not know how long he had stood there staring at Darla.
"Atros!" Pravo nearly shouted. "You startled me. I didn't hurt
you, did I?" Pravo asked entering the room after Atros had been
jostled forward, allowing the door to open completely.
"No..." Atros stammered then recovering his composure added, "Do
you have some fresh clothing and perhaps some food?"
"Yes, of course, how careless of me. The clothes first. You're a
mess... Through here in your room. I pointed them out last night.
Don't you remember?" Pravo asked leading Atros back to the room he
had occupied.
"How is Darla? Has she awoken?" Atros responded with a question.
"Don't worry, she'll be fine. She's just lost a great deal of
blood. She's slept since you left her last. The drugs the healer
gave her for the pain make her sleep." Pravo opened a chest in one
corner of the room.
"Hhm....good. She would be in a great deal of pain now," Atros
said. "This one?" Atros asked pointing to a blue-gray woolen shirt.
"Yes, that's fine. I have not worn that in years. Nearly since I
was your age."
Atros dressed himself in silence. Minutes past.
"You killed a man last night, didn't you?" Pravo asked suddenly.
"Yes,no...no. I fought two but I killed no one." Atros finished
dressing, closed the chest, and sat on the lid.
"But you were involved." Pravo's stance was very tense.
"Yes, I was protecting myself."
"And Darla?"
"And Darla." Atros was uncertain. His hand unconsciously moved
toward his boot knife. He pretended to tighten the lacings.
"It wasn't a simple mugging, was it?" Pravo asked forcefully.
"You seem to know a great deal about it." Atros still hoped to
diffuse the situation. He tried to appear relaxed and calm, though
if anything he was more anxious than the older man appeared.
"The word of murder in the streets travels quickly. And you told
me something of it last night."
"I did?" Atros paused. "Yes, I suppose I did."
"But it wasn't just a mugging, was it?"
"No, I don't believe so," Atros responded tentatively. He still
couldn't predict which way the confrontation would go.
Pravo sighed then admitted, "Atros, I've debated betraying you
to the city guard since you arrived last night bloodied and torn."
"Why didn't you? I am really just a stranger to you."
"I don't know. I'm harboring a murderer and I don't know...."
Pravo's voice softened as the tension of the past few moments began
to drain from his pores.
"At first, I couldn't because Darla needed immediate help.
Later, I saw how much she loves and trusts you. I just
couldn't....." Pravo shuffled his feet and brushed back his straggly
graying hair. He was so occupied by his own thoughts that he had
missed Atros' flinch at his mentioning of love.
"Also, you intrigue me. We are alike and yet unlike. I've
studied legends and myths all my life yearning for the mysterious
and the exotic, and you appear on my door step late one night. I
honestly don't know what I should do."
"But it's not just that, is it?"
"No, it isn't. But you'll have to let me keep my own secrets,"
Pravo said with a touch of humor.
Atros chuckled and agreed.
"You promised last night to tell me your story. Maybe that will
help me make my decision."
"You've already decided or you wouldn't have said anything to
me," Atros accused playfully.
"Maybe," Pravo smiled broadly, "but you still owe me that story."
"I owe you a bit more than that, but if it will make you happy,
I will try. You will pardon me if I omit details to protect myself?"
"I doubt that I could force a full confession from you," Pravo
responded a bit sarcastically.
"True. Well, where should I begin?" Atros said settling back.
"How did you learn so much? Where were you educated?" Pravo was
suddenly transformed into an over eager schoolboy.
"I was the third son of a minor lord on a manor far to the east
of here. I was trained to read and write by the parish priest
because I was supposedly destined to the ministry, though I never
really felt a religious conviction. I was more interested in
scholarly pursuits even then. My childhood was relatively normal,
though I had little time for anything but labor of some sort."
"That is hardly what I expected," Pravo interrupted. "I thought
you were a street urchin or at least a city resident."
"No, not until much later," Atros began, paused, and resumed, "I
lived quite contentedly on the manor until my late childhood. Then,
I began to experience peculiar dreams. Frightening dreams. The
dreams changed me."
"What were the dreams like?" Pravo tooking a stool opposite Atros.
"Oh it is difficult to remember specifics now. I was very
confused at that time. But most the dreams were about other places
and other cultures. Upon awakening I could remember bits and pieces
of things which were very unsettling.
"At first I told everyone about my dreams. Slowly, my family and
friends grew frightened of me. Frightened of the strangeness in my
dreams and the reflection of this strangeness in me. Rumors of
possession spread quickly. My father decided that I should be sent
to a distant monastic retreat. I assented, of course. I would never
have gone against my father's wishes. Not then.... But the retreat
wasn't dedicated to scholasticism as I had been lead to believe. I
discovered that it was a prison for undesirables: the diseased...the
deformed...and the insane. I was kept in that place for many months.
I will not tell you what the conditions were like, but during that
time I lost a portion of my sanity. The boundary between dreams and
wakefulness slipped away. I lived fully and completely in my
dreams." Atros paused for long moments.
"You eventually escaped?" Pravo prompted after some time.
"In a way, I was released. I convinced the jailers to free me."
The volume of Atros' voice trailed off in mid sentence.
"That easily? You just spoke to them and they released you?"
"Yes, something like that. Over the years, they'd grown rather
shaky of mind themselves. I played on their fears until they
complied with my wishes." Atros paused then continued, "My mind was
still very disordered. After leaving the asylum, I drifted,
inhabiting slums and deserts, doing things I now regret. With time
reason returned. I fought to drive off the dreams and I have
continued that fight ever since," Atros said finishing up quickly.
"But where did you read so much? What library has so many books?"
"I hoped to find release from my dreams in research. I traveled
widely and searched broadly."
"You understand this, don't you?" Pravo asked in Cantonian, a
long dead tongue of the region.
"Yes, I've picked up a number of languages," Atros admitted
without thinking.
"You could not have learned that from books, the Cantonese used
runes not an alphabet. Who taught you such a thing?"
"Perhaps your friend Baughis?" Atros suggested.
"No, Baughis is too lazy to learn ancient languages. Who taught
you, Atros?" Pravo nearly demanded.
"To tell the truth, I don't remember. I simply understood your
meaning. The tongue is related to the dialects still spoken in the
far east where I have traveled. I picked things up as was necessary."
"I'm not entirely satisfied with your answer, but I realize that
I'm not likely to get any better response... You still have many
secrets, Atros."
"Yes, they are necessary."
"Have you had any sorcerous training? I'd think you'd have a
talent for that sort of thing."
"No, only theory. I know nothing useful."
"Unfortunate, if true." Pravo was deciding that vague answers
were more annoying than mysterious.
"Perhaps it would be even more unfortunate if I did."
"I don't get your meaning." Pravo paused, but Atros did not
volunteer anything. "Well, then never mind. You're not planning to
leave the house today, are you? Captain Koren is searching the
streets for someone of your description."
"Then last night's fight was seen by someone?"
"No, apparently only your bandaging of Darla after the combat."
"Hhm. Well, they did ambush us."
"So you say. Who was the man who helped you with Darla? A short
elderly man in a light coloured cloak. A physician of some sort?"
"An ally who most probably saved our lives."
"Hhm. Then he killed the men found in the street?"
"Men? There was only one body when I left."
"Two dead they say."
"Two? Hhm...possibly..." Atros drifted off into deeper thoughts.
Growing tired of Atros' show of cryptics and poetics, Pravo was
rather glad to remember his hunger. An offer of food was quickly
accepted by his guest. They spent several minutes in the preparation
and consumption of a large, early dinner.
After the meal was completed, Atros and Pravo settled in
comfortable chairs in the study just off the main entryway. Atros'
soreness lingered on, but the worst of his pain was already over. In
any case, the effects of a thick, warm mead helped deaden what
discomfort remained.
"Pravo, I must go...." Atros said slowly.
Pravo interrupted, "I thought we'd been over this. You are not
well and the city guard are looking for you. You will go nowhere,
it's not safe."
"No, Pravo, hear me out. There is more to it than that."
"Okay, what is it?"
"I must go... and I must stay. I'm still being sought after both
by the guard and by the men who attacked us last night.... They want
me, not Darla. By being here, I endanger her. If I leave I will draw
them off. But I also must stay and protect her. But my being here is
likely to attract notice.... What did you tell the healer of me?"
Atros asked suddenly.
"Why, nothing. He never saw you."
"But I lay in the entryway last night.?."
"Yes, but I brought him through the servant's entrance. It was
more convenient. He never saw you."
"How did you explain Darla then? He did see her."
"Yes, of course. I told him that she is my servant and that she
had fallen in the cellar. He has his own ideas no doubt, but they
don't matter. I can trust him, he will say nothing to anyone without
first consulting me."
"How can you be so certain?"
"He's kept my confidences in the past, besides he cannot afford
my displeasure even at the expense of lying to the guard."
"It's not the guard of whom I'm concerned...You do trust him
completely?" Atros belabored the point.
"Yes, as completely as is reasonable."
"Good. And I am forced to trust you....You will take care of
Darla should I decide to go?"
"I still think you should stay, but yes, of course, I would not
let you move her. Not so soon."
"Good. I don't think anyone could trace us here except through
your healer..whom you trust..Our meeting last night was fortuitous."
"Yes, it was."
"You haven't suggested that I should turn myself in.?."
"No. My impression was that my suggestions carried little weight."
"No, I am still considering. I am taking you for your word in
the matter of the healer, the weakest link in our safety. Don't
think that I don't appreciate what you've done. It's just that there
is much more to this business than you know...more than you could
know. In the end the decision is mine."
"Then I will leave you. I will be reading by Darla's bedside."
"Good, call me if she awakes," Atros said to Pravo as he departed.
Atros tried to reason out his situation. Though he would not
insult the old man by saying so, he believed Pravo was poorly
qualified to protect Darla, though he did seem devoted to her care.
To leave and continue his investigations, he must find someone
capable of guarding her well. But he must leave to find such a
person. He knew that in the end he would serve both Darla and
himself better if he tried to uncover the parties involved rather
than waiting for them to find him. He could not entrust his errands
to anyone else. Also, though he denied it to himself, Atros wanted
to leave Darla and Pravo. He had exposed his own weaknesses to them
last night and now felt shame. But though such feelings influenced
his decisions, Atros would never admit them in his carefully ordered
patterns of reasoning. Finally Atros decided that he would leave
Darla and Pravo, at least temporarily, on the basis that since he
was in poor condition himself, he could not hope to defend Darla
alone. His immediate presence or absence had little effect on
Darla's safety. He realized that he would be taking a chance if he
went abroad now, particularly since he would have to return to some
of his recent haunts, but he believed that the benefits outweighed
the potential hazards.
Rising, he went to Darla's room and told Pravo of his decision.
He promised to return before morning unless he was being followed.
Pravo once again tried to dissuade Atros from leaving (he half
expected never to see Atros again) but fell silent once he realized
that Atros could be more stubborn than himself.
Atros left using the servant's entrance, which proved to be more
discrete. He wore a short brown cloak with the hood up, which did
not unduly attract attention as the night had already grown cold. He
proceeded to the tenement where he had been staying through an
indirect route over well traveled streets. He saw groups of city
guardsmen twice (Where had they been last night?) but passed by them
without incident.
Arriving at the inn, he was recognized by the landlady which
gave him a momentary start. The landlady seemed to know something
was in the air because she quietly signaled him into a covered
stairway for a private conference. The grubby matron told Atros that
men had broken into his apartment that morning but were gone now. As
soon as she completed that statement Atros launched himself up the
stairway and through his front door. The sight which greeted him
wrenched at his gut.
The room had been ransacked for some unknown purpose. The simple
wooden table Atros had used as a desk was overturned, the stiff back
chairs broken. Papers splattered with dried ink lay everywhere. But
it was the absence of the piles of books that drew Atros' attention.
Looking about the rummage he could see a few scattered about, but
not nearly enough to account for them all. With fear in his heart
Atros turned to the stone fireplace, the view of which was
obstructed by the overturned table.
As he dreaded, the charred remains of dozens of volumes were
apparent. Atros sank to his knees, his hands sifting idly through
the remains of the irreplaceable tomes. Atros' head fell back, his
voice a screech of pain. "FOR THIS THERE WILL BE BLOOD!" he vowed to
the heavens. For long moments his ears were filled by the sound of
his agonized heart and the dry sobs of his breathing.
Then he heard the drone of a voice, some one had been addressing
him for sometime. He turned to see the landlady had entered the
room. She was explaining why she hadn't called the guard yet, why it
wasn't her fault that they got in, why she couldn't be expected to
protect her tenants from armed men. Atros didn't care.
He asked her to completely describe the men. She said that there
had been three. It seemed she had an eye for detail. But after much
questioning, Atros was sure that their leader had been the man who
had struck Darla last night. They all seemed to be hired swords, he
could try the local mercenary groups and taverns. Still, his chances
were rather dismal in a city as large as Dargon. Atros told the
landlady that she had been right not to involve the city watch and
that he would be paying for the damages and vacating as soon as he
sorted through his things. She left with a few more coins in her
greasy bodice, satisfied.
Atros first discovery was that the vandals had been careless. A
few of the most ancient tomes were proof against fire and had
survived unscathed. Some others were only partially consumed. Atros
sorted through the ashes with a full inventory of the room's
contents in mind. It did not take long to realize that about one
third of the books were still missing. These seemed to be either
highly ornate tomes or books written in the script of Baranur, which
included several of Atros' personal journals. Obviously, an
uneducated ruffian had chosen which books to steal and which to
destroy based on superficial appearances. Atros would teach that
person what it was to play god.
Atros quietly gathered his salvageable belongings. In doing so
he noticed a note which had lain face down on the floor. The note
was on high quality vellum but was written in a rough hand. It read:
Raffen Yeggent,
We grow tired of pursuing you. Now it is your turn to
come to us. Go to the abandoned millery east of Dargon as
soon as you are able. We don't have to tell you not to
involve outsiders.
Balthus
Atros decided it was about time to see a friend. He left that
boarding house for the last time making sure that he was not
followed. The burden he carried from that place weighed heavily on
his weakened frame.
-Joseph Curwen
Injury
Nathan half supported and half carried Lana through the streets
of Tench. He espied his goal and made way to the door. After a few
brief raps an older man, balding with a salt and pepper beard
answered. His eyes opened wide at the sight of the bloody mess that
was Lana. "Quickly man, bring her in and lay her on my table here"
he gestured.
"Doctor, please, help her" Nathan pleaded.
The doctor pulled out a small knife and began to cut away the
ragged clothing hanging over and in the wounds. "What the devil
happened! She looks like she's been mauled."
"It was her twin" he replied "she had some sort of giant ferret
with her, and sicced it on Lana. The bitch didn't call it off til it
had nearly killed her."
The doctor frowned as he worked over the wounds, he hadn't seen
anything nearly as bad since he was a doctor with Morion's company
years ago. Still, he knew what had to be done. He looked up "Nathan,
fetch the headsman, and tell the blacksmith to heat his irons."
"No" Nathan said unbelievingly, "not that."
The doctor looked deep into Nathan's eyes "It's that or her life
lad, I've seen wounds this bad before, and this is the only sure way
to do it."
Lana groaned again, fighting her way to consciousness. "Easy
lass" the doctor said "you've lost much blood, just lie still."
Nathan hovered near her, holding her good hand "just rest Lana"
he whispered. Nathan stood, and with a last agonizing look, raced
from the building to see to the tasks the doctor had ordered.
A New City
Tara packed up her equipment and carefully arranged it on her
horse, Boxter. She shivered in the early morning damp. Running a
cold camp the night before hadn't helped, but with the warnings
she'd heard and Lana's threats on her life there was no point taking
chances. Tara knelt down to check the bandages on Zed's ear. The
shivaree didn't seem much worse for the wear considering that Lana
had cut off most of his ear when he attacked her. Tara's own wound,
a shallow slice across her chest just below her breasts was minor as
well, the bandage serving only to keep the dirt out, and to keep her
from scratching it when it itched. Which it did now with a vengeance.
All packed up she worked her way to the road and headed towards
Dargon, mounted on Boxter and with Zed trailing behind. Tara
traveled this way for a week, occasionally scrambling off the road
and hiding in the forest when a larger party came her way. The
shivaree's keen senses detecting the groups long before they
themselves were sighted. Finally after a week of careful traveling,
cold camps, and preserved foods bought in Tench, they came over a
rise and saw the sea, a town, and the three legendary spires of
Dargon keep.
Tara stopped at the crest of the rise, and stared at the
bustling city she had set as her goal so long ago. Just a little
over two weeks before bandits had raided her town, murdered her
parents, a fired the farm, it seemed like a lifetime ago.
She nudged Boxter into motion set forth on the final leg of her
journey. She would arrive at dusk, too late to search for her uncle
but in time to seek out an inn and a hot dinner. She reached the
outskirts with no trouble. As she penetrated into the more populated
parts of town the shivaree drew many stares and interested looks.
Since she was exhausted from her journey Tara decided to go to
the first inn she came to. This evening that inn happened to be the
Inn of the Hungary Shark. She looped her reins around the hitching
post and walked into the inn. The inside of the inn was set up more
like a tavern. There was no typical desk as the other inn she had
seen in Tench. There was already a small crowd gathered for drinks
and good cheer. Tara decided to try the bartender. She walked up and
took a seat at the bar. When the bartender approached her she looked
at him with a hopeful smile.
"You'll have to leave the ferret outside miss" the bartender
told her.
"Oh, yes, certainly" she answered "but perhaps I could have a
room and stable space in which to put him. And he's not a ferret,
he's a shivaree."
"I see, it's a room you want" he smiled. He turned and called
"Dilp get out here, we've got a customer."
Presently a boy in his teens appeared "yes Thomas, you called?"
Thomas the bartender pointed to Tara, "stable her shivaree and
any other critters she's got, sign her in, and take her stuff to
room 219, now hop to it boy."
Dilp turned to her "This way please lady...?" he asked quizically.
"Tara, just Tara" she told him. Soon Boxter was in his stall
with fresh hay and straw while Zed was put in another pen with water
and meat scraps on the way. Then Dilp took her to the bar where he
pulled out a rather largish leather bound book. He opened it a
little more than midway through, made some marks and asked Tara for
her full name. "Tara n'ha Sansela" she replied.
He made a few more marks and presented the page to her and
handed her the quill, freshly dipped in ink. "Please" he said "put
you mark right here" and he pointed down where he had just written.
Tara scrawled an X there like there appeared at most of the other
entries. Dilp then picked up the pile of her stuff they had taken
off Boxter and showed her to a room upstairs.
It was about fifteen feet deep and ten feet wide with an eight
foot ceiling. There was a large feather bed and a dresser. The room
was lit by an oil lamp which Dilp ignited after he put her gear
down. "Do you wish to have dinner brought up here or will you be
dining in the common room tonight?" Dilp inquired.
Tara smiled "I think in the common room tonight, I haven't had
much company lately." Satisfied with that he went down stairs to
resume his duties.
Tara used the wash basin on the dresser and attached mirror to
wipe off the road dust she had accumulated on her trip. When she was
finally satisfied she went down to the common room and with a word
to Thomas had her dinner served at one of the tables. She enjoyed
her dinner to the tune of a bard who was singing tonight. As she ate
she noticed a sad looking woman with a silver half-mask covering her
face, and her equally odd companion who's face was hidden in the
shadows of his cloak hood. After dinner and early in the evening
Tara returned to her room and fell into a deep slumber.
Tench
Lana awoke, blinking in the mid afternoon sunlight that was
streaming into the room. Across the room in a cushion armchair
slumbered a haggard looking young man, in twenties perhaps? He
looked like he'd been there a week without changing. He had brown
hair and a thin beard, a bit shy of six feet in height and slimly
built. Somehow he looked familiar. Nathan. Now she remembered, she's
had several dalliances with him the times she had been in Tench.
Suddenly it came back to her. The girl who looked so much like her,
and ruined her reputation. It would take a number of killings to
remind people that Lana was not one to be trifled with. She'd have
killed the girl if that giant rodent hadn't attacked her. Lana tried
to brush her hair out of her eyes, but nothing happened. She looked
where her left arm was supposed to be. There was nothing but a
bandaged stump. Lana let out a tremendous scream of shock and rage.
Nathan awoke with a start and tumbled out of his chair. He
looked up and saw Lana staring at the stump where her left arm, her
fighting arm used to be. They'd had to remove it, the damage was so
great. The headsman had chopped it off with one true blow, while the
blacksmith had cauterized it, stopping bleeding and infection. They
still had almost lost her. Lana had lain unconscious for over a week.
He stayed at her side, leaving only to relieve himself. After what
they'd been to each other could he do any less?
Lana stared at her stump, realizing that she'd be helpless in
any kind of fight. Once word spread she'd be unable to come to
Tench. Her enemies were far more willing to draw swords than her
friends. It was all that little peasant girls fault, and she must
pay! The young man sat down on the bed and held her to him. A
pointless exercise she thought, but still strangely comforting.
Looking For Uncle
Tara rose mid morning, having slept uncharacteristicly late.
Still, the journey was long and she had needed the rest. She dressed
and went down to the stables to check on Boxter and Zed. Both were
in fine shape, Zed never the less was pleased to see her. She
checked his ear, which was healing quite well. Her own wound had
scabbed over and ceased to itch. She returned to the inn and had a
good breakfast.
As she ate she reviewed in her mind what she knew about her
uncle. He'd left their village some twenty summers before, seeking
to make his fortune. The last they'd heard from him he'd become a
guardsman in the city of Dargon. He'd also cast aside his peasant
name of Glenn and started using the more aristocratic sounding
Adrunian Koren. There hadn't been word of him since, but that night
after the raid, her father's ghost had sounded so certain he would
be here, unless it was after all, a dream.
Tara set out into the city just an hour before the the sun
reached it's highest point in the sky. She quickly located a shop
where she could buy a new outfit, and then a bath house where she
could clean the road grime from her body. Tara felt much better all
cleaned up and with a fresh tunic, new boots, and a fine cloth
skirt. She girded on her father's sword and set out to search for
some guardsman to ask about her uncle.
Before long she ran across a patrol making it's rounds through
the markets. Tara hurried up to the leader of the group and caught
his attention. "What can I do for you lass" he grinned.
Tara curtsied and answered "I am Tara n'ha Sansela, and I am
looking for my uncle."
The officer laughed "I'm Lieutenant Kalen Darklen at you service,
but I'm afraid finding misplaced relatives is a little out of our
line of work. We're here to keep order. Where did you see him last?"
Tara giggled "I've never met him, he left home before I was
born." Seeing the look forming on Kalen's face she hurriedly added
"but I know he 's a guardsman, or at least was one for awhile".
Kalen looked thoughtful "what's his name then?"
Tara looked at him "The name he uses here is Adrunian Koren."
Kalen Darklen's eyes widened and several of the guardsmen
mumbled to each other. Tara thought she heard someone say "Captain
Koren", but she wasn't sure. She was positive however that these men
recognized the name.
"Well, well" the Lieutenant said "perhaps you'd better walk along
with us, I just may know the gentleman you seek." The troop made
it's rounds without incident, making it's way back to the guards
quarters in Dargon keep. Kalen dismissed his men and bade Tara
follow him. He led her through several passages and corridors to an
office. In the office was a large man with Iron grey hair and a
great walrus mustache. He wore a blue uniform jacket with gold
epaulets and brass buttons. He looked up from his paperwork as Tara
and Kalen entered.
"Good day Lt. Darklen, what have you brought me today?" he
rumbled, his voice seeming to come in a gravely way from the depths
of his chest.
Kalen answered "Captain Koren, this lady claims to be your niece."
"Oh really now" the Captain said, focusing icy blue eyes on Tara
"and what proof do you bring me that you're my niece? and what is
your name anyway?"
Tara was startled, she hadn't stopped to consider that she would
have to prove her identity. "Um" she said brightly "your real name
is Glenn, and your brother was Samuel."
"Was?" he asked, looking at her strangely.
"Yes, he and my mother and the rest of the village were
murdered by bandits."
He was staring at her sword, "let me have a look at that blade
of yours". She drew her sword and handed it to him. The Captain
looked up "Kalen, get my sword will you? the one the Bichu fellow
got back for me." Kalen pulled a sword off the wall where it was
mounted and handed it to Captain Koren, who then placed next to
Tara's sword. After a moment a strange look appeared on his face.
"Where did you get this" he asked, indicating the sword.
"It was my father's, I took it from him when I buried him and
mother" Tara replied, brought near tears by the memory.
Koren looked at her "My brother and I were given these matching
swords when each of us reached his majority. Come Tara my niece,
come give your uncle a hug." And they hugged each other for a long
time, as Kalen stood there, pleased to have made this pretty young
girl, and his friend and commanding officer Adrunic Koren so happy
by bringing them together.
A Seed of Vengeance
The smell of roast pheasant filled Lana's nostrils. Nathan was
serving her dinner in bed. She was still too weak from blood loss
and hunger to get up. Nathan had been treating her exceptionally
well since she'd awaken. He was behaving better than any other man
she had known. He had tried to take nothing from her, not her money,
her body, nor had he tried to use her for her skills, ever.
Nathan carefully sliced the pheasant and piled it high on Lana's
plate. He knew she would only get better with plenty of rest and
nutrition. He was happy to be taking care of her, but he didn't know
what to do about her sulking about the loss of her arm. It was to be
expected, the loss of a limb would disturb anyone, and especially a
warrior like Lana. But he would continue care for her as long as she
would permit him.
"Nathan" she said, staring absently at the ceiling "the doctor
says I'll be well enough to travel in another week. I have too many
enemies in Tench, I'll have to leave."
Nathan looked at her intently "but where will you go? what will
you do?"
"I'll go to Baranur, I have money, lands, and connections there.
I'm been saving away for the day when I would have to retire. It
looks like that day came sooner than I ever imagined."
"Surely you knew something like this could happen any time, with
the kind of life you lead."
"Yes Nathan, but not this soon, and not because of some amateur.
An amateur with my face! It wasn't even honorable, sending that
overgrown rodent after me! And that Nathan, is why I am going to
kill her. I can't go after her myself, but I am going to kill her."
"But how Lana, how? You won't be in any shape to go after anyone
for quite awhile."
"I'm going to Baranur, Blastomere, is there. I have enough gold
socked away to pay him. But I need your help Nathan, I need your
help to travel to Baranur. I cannot go alone like this. Will you
come with me Nathan?"
Nathan sat in his arm chair for a few moments, deep in thought,
not looking at anything. Then, his decision made, he turned to Lana
"Yes, I shall go with you, and I shall help. I am yours to command."
-Rich Durbin
Reference A
"...toiled and wrought long and hard, and harnesser of the
Yrmenweald, the great Master Staff, was completed after many, many
cycles (1). Swithwald, the most exalted Master of the Clear Fire
Weavers (2), completed the bindings between the (an untranslateable
rune - a name?) (3) source and the Master Staff, and left the siring
of the lesser staves to the rest of his brotherhood, being exhausted
nigh unto death by his feat. And so was the way forged for us to
become the most powerful ever seen in Keinald's Demesne (4)..."
Reference B
"...it was commanded by our King to set down herein the manner
by which was hidden the access to the Source. Once my pen has
darkened these pages with that information, then shall the Weavers
remove all knowledge of what has been so recorded from the minds of
the Sons of Aelther (5). Thus shall the might of our nation be safe
from our enemies. This tome shall be in the keeping of my Office
until time ends, and with it, the supremacy of Fretheod (6), and the
Sons of Aelther."
Reference C
"The demise of the Fretheod Empire is an oddity. At one time,
they were the masters of all lands, unconquerable, ever spreading
their empire to all points of the globe. Legend has it that they
maintained their supremacy through a magical construct, what they
called the Master Staff, and a collection of lesser staves somehow
linked to the Master one. The lesser staves, carried by all captains
of war, and all exploring parties, could draw upon the power of the
Master Staff, enabling the bearers to accomplish amazing feats of
foresight. Where the Master Staff got its power, or exactly what
that power was, no one now knows.
"In the final days of the Fretheod Empire, civil war broke out -
the first ever in the long history of the Sons of Aelther. Twins
were born to the ruling monarch, Queen Earnfled. As the two sons,
Osgeofu and Tilgeofu, grew to maturity, it became apparent that they
were alike in only their looks. Everyone knew that Osgeofu, being
first by mere minutes into the world, would inherit the Empire,
becoming the next monarch. But, everyone wished that Tilgeofu would
have that honor, being the more noble, kind, and strong of the pair.
Osgeofu was petty, cruel, and just short of a coward. But the laws
of the Sons of Aelther were inflexible, leaving only one way for the
people to get the desired person onto the throne - revolution.
"Tilgeofu did not instigate the civil war, but there was a large
faction of the nobles who refused to submit to the reign of Osgeofu.
They organized, planned, arranged, and finally struck. But, Osgeofu
was aware of the unrest, and he had planned, too. So, the planned
quick coup turned into a long and bitter battle, and eventually into
a full war.
"In the second month of the war, the Queen died. Osgeofu crowned
himself, and declared Tilgeofu's followers outlaws. The war began to
go against the rebel brother, but Fretheod was suffering more.
"At the end of the Fourth month, the last remnant of the
instigating faction, along with Tilgeofu, penetrated the Palace, and
made it to the throne room. There, Tilgeofu confronted his brother.
With the people loyal to him rioting in the streets, Tilgeofu
demanded his brother's abdication. Osgeofu refused until Tilgeofu
threatened him with Huaetec, the Royal Sword of State. The king,
cowed by the threat, stepped down from the throne, but, before
removing his crown he smashed the head of the Master Staff on the
stone floor of the throne room, and then cracked the polished wood
length across his knee. Then, laughing and shouting, "If I cannot
have it, no one can!", he dashed to a window and leaped through it,
still wearing the crown. He was torn to shreds by the mob outside.
"Shortly thereafter, a neighboring kingdom, formerly in thrall
to the Fretheod Empire, revolted, and attacked the barely recovered
nation. Fretheod tried to hold firm, but something was gone out of
the Sons of Aelther. They still fought as fiercely as before, and
they had superior numbers, despite the harrowing war, but their
masterful leadership was gone. Their generals made stupid mistakes,
and were led into obvious traps. Tilgeofu sent his Skaldric,
Tarhela, across the sea to get help, but Tarhela never returned.
"It took a long time for Fretheod to die. Even after that first
invasion razed the capitol and killed Tilgeofu and his sons it took
many years for the far-flung colonies of the Sons of Aelther to
fail, or to become nations in their own right. Eventually only the
name remained.."
Reference D
"...I fear that I have failed my King. The storm that blew us
off our course has only just died away, leaving the ship a near
wreck, and us utterly lost. I watch now as the captain stands at the
wheel, cursing the gods, the sea, the wind, even the King, as he
brandishes one of the now useless Son Staffs upon which he used to
depend. Such a storm would never have caught a ship of Fretheod
unawares before Osgeofu's treachery.
"I have in my posession the Tome of the Yrmenweald, passed down
from Skaldric to Skaldric since the beginning of the Time of the
Master Staff. It was the only hope my King had of regaining the
power of the Master Staff and saving our people. But, we know not
where we are, and so the chances of happening on the citadel that
holds the secrets are almost none. Wudamund might as well be on the
larger moon for all we can get to it now. Only by the will of
Keinald will Tilgeofu and Fretheod now be saved..."
Reference A - Translation of the "Tome of the Yrmenweald", by
Hrothgrim the Skaldric, page 185.
Reference B - Translation of the "Tome of the Yrmenweald", by
Hrothgrim the Skaldric, page 421.
Reference C - From the "History of the Ancient World", Volume 4,
by Trenta, Historian and Chronicler to King Vulpa
of Baranur, pages 231-233.
Reference D - Excerpt from the personal log of Tarhela, Skaldric
to Tilgeofu, page 642 (the second to last leaf).
Footnotes:
(1) A cycle is approximately the period of the Moon from New to
New. It equates roughly to one month.
(2) The Clear Fire Weavers were the cream of the crop of the
wizards of the land, distinguished by passing a fatal test
involving binding and controling elemental fire.
(3) Not only is the figure untranslateable, but it resembles
nothing remotely similar to any rune or figure in the
entire lexicon of the Fretheod - it seems to be an alien
inclusion, perhaps from another language.
(4) Keinald is the Over-god of the Fretheod, and the world is
considered to be his personal property.
(5) Aelther was (in legend) the first man to set foot upon the
shores of the land that became the home of the Fretheod.
Thus do the people of the Fretheod honor the first of
sailors.
(6) Fretheod was, at one time, the foremost Empire in the world,
spanning all the known lands of the time and finding more
all the time. They were inveterate colonizers, and their
markers - stone pillars or obelisks with sticklike writing
on them - can be found in almost every area of the world
now traveled.
Part I
The Thief
Ka'lochra'en stood before the huge, intricately carven doors of
the Bardic College, and wondered (as usual) if it would work. He was
a skilled thief of a special type - he didn't snatch and run, but
rather he spent a lot of time and preparation planning his thefts,
and making them as perfect as possible. Often, that meant assuming a
role, as he was now doing, or in some other way infiltrating the
premises of his target openly and making sure that he was not a
suspect in the crime. He found his own method of work to be much
preferable to that of the average thief, and it meant that he could
go after larger marks and enjoy the money he got for his services
without having to hide from reprisals.
But, no matter how foolproof his plans, or how perfect his
impersonation was, he always worried just before he began a job. He
let himself run over the details in his mind, reviewing his cover
story, assuring himself that he knew the layout of the place and the
exact location of the book. He thought that it was this worry that
had kept him alive so long - he had been in the business for over 15
years, and had never been so much as suspected of one of his crimes.
He was being well paid by a mysterious man to get a book out of
the College's main vault. The man, who refused to name himself or
give any details about the book, had provided the keys to the vault.
Ka'en had wondered aloud why the man needed his help to get the book
when he had the keys. The man had said that no one must know that
the book was missing, and that Ka'en was renowned for making things
disappear mysteriously. The number of gold coins that the man
offered got Ka'en to take the job, despite his misgivings.
Taking a deep breath and assuring himself that he was as
prepared as possible, Ka'en continued up the steps. His green cloak
was an exact copy of one worn by a bard. He wore a nondescript sword
and a leather harp-case on his back, though the case was empty and
padded. And, most importantly, he wore around his neck an absolutely
authentic Rank pendant. He had gotten it from Bellen, a disreputable
ruffian who, nevertheless, had ways of procuring certain things. He
had proved to be reliable before, and so when Ka'en had put out
feelers for a bardic Rank pendant, it had been just a few days
before Bellen had turned up with one. Ka'en hadn't asked where he
had gotten it, staving off Bellen's eager attempts to tell him
anyway. He had given the ruffian the five crowns he had promised
(which wasn't even a decent fraction of what he had already been
paid for the book), and had continued to prepare. He knew that the
Rank indicated was fairly high among the journeyman class. The owner
of the pendant had completed Eight of the Ten staves required before
advancement to Master class. That would make Ka'en's job both a
little easier and a little harder. Easier, because he, wearing that
pendant, would be taken for an important person. Harder, because
there weren't all that many Eighth Stave Bards proportionally, and
it might well seem suspicious that he was a stranger. But, the
opportunity was too good to pass up; he decided to take his chances.
A small nagging doubt remained in his mind - there was one thing
that would undo all of his planning. His second cousin,
Je'lanthra'en, a real Bard, would be able to unmask him if she
happened to be in residence. As he pushed the well-counterbalanced
massive doors open and entered the College, he decided to check on
Je'en's whereabouts with the option of aborting the mission if she
was in Magnus at that time.
Ka'en assumed his role as he strode purposefully through an
entrance hall as huge as the doors and tastefully ornate. It had
only one other door, much smaller, which led into the College
proper. Standing by the closed door was a young man wearing the red
sash of a SongWarder over his blue tunic and white hose.
"Greetings, brother," said Ka'en as he halted before the warder.
The young man in blue and white bowed formally to the tall,
tow-headed man in green cloak and proper pendant. "Welcome to the
College of Magnus, my Lord," said the warder, and shifted his weight
onto the plate in the floor that caused the inner door to open.
"Enter, and may all your needs and wants be fulfilled within."
"Perhaps you can assist me, brother," said Ka'en. "A friend of
mine, a travelling companion for a time, said she might be here this
month. I was wondering if you knew whether Je'lanthra'en was,
indeed, here?"
The face of the warder fell. He said, "I am sorry, my Lord, to
be the one to tell you this. Lady Je'en is in town, but she has
suffered an accident. Just this past week, in the Fifth Quarter. Her
injuries were severe, and she is being tended by Master Enowan in
the Palace. Did you know her well?"
Ka'en allowed his face to show the sorrow he did feel at the
news of Je'en accident, but he kept hidden the elation that he could
continue his night's work without fear of discovery. "Yes, brother,
I knew her well. I am sorrowed to hear of this. I leave again on the
morrow, but perhaps I will delay long enough to pay her a visit.
Thank you for the news, brother." And he passed through the inner
door shaking his head sadly for effect. He never made the connection
between the pendant he wore, the hints Bellen had tried to drop, and
the news of Je'en accident.
He went to see the seneschal of the College and got a room for
the night. He was in time for dinner and he actually enjoyed himself
at the meal, listening to the tales spun by the other bards and the
students as well. He had to supply a few, himself, but he had no
problem imitating the style of the others in the room. He also had a
vivid imagination so he managed to entertain the whole group as well
as any bard present.
He pretended to drink overmuch and finally excused himself from
the procedings with the excuse of needing sleep for his further
travels. He wasn't the first one to leave, so his going wasn't
unduly remarked. In other circumstances, he would have left with a
woman, and, after a little fun, he would have drugged her asleep for
the bulk of the night, providing himself with a "perfect" alibi.
But, he couldn't be sure that a bard wouldn't detect the drug in the
wine - bards were spooky that way, sometimes. So, he would just have
to rely on the image he had projected at dinner to prove he was who
he said he was.
He went up to his room in the sparsely populated Guest Wing
(larger than both the Student and Resident Wings put together) and
took a small nap, waiting for the college to fall asleep.
The Job
Ka'en's inner clock woke him shortly after midnight. The
intricately maintained time-lamp on the wall confirmed that his
personal alarm had worked properly, and the silence pervading the
wing attested to his choice of times. With a little care, Ka'en
would not be disturbed in his thieving.
Dressed in the black clothes packed in his harp case, carrying
the tools of his trade, and the keys to the vaults, Ka'en slipped
out of his room and down the stairs to the Leafy Atrium - a little
clear-domed hall that led from the work buildings of the College to
the three living wings. He crossed the open space, dimly lit by moon
light, and paused in the inky shade cast by the little garden in the
center of the hall that gave it its name. He waited to be sure that
no one was coming before moving on: the Atrium was where he was most
likely to run into someone.
He made it to the main building of the College without incident,
but just as he approached the stairs into the cellars, he heard
footsteps and voices. Hastily ducking into the nearest doorway, he
waited until he heard the three person parade fade into the distance.
Then, he heard a sound behind him. Turning lithely as a cat, and
as soundlessly, he noticed that the room wasn't empty. It was a
study room, adjacent to the main Library, equiped with a large table
and rather comfortable looking chairs. Perhaps too comfortable,
Ka'en thought. The sound he had heard was a stifled snore, which
repeated itself a few times more. A student was curled up in one of
the chairs, his candle burned down to a faint, blue glimmer amid a
pool of liquid wax, and the book he had been reading was lying on
the floor.
Ka'en paused for several more minutes before easing the door
open, and then shut again behind him, careful not to disturb the
sleeper. Silently blessing his fortune, and overzealous, sleepy
students, he padded to the stairs and continued down. When he
reached the third landing, he passed through the archway into that
cellar, leaving the mysteries of the still descending staircase for
someone else to explore.
There were more vaults in the cellars of the College than there
were in the Crown Castle, some said, and they were probably right.
Some also said that there was more wealth in the vaults of the
College than in all of the vaults the Kingdom of Baranur considered
its own. That, too, was probably correct, but there was more than
monetary treasure in those vaults. The Bardic College collected
knowledge, and art, and anything else that the wisdom of its leaders
commanded them to collect. Like old books.
Ka'en came to the correct door, just one of at least ten in the
long hallway. It was of a dull grey metal ten feet tall and three
wide. It stood out from the well carven walls of the hall even
though there wasn't a crack around the perimeter as most doors had.
There was also no handle, and no visible keyhole, either. But, Ka'en
knew what to do.
He took the first of the keys and measured its length eight
times from the floor up the right edge of the door, and then one
over. Two fingers' pressure moved a piece of the carving there
aside, revealing the first keyhole. He had been told to measure
carefully since the very similar carvings around the correct one
were traps, which would set off an alarm as well as incapacitate the
burglar in various ingenious ways.
Inserting the measuring key carefully into the hole it had
revealed, Ka'en turned it slowly to the left (right would have
released another trap). There was a faint snapping noise. He could
feel the key click as it turned. After the second click, he pushed
the key in hard and felt it sink home. A louder snapping noise
accompanied the appearance of the normal outline of a door on the
grey metal, as well as three triangular holes in the general region
of a normal keyhole.
Taking the second key from his belt pouch, Ka'en measured up the
left jamb of the now revealed door for nine of the shorter key
lengths and then four lengths to the left. The end of the key rested
on the center of one of many identical triangular projections, each
with an indented circle within each point. He pressed the indicated
triangle, and it sank deeply into the wall. There was a faint
whirring noise and after a few seconds the triangle reappeared with
the lower right circle glowing faintly. Ka'en inserted the second
key into the lower left hole in the door, and turned it. The proper
hole was different every time, or so his employer had said, selected
randomly with the pressing of the carving and indicated on that same
carving. The wrong hole or the wrong carving were, of course, traps.
When the second key had been turned all the way around, a
knob-like portion of the door popped out, just above the three
keyholes. Taking the third key, Ka'en inserted it slowly into the
center of the knob, deactivating the last trap on the door. He
turned the knob and the thick, but not heavy, door opened inward.
Relieved to have negotiated the complicated entry procedure,
Ka'en slipped inside after removing the three keys. His employer had
assured him that the door could be opened with ease from within, so
he closed the door behind him. When it met its frame, he was
astonished to see that it had become transparent. At least he would
have plenty of warning if someone tried to enter.
He turned his attention to the interior of the vault. This was
one of the College's knowledge vaults, which was just as well - no
temptation to take a little extra. The shelves and chests were
arranged just as the mysterious man had said. He went directly over
to the correct chest. It was the top one of a stack of four, so he
wouldn't have to worry about moving it to gain access.
Two more keys rested unused in his pouch; he retrieved the
first. The very thin leather gloves he was wearing allowed him to
trace the intricate lines graven into the side of the chest. He
found the hidden keyhole and unlocked the chest - the large,
normal-looking lock hanging where locks normally hung was yet
another trap.
He raised the lid and eyed the thick, leather-bound books
arranged neatly within. Carefully lifting the first tray out by the
handles, he set it on the floor and stacked the other three trays on
top of it. Taking the last key in hand, he pushed aside the lining
of the seemingly empty chest and released the hidden bottom. He
slipped the last key into the lock that bound his quarry into the
recesses of the false bottom of the chest with crossing straps of
iron, much like a cage. He carefully removed the required book. It
was light for its size and thickness. He traced the sticklike runes
laid in gold on the very light-colored leather of the cover, making
sure that they spelled out what the stranger had told him meant "The
Tome of the Yrmenweald".
Satisfied with his find, he placed the book in the other pouch
he carried. He relocked the cage and replaced the contents of the
chest as he had found them. With a brief glance around the vault, he
went back to the door. He surveyed the corridor through the
transparent door and eased it open without complicated precautions.
When he shut it behind him, it again became a featureless plane of
dull grey metal.
Ka'en made his way carefully back to his room, sure that he had
been undetected. He repacked his black clothes in the harp case,
adding the book to the bundle, and settled back on the comfortable
bed to sleep away the rest of the night.
The Payment
Ka'en left the College the next day with no suspicions trailing
him about his midnight activities. Once again, he had pulled off a
job successfully. He strolled casually out of town, following the
route he had hinted at the night before at dinner. Around noon he
reached his cache at the center of a stand of trees, sure that no
one had followed him. He changed clothes, burying the bardic ones
deep in the ground. Dressed as a nobleman traveler, he made his way
back to Magnus.
It was well after dark when he crossed the city limits. He made
straight for the rendezvous point, an inn called the Fighting
Unicorns. He knew that his employer would not still be there this
night, as his own wanderings to throw off any cunning trackers had
delayed him, but the inn was comfortable and cheap, and he wouldn't
mind a night in one of its large rooms.
The Fighting Unicorns was situated as near the Fifth Quarter as
any legitimate business could be without being part of that warren
filled with underworld characters. That was the reason that its
rooms were so inexpensive - few dared to brave the proximity of the
haven of thieves and murderers that was practically on the inn's
doorstep. So, its few patrons were coddled, in hopes that good
treatment would bring more business. It didn't - the dark alleys of
the Fifth Quarter were more powerful than word of mouth - but Sir
Hawk, the owner and proprietor, was an optomistic sort, so he kept
up the treatment, just in case.
Ka'en slept well and stayed in his room for most of the next
day. As sunset approached, he went down to the taproom to have dinner
and wait for his employer.
The food at the Fighting Unicorns was as cheap as the rooms and
the portions as large, so Ka'en ate more than his fill for just a
few small coins. When he finished, he ordered a large tankard of the
fine inn ale and settled back in his booth to await the completion
of his mission.
Sir Hawk did his best to make his inn very attractive to his few
customers, so there was some very fine entertainment once the
kitchen had closed. This night, there were several singers - not
bards, but persons with the talent who simply didn't wish to undergo
the rigors of full training - and two fine dancers. Ka'en was
enjoying the show so much that he had almost forgotten why he was
there. The ale, of which he had drunk less than half, had given him
a slight buzz, and he was very relaxed and comfortable just drinking
and watching the floor show.
His comfort was interrupted when a very lovely woman approached
his table. She was dressed finely, but manner of her dress and the
style with which she had painted her face, indicated that she was
one of the more classy of those who plied the horizontal trade.
She attracted the glances and stares of most of the other male
patrons of the tap, but her destination was firm, and she slid
herself into Ka'en's booth across the table from him. He said,
"M'lady, please, not tonight. I am meeting someone here and..."
The woman smiled sweetly and said, "I know." She reached out a
lovely slim arm and pulled the curtain of the booth closed, shutting
the two of them in. Before Ka'en could protest, the woman smiled
again and put a long finger to her lips, shushing him. She closed
her eyes and began to shimmer. Her whole form wavered and glittered
and the woman disappeared. In her place was the brown robed figure
of his mysterious employer.
The man said, "Very effective illusion, don't you think? You
have the book."
Ka'en nodded, and patted the large satchel resting beside him on
the seat. "You have the money?" he asked. The man in brown nodded in
turn, and pulled a very large black bag out of thin air and set it
down on the table with a hefty and satisfying clunk. Ka'en lifted
the satchel onto the table and pushed to toward his employer while
pulling the bag of coins closer to himself.
The two opened their bags of loot at the same time. Ka'en's eyes
went wide at the sight of all of that gold. The man in brown drew
out his newly purchased book and looked at it with almost the same
degree of avarice. After fingering the locking clasp on the old
volume, he put it away and looked up at Ka'en. "Is our deal
completed to your satisfaction?" he asked. Ka'en nodded. "The keys I
gave you are in the satchel, too?" Again, Ka'en nodded. The return
of the keys hadn't been part of the deal and Ka'en had considered
keeping them, but presumably they only opened that one vault and
there was nothing of overtly monetary value in it.
The man in brown smiled faintly, and said, "Then I shall take my
leave. It has been a pleasure doing business with you, sir." And,
without offering to shake hands on the completion of the deal, he
closed his eyes again. With much the same effect as before, save now
in reverse, the man in brown vanished, and the lovely whore
reappeared. Though the man had been holding the satchel, it had
seemingly now vanished. She/he opened the curtain and slid out of
the booth. After leaning back in to give Ka'en a little kiss that
utterly embarrassed him, she walked away with a "See you later"
thrown back over her shoulder.
Ka'en stared dumbly after the illusion of beauty long after it
had vanished through the doorway. He had suspected, faintly, that
his employer was a magician - who else would have that much of a
need for an old book - but the proof was unnerving. He didn't like
magic much - it was too unpredictable. And, he wondered again why a
magician needed his help to procure the book. He didn't know that
the College was protected from outside magic by the power of the
Crystal of Oathes.
When Ka'en recovered, he remembered that there was a large bag
of money sitting out in the open in front of him. Hastily, hoping no
one had noticed, he yanked it off the table and onto the seat beside
him. Unfortunately, he had not been fast enough.
Just as he was about to return to his room for one last night of
comfortable sleep before moving on, someone else slipped quietly and
quickly into the booth with him. Startled, Ka'en recognized Skar,
the leader of the group of cutthroats that Bellen ran with. Skar,
who was leering at him very unpleasantly, said, "Greetings, Kane.
And good business come your way lately?"
Ka'en, who was known to the underworld of Magnus as Kane, said,
"What business might it be of your's, Skar?"
"Well, friend Kane, perhaps we could share a little of that gold
you just got from that fancy whore as just left. You know, share the
wealth, eh?"
"What makes you think that she brought me that gold, and why
should I share it in any case?"
"I know she brought it because you didn't have it when you came
down them stairs earlier. And, 'cause if you had that much money,
you wouldn't be staying here, now would you.
"And, we should share, 'cause I know something that the town
guard just might like to hear. I don't know just what that tart
wanted you to do in the Singers' school, but I know that you bought
a Singer's pendant from Bellen. And if the High Singers check real
careful, I bet they find something missing, eh?
"'Course, my yearning to do my civic duty just might be
subverted with enough gold..."
Ka'en was appalled. This gutter rat was blackmailing him. Of all
the gall! What was worse, of course, was that his record was in
jeopardy now. He just might be caught, finally, and all because of a
little greed.
Skar said, "I think about half of what's in that black bag there
should keep my mouth shut - for a while, at least, eh?"
Ka'en, a resigned tone in his voice, said, "I guess I have no
choice, Friend Skar. How about a little privacy, though, so no one
else decides that they need a little of my hard won gold?" So
saying, he drew the curtain across the mouth of the booth, again
isolating it from the rest of the taproom. Lifting the sack of gold
back onto the table with one hand, he drew his last resort from
behind his belt buckle.
With the tiny dagger - not much more than a pin, really -
carefully concealed in his left hand, he opened the bag and began
counting out the gold into two piles. Skar greedily reached out for
his pile after it had grown to six coins, and Ka'en managed to
surreptitiously scratch his hidden dagger along one of those
reaching hands.
He continued to count for another minute or so. Then, Skar's
head jerked up, his eyes wide with shock and fear. "What did y..."
he began to say, but in mid word, he simply stopped moving. His eyes
continued to blink, slowly, but the rest of his body was immobile.
Ka'en returned the coins to his bag and his last resort to his
belt. Then, he took his still half filled tankard, and put it
between Skar's chilling fingers. Molding the thief like a wax dummy,
Ka'en shaped Skar into the position of a solitary drinker - hands
around the tankard, body leaned forward, head down and staring into
the depth of his ale. He also managed to work the thief's expression
into one of contemplation. Then, he eased himself out of the booth,
opening the curtain and closing it again on the dying gutter rat.
He was up well before dawn the next day, packed and ready to go.
He hadn't been able to sleep very well, though - he didn't like to
kill. He left two gold pieces on his pillow to settle (and much
more) his bill, and slipped out the back way. He decided not to
return to Magnus for a very long time.
Skar was found, dead, just as dawn came, and the taproom closed.
No cause of death could be found - the slight scratch on his hand
couldn't possibly have killed him, according to the official
reports. The authorities wanted to question one Baron Kanning, the
last person to be seen with him, but the noble in question had left
before dawn, leaving a hearty tip behind him. Skar was a known
ruffian, and a denizen of the Fifth Quarter, so the inquest was
closed after only a cursory attempt to find the Baron in question.
Most felt themselves well rid of the thief.
-John L. White
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME EIGHT NUMBER ONE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
*Ornate Love Jim Owens
Ceda the Executioner: 6 Joel Slatis
Date: 070887 Dist: 384
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
At long last, we have the first issue of the 1987 summer volume.
The delay since the last issue is certainly not due to lack of
submissions, as I currently have enough material on hand to send out
nearly five full issues. Why, then, has 8-1 not been sent out until
now? Well, as you will recall (if you read the Xeditorial in the
last issue), I am in the process of setting up shop so that FSFnet
will be available via standard US post for readers who do not have
computer accounts. I vowed that I would not send out 8-1 until I had
a firm policy for this. Therefore, it is with great pride that I
announce that FSFnet now supports hardcopy subscriptions.
Hardcopy subscriptions are available to the public at a cost of
$2.00 per issue for domestic orders, and $2.50 per issue for issues
sent abroad. These issues will be produced using Amiga desktop
publishing. Issues will be improving in the near future, as I am
planning on purchasing a new printer for that purpose, and I hope to
include graphics in the future. To receive a hardcopy subscription
to FSFnet, I need your full name, mailing address, and payment.
Please specify the number of issues your subscription will last, and
the payment should be the above rate multiplied by the number of
issues. Checks should be made payable to David A. Liscomb.
Correspondance may be addressed via electronic mail to
CSDAVE@MAINE.BITNET or via US post to David A. Liscomb, 221 C Center
Street, Bangor Maine, 04401 USA.
Now, as I mentioned, we have a backlog of stories waiting to be
printed, so future issues will be sent out very soon. Some
highlights include the continuation of Joel Slatis' "Ceda" epic, the
continuation of John White's "Treasure" series, several short
stories by new Dargon authors, several excellent Dargon stories by
Jim Owens, and my own "Legend in the Making". So watch your readers!
Also of note, several FSFnet writers (myself included) will be
attending the Society for Creative Anachronism's Pennsic War on
August 8-15. There will be a gathering of Dargon authors for their
own secret purposes, and all FSFnet readers are welcome to seek us
out. If you will be at Pennsic and wish to drop by, feel free to
contact me, and arrangements can be made.
Enough! Enough, I say! On to the issue at hand, if you will...
-'Orny' Liscomb
Ornate Love
Levy crouched low on his wildly galloping horse. Branches
swatted him across the face and chest. He glanced back. The wolves
were still following. He had shot several before he ran out of
arrows. He thought there were about seven of them. Levy and the
horse burst into a small clearing. Grass grew tall in the meadow.
Levy turned back just as they reached the far side. He had been
right: seven.
Levy Barel was the son of the mayor of a village near Dargon, a
city a little to the south. He was a blacksmith by trade, and just
about everything else by choice. He had just escaped from the
clutches of a minor lord, who had been coercing him into building
siege engines for a small war. In the process of escaping Levy had
managed to make a breach in said lord's keep, and that lord had
pursued Levy into the wilderness. Levy had been riding for two days
before the wolves had found his trail.
Levy lifted his gaze to the far trees. There was a path on the
other side of the field. Levy urged his horse on faster. The
exhausted beast responded weakly. The wolves kept up easily. Soon
the path dipped, running a few yards below the lip of a steep slope.
Levy drew his sword. To his left the slope dropped down,
disappearing into the trees. To his right, almost level with his
face, was the top of the slope. Levy knew the wolves would try to
move up beside him. He would have to fight them off. He just hoped
his horse had the strength to not fall.
He glanced quickly to his left. Through the treetops he could
see that he was in a valley, with a lake in the bottom. He was not
far from the lake. If he could somehow use that to his advantage...
He never got the chance. A flash of gray was the only warning he
got before one hundred pounds of hungry carnivore hurled itself at
him from the top of the slope. Levy smashed the wolf's skull with
his sword, but its body threw him off his horse. The impact knocked
Levy's breath out, and a moment later he blacked out when he cracked
his head on a tree trunk.
The next thing Levy knew he was rolling down a slope. He threw
out his arms, and managed to slow himself to the point where he
could get his feet under himself and slow to a jog. His head was
throbbing, along with the rest of his body. He felt his body with
his hands. He seemed intact, but all his possessions, including his
knife, were lost on the slope above. He could still hear the wolves.
He continued to jog down the slope, in hopes of reaching the water
before the wolves reached him. He could see the trees thin out
ahead, and the underbrush thicken. As he approached it, he could
start to hear the sounds of canine feet on the slope behind him. He
started to run.
He reached the undergrowth just as the first howl reached his
ears. He tried to crash through, but part of the way through his
foot caught on something. His still-pounding head spun as he pitched
forward. He crawled forward, out of the undergrowth. He looked up,
and saw her.
It would have been hard to tell which of the two was more
surprised. The last thing Levy expected to see in that wild area was
a young woman, dressed in flowing white. Judging from the expression
on her face, the last thing she expected was a battered and bleeding
stranger. Both, however, could hear the running animals following
close behind Levy, and both took what they thought was appropriate
action. Levy continued to try to reach the water, and she took her
ornately decorated staff in a firm, two handed grip.
When the first wolf burst from the bushes, she caught it with a
sharp blow to the head. There was a sharp crack, and the animal
crashed to the ground. The next animal caught her backstroke, and
also dropped. Neither moved after that. The rest of the animals were
more cautious. They formed a semi-circle around the two humans.
While the woman stood, braced for more action, Levy levered himself
up. He glanced around for a weapon. Pulled up on the flat beach was
a boat. In it were some long pieces of trimmed ash. He grabbed one,
and turned around in time to see her strike another wolf with her
staff. He realized that the decorations were made of multicolored
metal. He could also smell a strange smell in the air. The other
four wolves did not want to fall back. Levy leaped out at one of
them. He swung the ash branch, and connected with the animal. The
staff returned bloody. The wolf staggered. He swung again, and it
fell. He heard a now-familiar crack, and started to turn. Then the
world exploded in black.
When light returned to the world, Levy found himself lying on
something soft, in a cedar-scented area. He opened his eyes, and
promptly closed them again when a wave of pain took over his head.
He tried to soothe the ache with his hand, only to develop a world
of others the moment he tried to move. He finally realized that his
entire body hurt. It was then that he finally allowed himself the
luxury of a groan.
"Hello?"
Levy paused. The voice was beautifully feminine. He tried again
to open his eyes, but shut them tight once more. A cool, smooth hand
settled on his forehead.
"Can you understand me?"
"Uuuhhh..." It wasn't quite what Levy had in mind, but it was
all his tongue would produce. He swallowed and tried again. "Yes, I
can understand you."
Something cold and wet was placed over his eyes. "How are you
feeling?"
"Badly. I hurt all over. It hurts to open my eyes."
"I accidentally hit you with my staff. I couldn't wake you up
after that, and I'm afraid I dropped you a few times getting you
back to the house. I'm sorry."
"'S'all right. What of the wolves?"
"The last two ran off. I left the others there. They're probably
eaten by now. The wolves are hungry around here."
"So I see." Levy pushed the cloth aside and forced his eyes
open. The light stung, but he wanted to see who he was talking to.
"Who are you?"
Seeing her charge taking an interest in life once more, the
woman leaned back in her chair. "My name is Sarah."
Levy looked at her and at their surroundings. She was clothed in
a light blue dress, and the room was a rather large one, of
well-dressed logs. Light was streaming in slatted windows. It looked
like morning sunshine.
"What time is it?" Levy tried sitting up. Blackness threatened
to swallow him again, so he leaned back again.
"Mid-morning. I brought you here yesterday. You've slept since
then. You should sleep some more."
Levy's head was really hurting by that time. "Maybe you're
right." He closed his eyes, and relaxed.
Levy awoke later on that night, in time for supper. Sarah served
pot-au-feu in ornately carved bowls. She and Levy ate quietly, using
shiny steel spoons. She cut the bread with a beautiful knife, also
of steel, with a handle of wood and intricately wrought gold and
silver.
Levy picked up the knife after she put it down. "This is
beautiful. I don't know if I've ever seen work quite like this.
Where'd you get it?"
"I made it. I made all these things." She waved her hand at the
table utensils.
"They're very nice. Where did you get the steel?" Levy knew that
steel was not easy to come by, even for someone rich enough to be a
goldsmith.
"My father made it."
Levy looked at her, slightly startled. He had only ever seen
steel being made once, and that was in Dargon.
"I would like to watch him work. Do you think I could?"
Sarah bowed her head. When she raised it her face was sad. "I
would like to see him work again, too. He's been dead now three
years." She looked out across the table, avoiding Levy's eyes.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know." Levy thought for a moment. "Who else
lives here?"
"I live alone." A strange thoughtful expression came over her
face, as if she just then realized that she was alone with a stranger.
"Alone? Is there anyone else around here?" asked Levy. A woman
living alone in the wilderness was unheard of.
"No, we, that is, my father, made sure of that. He, didn't want
anyone around here." She looked away again. Levy realized that she
had not wanted to tell him that, but that it slipped out. He
prudently changed the subject.
"What of your mother?" Levy guessed that Sarah was about twenty.
"She died when I was young." Sarah brightened up at the change
of topic. "I do have three brothers. They don't live too far from
here. The nearest is only three days riding away."
Levy looked out the window. The last of the sunlight was fading
from the hilltops. "I suppose it's time to go back to sleep."
Sarah stood. "After your adventure I should think you would want
to sleep some more." She put the bread into the cupboard and started
gathering the dishes off the table.
"I'm afraid that compared to some of the things I've gone
through lately, that was merely exciting." Sarah looked at him.
"Oh?"
Levy helped her gather the tableware. This brought more strange
looks from Sarah. Levy noticed her expression.
"I don't like to be a burden when I'm a guest in someone's home."
She shook her head. "I'm just not used to seeing a man do
women's work."
"When you're not married, it's all your work." Levy had turned
to carry the dishes to the tub, and did not see her next expression.
Levy awoke the next morning feeling stiff, but otherwise sound.
Sunlight was coming in through the slats, telling him he had slept
late. He got up and looked around. Sarah was not in the house. He
stepped outside. He had known from the views out the windows that
the lake was nearby, but it soon became obvious that the house was
built on an island. The island was a small hill sticking up out of
the middle of the lake. The house was built near the top. The boat
he had seen was docked at a neat pier hidden in a small cove just
below the house. The house turned out to be fairly large. When
inside he had only seen the main living room/kitchen, with two doors
leading off it. One door he knew led to the room Sarah slept in, the
other was a covered walk leading to the privy. Now he saw that the
house was almost a hundred feet long. Levy's parents were fairly
wealthy, and their house was only thirty feet square. This house was
over three times larger.
Levy started to walk towards the back of the house. He had
gotten almost to the back when he came across an open door. From
inside he could smell hot metal. Levy stepped inside. At first he
couldn't see anything, but as his eyes adjusted he could see a
reddish light coming from further inside. He took a step towards it,
and fell over something hard and heavy. Metal objects clattered to
the floor. He heard a gasp, and sudden light blinded him.
"Who's there?" It was Sarah, sounding frightened.
"It's me, Levy." Levy picked himself up out of the debris. The
light revealed a neat smithy, with an incongruous pile of metal
scraps just inside the doorway. Sarah poked her head around from
behind what seemed to be a wide brick pillar. She was holding her
staff. She stared at Levy for a long moment. He could see that she
had been deeply startled, and that a glimmer of distrust was playing
on her mind. Then she relaxed her grip on her staff somewhat and
stepped into view.
"You startled me." She smiled then. "Come. I'm working."
Levy followed her around the pillar. It turned out to be a small
forge. Her workbench held a half-finished piece. Levy studied it for
a moment, but couldn't quite tell what it was. Sarah smiled when she
saw his puzzled look.
"I'm not sure myself what it's going to be yet. I started it out
to go on a knife handle, but I haven't made a staff for a long time.
I may put it on a staff end."
"Did you make this?" Levy had picked up her staff, which she had
leaned up against a nearby bench. It was about four feet long,
wooden with the bottom and top capped with metal. The bottom was a
simple steel cup, but the top was not. It was almost a foot long,
gold and silver, with large crystal inlays. It was intricately
decorated in woodland motifs, although in places it was worn almost
smooth.
"I made some, and my father made some. He was getting sick a
lot, and he said I should carry a stick to protect myself when in
the woods. He insisted on helping design the headcap."
Levy hefted it, and smacked it against his hand. It was sturdy,
and quite heavy. His arm twitched when the metal touched his palm.
He repeated the action, harder, and was surprised when his entire
right side convulsed. He almost dropped the staff. He gave Sarah a
shocked look. She smiled back.
"That was one of father's secrets. He had many of them. He said
that when you hit that kind of crystal just right, strange things
happen." Levy carefully leaned the staff back against the bench.
"Where do you sell what you make?"
"I ride to a town a few days away. It's not the closest, but
father insisted I go there, so that..." She stopped abruptly.
"So that what?" Levy again sensed she was holding back.
"He just insisted I go there." She bent over her work.
Wanting to change the subject, Levy looked around. There was a
table with some completed works on it, knives, plates, cups, spoons,
and other household items. He noticed the lack of the usual swords,
daggers, and pieces of armor. The largest blade was suitable only
for kitchen work.
"Did you father teach you smithy?"
"Yes. He was a very good smith. All the people around knew his
work. We lived very well."
"How do you get by now?"
She sounded cheerful. "I have everything I need here for the
most part. I only sell things when I need something I can't make or
grow myself, like fine fabric, or salt."
Levy started to bore of the conversation. "I'm going to look
around, O.K.?" Levy started for the door.
"All right." Sarah continued with her work.
Levy picked up walking where he had left off. The woods pressed
close to the house on the north and east side. When Levy rounded the
south-eastern corner, however, he was in for a surprise. What he saw
belonged in a large city, not on a hillside in the middle of a
wooded wilderness. He saw wheels and derricks, pulleys and
bellcranks, pipes and carts, and most of them moving. For a long
time all Levy could do was stare.
"Levy!"
Levy turned around in time to see Sarah burst around the corner
of the house. She stopped dead when she saw him standing there.
Levy looked back at the amazing sight. He suddenly saw some
order in the mass of hardware. His eye fell on a shack roughly in
the middle of the confusion. Above it a derrick held a large pulley.
A bellcrank stood nearby, with wooden rods attached to it. One rod
disappeared into some tall grass, the other into the building. The
crank was slowly rocking back and forth. His eye lighted upon a
large bucket sitting in front of the shack. He thought back to
Sarah's hesitancy to discuss the outside world, and to what she had
said by the forge. Suddenly he understood.
Levy turned back toward where Sarah stood.
"You have a gold mine here. You don't want anyone to know, so
you don't sell near here, but several days away." He saw the
acknowledgement in her eyes. He turned back to the shack. "What
drives the mechanism?"
Sarah didn't answer for a moment. "There's a windmill on the
other end of the island. We couldn't get enough wind here, so Father
ran rods across the island. We use it to pump the shaft dry, and to
pull rock up out of the mine."
Levy walked down to the shack. A path ran down the hill to where
a large pile of rock had been dumped into the water. Levy looked out
across the lake. He stared for a few moments, then walked back up
the hill to where Sarah stood, quietly weeping.
"Your father made this lake, didn't he?"
Sarah silently nodded her head in agreement.
"Tell me about your father."
Three hours later, Levy leaned back in his chair. Sarah was not
looking at him or at anything in particular.
"So he and your brothers built all this over twenty years, right?"
"Yes. Then my brothers left, moved away, and then three years
ago, Father died." Sarah slowly looked around the room. "I still
expect to hear him come tromping up to the house in the morning, or
hear him singing in the shop. I miss him." They sat silent for a
moment. Then Sarah stood and walked to the hearth, where she poured
herself more tea.
"There's one other thing I miss Father for, something I've been
thinking about recently." She walked back to the table, a thoughtful
expression on her face. She sat down, and looked Levy straight in
the face. "The last batch of steel he smelted is gone. I have gold,
and silver, but no more steel. I need steel to make things, and I
want you to help me smelt some more."
Startled, Levy didn't say anything at first. Steel-making was an
art that was carefully guarded. Steel could do things that mere iron
would not. The need always out-weighed the supply, and anyone who
could make steel would never want for money. On the other hand,
steel making was neither easy nor fast. He had not planned on
staying in the area for that long. He paused at that thought,
remembering why he was even in that area, and realized that he had
nothing better to do.
"I'll help you."
The next day Levy and Sarah loaded the boat with some food and
tools, and headed for the outer banks of the lake. The first place
they landed was the place where they had first met. There they
collected Levy's lost goods, including his sword. To Levy's pleasant
surprise, they also found his horse. Levy pulled the saddle off the
animal, and put the saddle into the boat. As there was no way to
take the horse with them, Levy released it to roam the lake shore.
They then headed for the opposite side of the lake. There they
paddled up a small river that fed into the lake. They followed it
for about a mile. They then pulled the boat up onto the shore, and
hid it in a small shelter made of stones. Levy followed Sarah into
the trees. They soon reached the bottom of a cliff. There was the
furnace. It was thirty feet high, with a water-powered conveyor
running up the side. Ore sat in a large pile off to one side. Levy
pointed to it.
"Where did you find the ore?"
Sarah pointed up river. "There is a bog a few miles up stream.
We collected bog iron, and floated it downstream."
Sarah explained that the site had been chosen for it's nearness
to a vein of limestone lying exposed in the cliff. Levy and Sarah
started digging the lime and hauling it the few hundred feet to the
furnace. By evening they realized that it would take several days
for the two of them to prepare the charge for burning. They gathered
all their stuff, and returned to the island.
The next day they set forth again. This time they packed for a
stay of several days. Sarah dropped Levy off on the shore where they
had left his horse, and then she started for the other shore. Levy
caught his horse, and spent the morning riding to the furnace. When
he got there he found Sarah cleaning out a small hut hidden in the
trees near the furnace. By nightfall the small house was warm and
relatively dry.
The next day Levy spent cutting wood to fuel the furnace. He cut
it on a slope overlooking the river, upstream from the furnace. When
he trimmed the logs sufficiently, he rolled them into the water,
where they floated down to where Sarah was waiting by the furnace.
Levy joined her, and Sarah showed him how her father and brothers
had made a device to pull the logs from the water using pulleys and
rope. By night several large logs lay by the furnace.
It was quite dark by the time Levy approached the hut for the
final time that night. He leaned the axe Sarah had given him against
the wall, and quietly pushed the door open. He stepped inside onto
the soft dirt floor, and was surprised to see that Sarah had hung
blankets from the ceiling to separate the small hut into two halves.
A moments reflection made him realize for the first time in at least
two days that she was, after all, a woman, and in need of privacy.
He quietly arranged his blankets on his mat, blew out the lamp, and
fell asleep.
The next four days the two spent cutting wood and digging lime
for the furnace. The only time they saw each other was in the
morning and in the evening. By the time the eve of the fourth day
drew near, the sky was heavy with clouds. Levy had just leaned his
axe and maul against the wall for the night when the first drops hit
his hand. He stepped inside, and the rain came down.
All night and most of the next day it rained. The river grew too
high to use, and water cascaded down the cliff face where they had
been digging lime. All there was to do was to sit inside and talk.
They talked of steel, and how to make it, and of metal, and of wood,
of rock, and gold, and commerce, and politics, and of as many topics
as they could find to discuss. Levy found in Sarah a companion who
was as interested in life as he was, and who, for a woman growing up
in an isolated place, was surprisingly well versed in human nature.
A few hours before sunset the rain stopped. Levy and Sarah
ventured out, Sarah to gather some wild food, and Levy to inspect
the damage done to their designs. He walked up to the lime pit, and
found it a little bigger, but otherwise untouched. He inspected the
pulleys and the water wheel, and found them little worse for wear.
He inspected the furnace, and his stack of wood, and found
everything in good shape. He walked back to the hut as dark fell,
with a greater respect for the workmanship of Sarah's father and
brothers. He quietly stepped inside the small hut. His lamp was
dark, but Sarah's was lit. As he stepped into the shack, he saw that
the blankets separating her side from his were slightly askew. As he
stood there, he could see her through the opening, as she undressed
for bed. Quietly, so as not to make any sound, he stepped closer to
the curtain. He took hold of the edge with his hand, and, with one
movement, pulled the curtain the rest of the way closed. He then
undressed, and went to bed.
The morning brought warm air and bright sunshine. Levy stepped
out of the hut and stretched. It was such days that made him yearn
for adventure. Sarah was still in bed, sleeping in late after the
previous day's inactivity. Levy picked up the axe from where he had
set it before the rain started. He discovered to his dismay that the
wooden handle was wet. He mentally chided himself for carelessly
exposing the precious instrument to the harsh elements. He inspected
the axe head, and found to his relief that there was no trace of
rust on the metal. When he hefted the maul, however, he discovered
that the cutting blade was orange with oxide. Mentally kicking
himself, he started for the wood pile, and then paused. He once
again lifted the tools to look at them.
Sarah was surprised when she stepped out of the hut to find Levy
squatting by the fire. She walked over to see what he was doing. He
was holding the maul head in the fire. He had removed it from its
handle, and was supporting it with a smaller branch threaded through
the mounting hole. As she approached, he turned to face her.
"Come here. I want to show you something."
She stood beside him, and he turned back to the fire. He pulled
the smoking metal from the flame, and rested it on a flat rock. He
then lifted a smaller rock with a small depression on its face. In
the depression was a small pool of dirty water, that had a crust of
white powder around it. As she watched, he dripped a few drops of
the liquid on the hot metal. It hissed, and as she watched, the
fluid ate a small pit in the iron.
"Now watch this." Levy said as he exchanged the maul head for
the axe head, which Sarah saw that he had also placed in the fire.
He dripped the same fluid on the axe head, but when the water was
finally evaporated, there was merely a small spot of white scum on
the metal, with no other adverse affects. Levy turned back to Sarah,
a triumphant look on his face.
"So?" Sarah looked puzzled for a moment. Then her face
brightened. "Oh| I see. Father made that maul a long time ago,
before he changed the formula|" Seeing the look of noncomprehension
of Levy's face, she elaborated. "When I was small he changed the
formula for the steel. None of his new steel rusts or corrodes or
anything. That's why we hid out here in the forest. Father was
afraid someone would try to steal the secret."
Levy looked back at the axe head. The edge was shining dully in
the morning sun. "Are you going to show me the secret?"
"I probably will. Father didn't show me how to make steel until
the last few years of his life. I don't know any other way to make
it." With that she turned to the morning's tasks, leaving Levy to
wonder, and to rebuild the disassembled tools.
After several more days of work, two of which were used to burn
the wood down to charcoal, the charge was finally ready to go. After
digging the lime for the flux, Sarah had woven more baskets for
carrying ore, lime, and charcoal up to the mouth of the furnace. The
two of them had rebuilt the troughs for the melt to flow into when
it was done, and Levy had finished some minor repairs to the
conveyor mechanism and the water-powered blower to fire the furnace.
Finally all was in readiness, and Sarah lit the fire.
The several hours that followed were anticlimactic, spent
waiting for the fire to build. When the fire finally caught,
however, Levy and Sarah found themselves the proud parents of a
monster. Levy climbed to the top of the furnace, to feed the flame,
while Sarah stayed on the bottom to pass Levy fuel and ore. The
smoke billowing out of the top made Levy long for an extra pair of
lungs, and the heat emanating from the bottom made Sarah wish she
could strip off her blouse like Levy could. They fed the fire,
checked the mix, and fed the fire some more. The day wore slowly on,
as their piles of ore, lime, and charcoal dwindled quickly to nothing.
Twilight found Levy still at the top of the furnace, feeding in
the last of the lime. He dumped a bucket of rock into the furnace,
and hooked the empty container to the return line. He turned to get
the next bucket, only to find instead a smiling if sweaty Sarah.
"You're the best thing I've seen all day." Levy exclaimed as he
helped her out.
"I wanted to take a look, and to help you with the last
buckets." While Levy reached for the next container, she looked down
into the dark, smoking pit that was the mouth of the furnace. Levy
lifted the bucket up to the chute, to pour it into the inferno, and
then stopped.
"Hey| What's this?" Levy reached into the basket and pulled out
a large black crystal. The basket was full of such crystals.
Sarah was grinning from ear to ear. "That, Levy, is my father's
secret."
Sarah reached in the basket and selected another chunk of rock.
This one was greenish in color. "Father found that," She said,
indicating Levy's crystal, "in an outcropping on the other side of
the lake. He thought it might be coal, so he brought it over and
tried to make steel with it. It didn't burn, and he forgot about it
for years. This," she said, tossing the green rock in her hand, "we
find in our mine, with copper. Father knew that silver could be
alloyed with gold, to make it harder, so he tried alloying silver
and things with the iron, to make better iron. Nothing seemed to
work, as he told me. He would often tell me this story, when I was
young, before I would go to bed. Then one day he tried this green
rock, and the iron got harder. He thought at first that it was
copper, but he remembered that copper would not alloy with the iron.
Then, later, he tried that," indicating Levy's black rock, "and the
steel wouldn't rust."
Levy took the green rock from Sarah, and set it aside along with
the black crystal. He and Sarah then dumped the rest of the buckets,
containing the different ores, into the fire. Levy then collected
his specimens, and the two rode the return line down.
It was black out when Levy finally punched through the baked mud
at the bottom of the furnace, and allowed the white-hot steel to
pour out into the troughs. He and Sarah then retreated from the
intense heat, as the metal flowed out into the molds waiting for it.
All that night and all the next day they allowed the metal to cool.
While they waited they cleaned the slag out of the furnace and put
anything that could rot into the special storage places Sarah's
father had made. Over the next few days they laboriously sawed the
steel into pieces small enough to carry and rowed it over to the
island. They had just gotten the last few pieces stored when it
again started to rain.
Later that evening Levy was looking out through the slatted
window at the patterns the rain made on the lake. Behind him Sarah
worked on an ornament for a spoon handle.
"How often do you see other people?" Levy asked, still facing
out the window.
"Not very often."
Levy walked over to where Sarah was sitting. He pulled a chair
up beside her and sat down.
"Don't you ever get lonely out here?"
"Very." Sarah looked away for a moment. "Why is it that you
never married?"
Levy leaned back in his chair.
"I don't know. It's not through lack of opportunity. I have been
the object of many young girls' eyes. I just never had the time to
properly court any of them. There always seemed to be better things
to do. That, and the fact that I must marry inside my own clan, or
lose my inheritance." Levy noticed that Sarah seemed to frown
slightly when he said that. "Have you ever taken a fancy to any men?"
Sarah smiled as she looked away. "Only the one I'm talking to."
Levy blushed a little, and she continued. "I've never really gotten
to know any others, except my brothers."
Silence reigned for a long moment. Sarah broke the silence.
"What is the name of your clan?"
"Barel. We come from a man named Eli Barel, who was granted some
land by a lord for having saved his kingdom from a war. Eli Barel
came from a country away south, one that I've visited twice. I could
marry one of them, but they are too strange for me, too foreign.
What clan or descent do you have?"
Sarah frowned, then stood and walked over to a shelf over a
window. She brought down a silver plate, with engraving on it.
"This is my family crest. Father said we also came from the
south, but then just about everything is south when you're this far
north. I've only once met someone else from our clan, and he had
come north just to tell my father that Grandfather had died, and
that Father was now the new Elder. Father refused. He said he was
too old."
"That sounds familiar for some reason. I may have met some of
your relatives in my travels." Levy looked at the crest. It was
complex, but the main symbol was that of a cogwheel. The more Levy
looked at the plate the more familiar it looked, yet without quite
revealing its origin to him.
Levy drew his knife. He gave it to Sarah, so she could look at
it. On it was the Barel crest, also complex, with a compass on it.
"This was granted to Eli Barel at the same time he was granted
the village I come from. Our family had a crest before that, but
I've only ever seen it once."
Sarah looked at it for a moment, then handed it back. "I've only
ever seen one other crest, the one belonging to the mayor of the
nearest town. We engraved it on a beer stein for him." Sarah giggled
at that. "He probably sees it every day. He drinks a lot of beer.
Listen, I'm tired. I'm going to go to bed now. Sleep well."
She put the plate back on the shelf, and then walked to her room
and closed the door. Levy sat alone and thought for a bit, then, as
the last of the sunshine disappeared, doused the lamps and went to
bed himself.
Levy awoke the next morning to find Sarah shaking him. The sun
had yet to come up, and it was raining very hard.
Sarah looked anxious. "You've got to help me. The water level in
the lake is rising. We have to open the floodgates, or the dam will
be overwhelmed." She handed him a large overcoat. "Don't bother
putting on your clothes. This is very warm, and you'll just get hot
with the others on. You'll need this for the rain."
Levy stepped into the coat and followed her out. They climbed
down the hill and into the boat. The dock was already under water.
They rowed to the dam. The rain made bailing a requirement, but the
wind was to their back, and they made good time. It was just getting
light by the time they reached the dam.
Levy followed Sarah up the dam face. The cold and wet had driven
the dullness from his mind, and, for some reason, the image of
Sarah's family crest kept running through his head. Strangely
enough, the image in his mind was not that of a silver plate, but of
a colorful drawing in an old book. Hard as he tried, however, he
could not force himself to remember where he had seen the book. He
got so involved in trying to remember that he found himself lagging
far behind Sarah. He hurried to catch up.
Trees grew on the slope, planted by Sarah's father to conceal
the artificial nature of the structure. At the top was a raised
walkway connecting the floodgates, with the first of the two gates a
few feet from where Sarah and Levy stepped on the walk. Sarah ran to
it and started to crank the windlass to raise the first gate.
"You open the other one." She pointed to the far end of the walk.
Levy ran to the far end. There he found a similar setup. He
seized the crank and started turning, images of paper and bindings
still running past his mind's eye. He hadn't made more than two
revolutions when he was startled by a loud roar. He looked up just
in time to see a large section of cliff break off and slide into the
water a few hundred yards away. He looked back at Sarah.
"That happens every so often." She shouted to him. She turned
back to cranking, as did he.
He managed to get the gate partway open. Then the whole world
seemed to fall out from under him. A great wave, caused by the
rockslide, crashed into the walkway and carried it and him over the
face of the dam. Levy was submerged. When he surfaced, he found part
of the walk floating near him, and he climbed aboard. He looked
around. He was floating away from the dam with increasing speed, and
was equidistant from both shores. On top of the dam Sarah stood, her
hands covering her mouth. He waved to her, to show her he was all
right. Hesitantly, she waved back. A sudden dip then threw him on
his face. He struggled back to his hands and knees when another
threw him back down again. When he finally looked back at the top of
the dam, Sarah was not there.
An afternoon three months later Levy was riding through the
woods once more. The horse was one he had recently purchased, as was
all his tack and most of his equipment. It was nearing dusk, and he
saw a light shining through the trees up ahead. Cautiously he
approached it. It turned out to be another traveller, relying on a
fire to keep the wolves away. The stranger seemed eager for Levy's
company when it was offered, so Levy made camp with the man. The
next day, over breakfast, they told each other of their destinations.
Levy told the man only some of what Sarah had told him about
herself, but the man was sympathetic to Levy's plight, and seemed to
want to help.
"I'm a trader, but I don't know of any woman dealing in these
parts. I am a little out of my way, though, so I will keep my ears
open. Where did you say you were headed?" The stranger paused in the
middle of a block of cheese.
"I'm headed for the next village, and the next, and the next,
until winter comes, or I find her. I floated for three days before I
could get to shore, so I figure she lives in this area. I don't
remember all the tributaries and forks in the river I hit, though,
so I'm not sure exactly where to look." Levy shrugged and stared at
the fire, poking it with a stick.
"A woman selling carved utensils, living alone. I'll try to
remember that. Anything else?"
Levy leaned over and grabbed his pack. From it he pulled a piece
of fine leather. He unrolled it slowly, carefully. Inscribed on it,
in bright colors, was a crest.
"If you see anything with this crest on it, you've found her."
As he held it up for the trader to see, Levy fingered the small
signature on the lower right corner. It was the name of the Dargon
court historian, who kept family records from many areas, even areas
to the far south. While he was recovering from his harrowing journey
downstream, and in the weeks that followed, as he worked to earn
enough money to buy another horse, Levy had thought hard about that
crest that Sarah had shown him. When he finally got enough money
together, he had journeyed south to Dargon, where he had found the
court historian. Together they had searched the records. It wasn't
until Levy had set eyes on the old book on the top shelf that the
memories had come flooding back. By the time he found the correct
page, his eyes were almost blinded with tears of anxiousness and
joy. Levy hadn't seen that page for years, since the time when he
had made a thorough search of the records at his father's behest.
Levy still remembered the excitement he had felt, those many years
ago, when he had at last found the original Barel family crest.
After the trader had committed the design to memory, Levy
carefully put it back in his pack, broke camp, and saddled up. After
thanking the trader, Levy rode off. The trader watched him go,
shaking his head sympathetically. He then went about washing his
kettle and breaking camp. That done, he paused for a few minutes to
polish his wares and study the goods he had swapped. He was almost
ready to put them all away when he stopped cold. He reached down,
and with trembling hands picked up a spoon, wooden with an ornately
carved golden handle. He stared at it for a long moment, then leaped
to his feet. He stuffed the other goods quickly into the sack, tied
the sack to his horse, and kicked out the fire. He saddled up, and
rode off hard in pursuit of Levy.
-Jim Owens
Ceda the Executioner: Chapter 6
Though the meal that they had just completed weighed heavily in
their stomachs, they wasted no time in getting through the forest.
Aroth knew of a secret road used only by the Wood Elves that cut
across the forest lengthwise which took them north to the Ruirsian
barren country.
Galloping over the moist green grass and led by the rich light
of the almost full moon that hung somberly overhead, they rode many
leagues. Off in the distance on their left, Nuum-Deaon jutted out of
the emptiness effectively hiding its brother fortress somewhere
behind the cover of its eery stone walls.
The next thirteen days drew by quickly. In this time they had
ridden north to Cramstrock where they replenished their provisions
and employed Ceda's wingless dragon mount, Melgon to their
convocation. Then turning to the south they left Cramstrock and rode
out into the desert before turning east, traveling north of the Aun
Hills along the border of the Plime Sea to the southern border of
the Voidland. A few miles to the north lay Weuyrt, land of forests.
They had reached the border by dusk the fourteenth day. Ceda
pulled Melgon to an abrupt halt as Aroth rode up beside him. He
stared off into the swampland that lay before him and wondered at
his fate. Would he return unscathed from the Caves? Would he survive?
The jungle that met the land far in the distance over the swampy
plain of the Voidland's countryside was not so distant now. It would
be infested with bands of Orcs, Nuadrin and Hobgoblins, all deadly.
The Giants that lived in Weuyrt would be the worst when met. Though
some of them would be friendly, and subsequently a good ally, others
would not...
If they survived the trek through the dense jungle then they
would have to enter the Caves; Hardly a reward or even any relief
from the previously perilous journey they will have just completed.
Both the travelers realized what the chances of success would be
though none dared say it.
Ceda spurred Melgon to a laggard trot entering the Voidland.
They could already feel the humidity of the jungle burning in their
nostrils and smothering their faces; even the land they now passed
was wet with moister and dense vegetation was beginning to thicken
around them.
They had not ridden far into the Voidland when they first
noticed a single rider approaching them from the north. He was
galloping toward them at a great pace ignoring the murky water that
splashed upon him soiling his apparel and the dangerous moors he
nearly missed in his haste.
As he neared them they could see he was Human. Though arrayed in
the blue and yellow raiment typical to that of a Ruirsian soldier,
he wore no armor or helm. His face was bold and concerned and his
long red hair flew proudly behind him in the strong face of the
wind. He wore a sword at his side that bounced along nonchalantly as
his horse galloped over the scabrous landscape.
He pulled his horse to a stop two dragon lengths before them and
bowed to them from his horse. "Hail travelers! I am Azzar, royal
scout of Caahah, servant to his Majesty Threythus II. My greetings."
"Greetings. I am Ceda of No-Al Ben," replied Ceda.
"And I Aroth, Lord of Carne," said Aroth in turn.
Azzar bowed again hearing Aroth's title. "I have news from the
north in Weuyrt, since that is where your destination seemingly
lies, and even if it does not."
"It is," said Ceda. "What news of the wild lands that lay on the
road from Arnmere do you bear? Is the way ahead safe?"
"Nay," cried the scout in dismay. "The wilder Giants have broken
our will attacking in full might. They have driven our forces west
across the jungles toward the Plime Sea. I ride for Caahah now to
inform his majesty that Weuyrt has fallen to their hordes. Even as
we now speak many pursue me on foot and are not far behind."
"A small band has followed your horse all the way from the
shadows of Arnmere?" asked Aroth in alarm. "Do they fly? How do they
follow you at such a speed as that which your horse can muster?"
"It is worse than that. The news of Weuyrt's fall is nigh two
suns passed. I camped on the borders to see how far the host would
advance and it is sorry news, but they come in numbers uncounted to
the Voidland. At the speed they are traveling now, they will reach
the very gates of Caahah before five more suns will fall."
"This is grave news indeed," said Aroth. "What of the men in
Weuyrt? How many were there and how many survived?"
"We were nigh twenty thousand strong when they attacked. Among
us were many Bilfnuinians, but they use no horse in battle for they
fight with heavy axes. They were the first to fall to the rage of
the accursed giants; I fear none survived - a heavy blow to
Threythus to lose men of that worth.
"Those of us upon steeds fought on when the Axemen fell, but we
were pushed back. They came from the north and the south as well as
the west forcing us eastward into the jungle. Most stayed and fought
on though some of us rode for the borders; I was the only one that
made it past the beasts unscathed. I arrived at the edge of the
Voidland yesterday morning riding through the night to escape their
advancing powers."
"This is grave news indeed!" agreed Ceda with a cry of deep
despair. "Where have those that rode east gone? Is there some place
of refuge for them to take shelter?"
"There is none," said the scout lowering his head. I fear that
if they have not yet left the jungles, they never will... though I
may be mistaken."
"These times are indeed grave. You bring a heavy blow to
Threythus." said Ceda. "You do not even know how many approach?"
"Impossible to say. The jungle hides their numbers and they come
from all directions; More than I have ever seen before. We had no
inkling as to the numbers that hid thus long in the shadows of the
accursed holes of hell where they burrow. Look!" He cried turning
and pointing back to the jungle across the Voidland. "As we speak
they enter the swamps before the face of Ruirse!"
They looked northward and to their dismay they began to see
first ten then a thousand and finally more than they could even
begin to count. There were Orcs, Nuadrin, Giants, Hobgoblins and
many other horrid beasts sweeping like a deadly plague over the
muddy land between the borders. They passed over the plain covering
it like the shadow of a cloud violently suppressing the rays of the
sun; an onslaught so large that is may have rivaled even the Lost
Army of the Desert.
"Come now! There is no chance of you reaching wherever your
destination was. Our best - our ONLY chance is to ride for Caahah to
the south and help defend the city from the inevitable attack," said
Azzar in a frenzy. "Let us ride now and may our speed be great!"
Aroth looked to Ceda and then back at the advancing horde. "Let
us go. There will be a safer time and we will then make the
journey." He wheeled his horse around and nodded to Azzar. Then Ceda
pulled on Melgon's reins and they turned and sped back southward
toward Caahah to warn of the attack.
They reached the city by the second day after they had fled the
Voidland. It was well fortified around the walls and many soldiers
were there lining the city streets and filling the cities inns.
Trenches had been dug at set intervals around the proximity of the
wall that surrounded the city and a few men sat in them reclining on
the small stools set aside for the watchers.
Azzar stopped outside the walls to warn the men while Ceda and
Aroth continued on through the gate to tell of the assured peril. As
they rode into the ruins of the once proud city, Ceda pulled hard on
Melgon's reins stopping the dragon suddenly in the center of an open
area and dismounted as Melgon glanced sidelong at the assassin in an
unenchanted way for the abrupt halt. Aroth also dismounted and left
his horse next to the dragon as he departed leaving the two mounts
sighing in anticipation of the peaceful rest they were about to get
after the tiresome miles of endless riding.
Ceda was gone by the time Melgon had settled down hastily
searching for the commander of the army stationed in the city. He
ran up to a man that was standing outside a large tent, "Hail,
soldier of Ruirse. I am Ceda of Cramstrock, greetings. I am on an
urgent mission and must speak with the king if he is here, or who
ever is commanding the host of the city!"
"Greetings, Traveler of the Desert. The king is here," said the
man eying Ceda wanderingly. "He is at his palace holding council
with King Ballison the Young of Caffthorn."
"Ballison? Has he brought with him a host?" asked Ceda beginning
to gain confidence in the cities forces.
"Aye. He has brought with him a mighty army five thousand men
from from beyond the desert and there may be more from No-Al Ben."
"Are there any from the Elf Kingdoms of Carne or Learis?" Asked
Aroth coming up behind.
"Nay," said the man. "And I doubt there will be, I have heard
none talk of it."
"Good enough," sighed Ceda. "Where is the palace?"
The man pointed at a tall but slender tower that rose from a
point in the distance. "There," he said. "At the center of the city;
just follow the road."
Ceda bowed slightly. "Scueney Tavaar du sablea," he said leaving
at a run for the palace as Aroth repeated the same to the man and
sprang after Ceda following close behind him.
"And to you!" yelled the man after them with a gratifying look.
From the gates, the street wound upwards around the city in
great circles in the fashion roads do going up a steep hill or
mountain. As they ran through inner city area, they could see that
the winding road was laden with men ready for battle. There were
many of the men of Caffthorn about, they sat with one another in
groups talking about things from their distant country, sometimes
laughing out loud or throwing their heads back and letting their
long black hair fall loosely down their backs. Continuing up the
winding road toward the tower they also saw many Caahahian soldiers
along with the hardy Axemen from the proud city Bilfneuin along the
crowded alleys and roof tops, resting while they were still safely
many miles from any of the fighting.
Upon reaching the center of the city, the road let out into a
single lane that ran around the palace ending in another circlet
where the northern part of the drive housed the palace entrance. As
Ceda and Aroth ran up they saw two proud looking guards standing
outside the large iron bars that blocked the way into the courtyard.
They stood separated, one on each side of the massive gate and wore
dark blue tunics with a yellow bars crossing the center at a slight
angle. The armor they wore over their arms and legs was a shiny
black metal, made in the same material as the Elven Rings of
Nobility. Over the armor they wore dark blue capes with attached
hoods that hung loosely down their backs and on their heads were
helms of gold. At their sides were great axes that rested heavily on
the ground, for these guards were from the stalwart southern city of
Bilfneuin. These were Axemen.
There they stopped as Ceda addressed one of the men. "Greetings!
I am Ceda of No-Al Ben. My companion is a Lord of Carne, Aroth, he
is called. We seek urgent audience with King Threythus."
"It is not every merchant that gets to see the king!" said the
soldier. "He is now in council with the Lord of Caffthorn and cannot
be disturbed."
"I'll not be called a merchant by a simple soldier!" Said Aroth
angrily. "Now tell your busy king that I, Aroth of Carne and cousin
of Rakine and Rackins of the Elves, seek audience with him now! And
rue you will the day you denied me that!"
"Rue indeed," smiled the guard looking at his companion. "And
why is that, little Elf?"
"Because a muster of Arnmere is but four days north and coming
fast!" said Aroth. "And I am getting tired or this idle talk. Time
is short as are our tempers, now tell the king that we seek his
presence and await his bidding."
The guard turned calling for a herald. Then he told a man in the
gate to inform King tell Threythus of his new arrivals. "The king
has been notified," said the soldier. "And now I hope you will allow
me to continue my watch in peace?" he added sarcastically. The
Axemen of Bilfneuin were not tolerant, though they were known to
have a sense of humor. Would the king of Ruirse be that way? He was
from Bilfneuin, though much older.
It was a short wait until the herald returned to the gates. He
spoke a few short words to the guards and then stepped back.
The guards then gripped small unseen horns from below their
capes and blew them one after the other. Then two thunderous
clanging noises broke the air as the massive gate was raised by
internal winches; then as Ceda and Aroth entered and the gate was
let fall again with a tremendous slam.
"The king bids the travelers enter in peace. He will meet with
them now," said the herald approaching them in the courtyard.
"Please come this way."
Inside the walls of the palace, the tower that Ceda had seen
from the gate seemed much larger. It was built of square shaped
stones set orderly on one another rising from a large the round
structure into a slender and delicate tower high above. Some of the
larger blocks near the bottom of the structure were then carved with
delicate figures that had all but wasted away from the years of
weathering while the higher ones were stained to a light color for
adornment.
At the base of the large building was another heavy door; this
one of stone. Next to it on either side were two small holes to see
out of and above the door was a narrow window.
They went through the door into the first floor of the tower led
by the herald. Inside the hall they now stood were many fine chairs
and tables lining the majestic walls. Above them hung many of the
old swords and beautiful armor used in ages long past and before
them was a long room with a wooden floor and stone ceiling supported
by an occasional pillar. Down the hall on the right side was a door
with four more guards standing at alert. Two of them wore gray
tunics with a red gem painted in the center; these were from
Caffthorn. The other two wore the blue and yellow colors of Ruirse.
Through this door they were led by the herald.
In the room there were two people. One was a young man, tall and
strong with long dark hair. At his side rested a heavy axe with a
black metal blade and handle made with the grey wood of Caffthorn.
Near the base of the black blade, an imbedded gem glowed in a
pleasant purple.
The second man was much older. His hair was gray and short
hanging down no further than the base of his neck. His once tall
body was now permanently bent forward in a cramped position showing
the definite signs of his old age. He wore the blue and yellow
raiment of a Ruirsian, though he wore no weapon.
Both men were standing by a large table as they entered and
turned to greet them. The older of the two men glared at the
travelers for a brief moment. "Greetings, Ceda and Aroth from afar!"
he said. "I am King Threythus II. This is Ballison the Young, King
of Caffthorn. The herald tells us that you have urgent news for us?
Well then, be quick for time is short and news of worth is rare."
Aroth stepped forward, "I am Aroth, cousin to King Rakine of the
wood of Carne and I, nobleman of Elves," he held his hand aloft so
the dark gold about his finger showed in a radiant light. "Bid you
greetings and bring you news of the north."
"We have men beyond the Voidland. many scouts and warriors of
Caahah and Bilfneuin. If there is news then they should have brought
it. What is this news?" asked Threythus. "And how do you come to
know of it?"
"War," said Ceda also coming forward. "War comes to the very
walls Caahah. A great host has taken all Weuyrt and none of our men
remain. Only Azzar, scout of Caahah, made it back to the Voidland.
The rest," he said in a low voice, "will come not again from the
vile land of forests.
"As we approached the borders of Weuyrt on business of our own,
we met him in flight from the beasts. It was there we saw them. They
swept over the land at a great pace. I fear they have with them
great might."
"This is grave news to us, they were good men." cried Ballison
distressingly. "What of the marshal from Arnmere? How many come and
how fast?"
"Their numbers were too many for us to count," said Ceda, "It
was greater a host than I have ever seen and we fled ere they all
had left the cover of the trees. They should reach Caahah by fourth
sun falling, fifth at the most. Prepare your men, for even the city
walls may not hold against their might!"
Threythus walked over to Aroth. "Can your people help us?" he
said gripping the Elf's shoulders.
"Aye," said Aroth. "They must be stopped here. Have one of your
men ride for Dhernis, give him this, "Aroth removed his ring and
placed it in Threythus's hand. "Tell the scout to take the Ships of
Tearny and sail for Perstanie of the Learis Islands. There he should
ask for help from me and give them this ring should any disbelieve
his word.
"In the meanwhile I ride for the Wood of Carne to seek the help
of my cousin Rakine, and hopefully shall return with a host worthy
of the battle."
Threythus bowed low, "I thank you, Aroth of Carne, and may Sarve
speed your horse with the swiftness of the wind!"
Aroth bowed to Threythus. "And now I must go, for much time is
lost and now only haste is our ally. Farewell, Ceda.
'uentu descern shyen svequ seju!'"
Ceda smiled as Aroth turned and departed.
"We must now prepare for the battle and send a messenger to the
Elf Islands before any more time is lost!" said Ballison banging his
fist on the table. "Let us whet our blades!"
The two kings wasted no time in mustering the men. Soon many
people was busy preparing the great war machines that hurl rocks
through the air or mending parts of the titanic city wall that were
in bad repair. The men of Caffthorn were outside the city digging
more trenches and pits near the wall while more men helped barricade
the inner circles of the city where the women and children would
stay safe. Scouts were sent out of the city to watch the northern
environs for the first sign of the coming assault and Azzar left the
oppidan on a swift horse riding south for Dhernis.
By the second sun falling they were prepared. Men lined the
northern walls and sat in the northern trenches. Parts of the west
and east walls were also fortified but not as heavily.
The third, fourth, and fifth days drew by and the hordes of
Arnmere had not come. Many men questioned weather they had indeed
crossed the Voidland as their patients became short and they anxious.
The sixth day came, and the hordes still had not arrived. The
men waited at their posts eating little and talking none. They
sharpened and polished their blades and their armor until it shone
brightly in the daylight.
Soon it was midday. Still no sign of the Orc hordes had been
seen or reported and the scouts had not returned from the northern
borders of the Caahahian city area (that lay far outside the walls
beyond sight). The hardy men of Caffthorn moved up and down the
trenches in anticipation of the battle toying with their swords and
talking about wars of old that had long been forgotten by other men.
Ceda made his way through the lines of soldiers to where King
Ballison sat with King Threythus. They looked up as he sat down and
offered their greetings.
"This is odd," began Ceda. "The muster of beasts that we saw
should have arrived by today. They should have been here long ago."
"Aye," agreed Ballison. "My men are ready for the battle but
they grow weary of waiting for the enemy while the tension among the
men of Ruirse grows between the Axemen and the Caahahians. Hope for
battle soon and let us be done with this before we kill each other
and lessen the Orc's labors."
"Can the enemy have gone past the city to the east or the west?"
Asked Ceda.
"Nay," answered Threythus. "If they had gone west, we would have
seen them from the walls of the city unless they went by way of the
Aun Hills in the northwest or north of the Aun Hills to No-Al Ben,
but that would serve them no purpose. In any case our scouts would
have seen them and would have reported their whereabouts to us.
"And what of the way to the east?" Asked Ballison.
"On that path there are only the forests Ruirse and the Little
Kingdom of the east. Otherwise there are no settlements until the
Port of Dhernis that lay to the south. With the force that you have
described, they would be fools to take it east and not attack the
main strength of the region. They must come this way for all
practical matters."
"Aye," said Ceda. "But what reason do you have to consider the
Orcs a practical race? Further more, I doubt that the Orcs know the
land as we do, for they have lived long in the caves and may know
nothing of the cities that we have. They could have gone anywhere."
On the eight day the Elves of Carne arrived with a large host of
Naz'Clowi warriors and some men of Breanduin. There were twelve
thousand all together, all on horseback. With them rode only two
thousand of the Elven folk though the soldiers of Carne were strong,
good fighters and well versed in the art of archery. At the head of
them rode Aroth and as they entered the city many shout arose from
the men in greetings and praise.
Aroth dropped from his steed and walked over to Ceda and the two
kings. "Greetings! I have done as you asked, though I could only
bring this small amount of warriors from Carne. Our kingdom is also
fighting a war, for there are many Orcs in the forest slaughtering
our kin while killing both plant and animal.
"But we bring you three gifts! Three gift that none can boast
giving, and the tale behind them!" Aroth went to one of the Elves
horses and from its saddle he brought forth a leather sack. He
pulled on the twine that held it closed until it had opened enough
to reach in and get its contents. Then slowly he withdrew one of the
three objects.
All the men watching drew a deep breath and kept it. What Aroth
held aloft in his hands had given them a new hope and gladness rose
up in their hearts. Breaking the barrier of fear that rested long
there like a heavy weight they felt joy again, for in Aroth's two
small hands rested a round metallic object. It's base was shaped
like a octagon from which rose eight spikes, one from each point and
all along its outer rim were rare gems, red and special from the
Malthoogian Mines in the Mountains of Gren of northern Grandydyr.
Aroth held it aloft for all to see and wonder at: the Royal Crown of
Grobst D'arbo.
Ceda took the crown as Aroth reached back into the leather sack
and drew from it the next gift. This he also held aloft though only
the men of Caffthorn recognized it and at once sadness gripped them.
It was a black sickle made from the grey wood of Caffthorn and a
dark metal. Near the slender base of the dark blade was a gem that
glowed in a strong white light.
Ballison jumped forward and clasp the sickle tearing it from the
Elf's hands. "Where did you get this?" he cried. "It was the weapon
of my brother, Tarnigen. He would die before he gave it up!"
"Steady!" said Aroth backing away slightly and a few Elves
fitting their arrows in their green bows. "We shall tell all, but
know that I am Elven nobility and will not be treated in such manner."
"My apologies, Lord Aroth, for when my brother is concerned our
entire people's judgement is faulty. He was our King."
"The tale shall be told shortly, aye, but there is little to
tell. The next gift should do most of the explaining." Aroth reached
a final time into the sack and withdrew a grotesque, bloody object.
In his hand was a head, severed completely from the neck it was once
attached to. But this was not ordinary head, it was that of a great
Nuadri, strong and terrible in life from the size of it. Ceda
recognized it immediately, the head that had once tormented him in
the dungeons of the Sarshirian Mountains, the head of the Grand
Nuadri of Barnonoen.
Then Ceda remembered Cander, and the horror of the darkness
found its way into his memory. He stepped backward. Then he turned
his head and walked away from it. He did not want to smell it, for
that would be too much for him. Any other Orc would not bother him,
any other Nuadri or anything for that matter, but not this.
Aroth saw Ceda turn and replaced the head in the sack closing it
tightly and giving it to one of the Elves. "Now for the tale, though
as I said before there is not much to tell."
"The size is of no concern," said Ballison eagerly. "Tell it for
I grow anxious."
"Well," began Aroth as Ceda returned. "I had left Caahah as fast
as my horse would bear me. As I approached the Wood of Carne a day
later, I met the men of Naz'Clow and Breanduin. They were all on
horse riding for the desert in great haste. They told me they rode
to wage a battle for, they said, several men that had arrived from
the far western city of Naudsman in Old Grandydyr told them a large
host from the Sarshirians had left Ploughdom and were heading
northward. They had barely escaped with their own lives. They also
said that there were many great Nuadrin with them, greater Nuadrin
than the usual sort, and that one stood even taller than all the
rest, larger and stronger than the others.
"I asked that they come instead with me to Caahah to help the
men here, but they said they would come only after the muster in the
desert was defeated, for with them was their leader and it would be
a great victory for them were he slain.
"I rode to Carne with all possible haste and gathered what Elves
I could. Then we rode to the desert where the battle was already
underway and helped defeat the enemy's might. After the fighting was
over and the dead counted and buried properly, we despoiled the
remains of the enemy and found these fair gifts. Then returned here
in haste, and as I see now, the host of Arnmere has as yet not come,
so it was good.
"As I have said, there is little to tell."
"And yet much remains untold," said Ceda. "What were they doing
in the desert with these things? And where did they GET these things?"
"True," added Ballison, "and what of Tarnigen my brother? Is he
dead or captive? Or did he escape after having his possessions taken?"
"Of these thing we know as much as you," Said Aroth. "Yet there
is still much to ask. What did they plan to do with Grobst's Crown?
Return it to the Tree?"
"There is little time for answers to these questions," began
Ceda. "For though it is eight suns falling since you departed they
have as yet not come. Aye, there are strange happenings afoot, and I
like them not.
"Why wait for them?" asked Aroth.
"You have some alternative?" Asked Ballison.
"Aye. We have the crown, overwhelming Orcs approach, why can we
not simply figure out how to use the crown and bring forth the Lost
Army to help us. That is my suggestion."
"That... could help us, but how do we use it?" Said Ceda. "And
who will go?"
"You know who must go, Ceda," said Aroth. "You are the Traveler."
"Aye, I must go, it is my duty. The Sign of the Crown was given
to me," answered Ceda concedingly. Then he sighed, "and I took it."
"Then," said Ballison intervening. "You may take with you as my
gift, my axe, for Tarnigen is dead and in his honor I shall now
wield his sickle as my weapon. As for you, this is a gift for one
that partakes on a dangerous journey into the desert so near the
Dark Gate and so perilous, otherwise none but Caffthorn nobles may
receive it.
"Guard this axe with your life, for it is magical. The gem
placed on the blade will warn you of danger that is near you be it
from friend or enemy. It glows purple when all is well, and white
when evil is near. When you are wounded badly it glows red and when
you die or are going to die... it turns black.
"The axe is named Renielk and will whistle when you call it."
Ceda accepted the axe and bowed low, "thank you, Lord Ballison,
I will use it with pride!"
"And now that this matter of who will go is settled, how is Ceda
to use the crown? And when he does, what will he tell the army that
has been gone for ten thousand years?" Said Threythus.
"There was a riddle that our wizard Merth told us," said Aroth.
"When four rise and fall,
The Sign of the Crown,
Is given and taken,
And stolen and recovered,
And found and rewon.
And can be used to benefit;
But to who?
Crown the King, and he shall rise.
And Evil or Good he will bring,
But: Who is Evil?"
"These riddles are beginning to irritate me to no end. The lords
play with our minds, and give us these poems to guess at! Tavaar is
a cruel god!" Yelled Ceda. "Aye. I have heard this riddle before,
though I... I cannot remember from where."
"This is not all," said Threythus. "For we have heard this same
riddle and its answer, though it is as odd as the riddle:
When the King of Grandydyr
Is crowned,
The Lost Army shall
Rise again.
"Then crown the king I must!" Said Ceda turning to Threythus.
"And I wish to go with you," said Aroth.
"Nay, the Sign of the Crown was given to me alone, and alone I
will go," answered Ceda. "I leave immediately!" He turned and
departed from the gathering.
"May your speed be great!" Said Threythus under his breath.
-Joel Slatis
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME EIGHT NUMBER TWO
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
*Winds of Change Becki Tants
*Reunion Ed Murphy
*The Treasure: Part 2 of 4 John L. White
Date: 071587 Dist: 385
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
While there isn't a great deal of news to report, that is most
probably due to the fact that this issue is being sent out no more
than a week after the previous issue. For the most part, the news
which was reported in the xeditorial for 8-1 is still current. We
are still working on getting a mailing out to prospective postal
subscribers, which is late due to the fact that I exploded my
printer in the heat of our apartment. I have received some responses
from readers who will be attending Pennsic, and also some responses
from FSFnet writers who will be there. The only truly new news is
that there has been a change in issue naming conventions. All issues
now have the filetype of VOLxxNy, where 'XX' is the volume number
and 'Y' the issue number. This change has been made on files on
LISTSERV at TCSVM and CSNEWS at MAINE as well. When requesting files
from those sources, please be careful to get the proper filetypes.
In this issue we have part two of John White's "Treasure" story
which was begun in issue 7-5, and two short stories from two new
Dargon Project authors, Ed Murphy and Becki Tants. The next issue,
8-3, should be out near the end of July or early August, and will
contain some startling information, as well as the long-promised
(but is it long-awaited?) "Legend in the Making" which I've
tantalized you with since February!
-'Orny' Liscomb
Winds of Change
Ariel awoke that morning in a bed for the first time in weeks.
It was a welcome, warm feeling that had almost caused her to forget
the knock on the door that had awoken her in the first place. She
blinked as the knock came again. In a brief moment of panic, she
realized that no one should know that she was here. She knew no one
in this city. Drawing her dagger, she moved silently over to the door.
She was about to open the door when she heard the innkeeper
outside it, saying "Ma'am, 'tis mornin'. Breakfast is ready fer ya
down in the common room if yer up."
Relaxing a bit, she listened as the footsteps went on down the
hall and began the same strange procedure again. It occurred to her
that this was not something that had ever been done in her father's
inn, but she was quickly distracted from the thought as she looked
around the room for the first time. Her quick flight there late last
night and almost immediate collapse from exhaustion had given her no
time to examine her rather rich and elegant surroundings. The carved
wood furniture, beautiful wall hangings, painted ceramic wash bowl
and pitcher, and the call to breakfast by the innkeep all led her
quickly to the conclusion that she would have to find a job soon to
pay for the place.
She poured some water into the bowl, rinsed off her face to hide
the tell-tale signs of her long, hard journey, and dressed quickly.
Looking up at the polished mirror on the wall, the surest sign of
how expensive the place was that she had seen so far, she realized
just how much her defense these last few weeks had taken out of her.
Her skin looked well tanned, but pale below the tan, a sure sign of
the exhaustion she still was recovering from. The area underneath
her eyes had some uncharacteristic lines caused by the stretching of
her powers beyond her own limits of endurance in an effort to save
her own life. Worse yet were her eyes. They still held the look of
one hunted, betrayed, and forsaken in her direst time of need. The
change was depressingly obvious, and had the effect of making her
look much older then her mere 18 years. She quickly turned away from
that other face in the mirror, but the thoughts of all she had been
through still followed her. With her eyes not quite focused out the
window into the early morning light, she began to think of all the
things that had happened to her in the short 6 months that had
passed since her 18th birthday.
She had been working at the time for her father. He owned an inn
in a small village and had eked out a meager living this way for
many years. She did his books, waited upon the customers, and
generally did whatever was needed. She provided 'services' for the
more wealthy customers, as well as amusing herself by opening the
locks on things without the keys. A very simple life, but not
satisfying. At 18, she wanted to see more of the world. When a rich,
handsome young man came into town, she was immediately very
attentive. This one's name was Stefan. The rumor about town was that
he was a mage of some sort and her father, hearing this, advised her
to stay away from him. This just whetted her curiosity more. They
spent much time together and soon, as he was leaving, he invited her
to join him, saying that a young lady of her particular 'talents'
could be very successful in a big city such as Dargon. Charmed by
the young man so thoroughly, she left without a word to her father
or a thought to the consequences.
She quickly found the rumors of his magic to be true and
convinced him to teach her. He agreed, thinking it a good chance to
practice for him and an amusement for her. As they traveled he began
to teach her the powers of the air. He soon realized that she had a
strong streak of talent for this running through her, and sped up
the training. As they traveled, practiced, and slept together, their
relationship grew. Soon Ariel began to think she was in love with
Stefan and he seemed to reciprocate this feeling. She began to hold
great hopes for her life in a new city, a big city full of
opportunities, and her life with Stefan.
All too soon, however, the training was halted and her dreams
were smashed. The cult of the earth god, Haargon, found out about
the existence of the two mages and made their plans to attack. The
rivalry between Haargon and Iliara, the goddess of the air, had long
been fierce, but only recently had it escalated to such huge
proportions. The cults had escalated it to blood-shed. Haargon's
followers had acted first, killing one of the air goddesses high
priests, saying naught but that he had blasphemed their god beyond
permissible levels. The cult of the air goddess was quick to take
its revenge. Of the existing earth mages, over half were murdered
one night in their sleep. Since that night, the cult of Haargon had
been killing any air mages found in an attempt to "even the score".
Stefan had told Ariel about this cult before, so when they attacked
in the middle of the night, she recognized them. Before she even
awoke, Stefan was dead by the hand of their leader and they were
coming for her. Calling all her fury and grief to play, she used
everything she had learned so far to call up a wind strong enough to
blow about the pine needles on the ground and pull the ones from the
trees, giving her the cover to escape. She ran, but only far enough
to find a place to hide before she collapsed in utter exhaustion.
She had slept after that for almost 18 hours. When she awoke, still
exhausted and emotionally drained by the death of her lover, but
she found a bit of food and then began to travel toward Dargon.
The face in the mirror told her that she had still not
recovered. Since that night, almost 2 months ago, she had rarely
been able to call anything more then a light breeze. Slowly, though,
her power had been improving. For the first month after the fight,
she had not even been able to stir the breeze. "Soon," she thought,
"soon, I will be my old self". But this thought had been losing its
power to console her. She was beginning to think that she might
never regain what she had lost. Still, the cult continued to follow
her. Not as viciously, but they were watching, and she had to keep
her eyes open.
"But first I must eat." she said to herself out loud. Splashing
her face with water once more, quickly, to get the dreamy look out
of her eyes, she headed down to breakfast.
As she came down the stairs, she was all but overwhelmed by the
smell of the fresh cooked bread. She hadn't smelled anything that
good since she had left her father's inn. It seemed like ages ago.
"It was." she told herself. But the scent was strong enough that she
hurried the rest of the way to the common room, her mouth watering.
The meal was plain, but wholesome. Ariel hadn't realized how
hungry she'd been until the innkeep put the fresh, warm bread, ripe
apples, and sharp cheese before her. The food tasted fantastic.
After so long on the road, any fresh, warm meal was welcome.
She was just finishing up when a small child, approximately 6
years old, wearing dirty, torn clothing and no shoes, came running
in from the street. He scanned the room and, spotting Ariel, came
running over. He looked her over carefully for a moment, then,
without a word, dropped a note and a leather pouch before her and
ran out of the inn.
Startled, Ariel reached for the note and the pouch. As she
opened the pouch and emptied it's contents, her face went white.
Stefan's ring, the one that he said helped him to concentrate, lay
there on the table before her. Dragging her eyes away from the ring,
she opened the note.
"Ariel; Air Mage.......
This ring belonging to your friend will help you
to overcome those who still watch and follow you...Be
wary, for they will not give up easily. I cannot
interfere directly, so you must have faith in your
own abilities. Stefan has taught you well. Overcome
this obstacle and you will be brought into our
fellowship. Until then, take care, and trust in your
own strength.
Cyrrwiddyn; Priest of Iliara......."
As she read the last words in amazement, the writing on the
parchment disappeared. Startled, she sat with the now blank
parchment in her hands, wondering how these people had found her and
where she could find them. She had so many questions. But the letter
had given no clue. She had no ideas on how to find the Priest.
Soon her attention turned back to the ring. Placing it upon her
finger, as one would a wedding ring, she was surprised to see it fit
perfectly. Stefan's fingers were nowhere near her size. Quickly
however, she realized that there was magic involved here and that
she should not question the ways of the Gods.
"Stefan," she whispered, "They took you away from me too soon. I
will extract a price on them for this. But please, give me the
strength to live long enough to do it."
Finishing the last of breakfast, she got up and left the inn,
heading out in search of a job, but with the words of the letter
still buzzing around in her mind. So occupied was she that she
failed to notice the shadowy figure that moved away from the wall as
she went by and began to follow her.
-Becki Tants
Reunion
Gellan left the forest just after dawn. The dew was still
dripping off the trees but the chill was leaving the air as he
strode across the meadow just outside the city. He stood for the
moment at the crest of a small hill and looked over the expanse to
the city walls of Dargon. Dargon. It had been a long while since he
had seen Dargon and its high buildings and crowded marketplaces. The
first time he saw Dargon, he was a young lad, not even had he seen
his tenth year. He dimly remembered looking in wonder at the great
colorful banners of the duchies and kingdoms, for it had been the
time of the great Festival that was given in Dargon every year. His
view now was not one of awe, however. He had been through much in
the seventeen years since his innocent days of childhood. He shifted
the pack that was slung over his shoulder and settled into a steady
gait made his way to the main road that led into Dargon. The morning
traffic had picked up while he had been approaching. As he walked
along the side of the road he drew stares from the coaches and
wagons that passed. He chuckled softly to himself as he thought that
they probably considered him some type of barbarian due to his
homemade clothes and unkempt hair and beard. But he had never really
cared about others or what they thought about him. That had been one
of the reasons he had left his village, family and all the security
that those things implied. If only they'd understood... if only...
ah, well. He had come to the archway of stone that was the entrance
to Dargon. He walked through the high entranceway and was astounded
by the density of the people and the buildings. The people! It had
been so long since he had seen so many people bustling and crowding
in one place. He walked down the streets and alleys of Dargon and
was only able to gaze in wonder at the large city. "Well, " he
thought to himself, "I'd better take care of business first. I'll be
here quite long enough to sightsee...". Then he was off to look for
a place to live during his stay in Dargon...
Night was falling over the city of Dargon, and most of the
businesses in the lower part of the city were closing. The 'most'
however didn't include the bars. The city was going through the
metamorphoses that happened every night around dusk. The nooks and
alley-ways used during the day to get from place to place in the
city were now shunned at all costs. A man could lose much more than
his purse at night in Dargon, especially in this district. Merntik
was making his way to Belisandra's for a night of general debauchery
and ruthlessness which was usually what he did, when he wasn't
planning on taking some poor merchants livelihood. The salt air was
drifting in from the water as always. Merntik entered the pub and
immediately grabbed the first serving girl that came within reach.
There were cries and whoops from all around. "Hi Mern!", a group
called from the end of the bar. He waved and made his way to the
counter. "Ale!, the strongest and darkest you got, lady!" he yelled
and then turned with a twinkle in his eye. That, among other things
is what had made him famous. Nobody knew just exactly how he did it,
but there are those who say that he could make his eyes sparkle in
pitch black darkness. After reciving his mug he pushed his way
through the crowd at the end of the bar.
"So, you are looking as ratty as ever, Gauld!", he said and
delivered a resounding slap to his comrade. "What has the night
brought this way?"
"Bah, only you, you old abandoned horse," Gauld said with a
grin, and then continued, "but, nothing else as yet. It has been a
slow night thus far. And how have you faired today? I saw you
earlier on Ramit Street talking to a couple. I assume you were
'helping them'?", and then his grin broadened.
Merntik let a little twinkle enter his countenance and replied,
"Well, they were lost! And not from this city, I had pity on them.
And besides, I had no idea how well they would pay for a guide to
get them to their hotel", he took a gulp of the dark ale, "as a
matter of fact neither did they!" He laughed loudly as he ordered
another round for the group and threw the gold coin on the counter.
Time went on as he and the men drank, laughed and played games. The
serving maids knew enough now to stay out of reach of the group as
the night wore on but always managed a tease now and then by coming
just out of reach. The night wore on and Merntik decided that he had
had quite enough frolic to sustain him for this night. "Besides," he
thought to himself, " I do have an early day tomorrow, no telling
how many people I will have to 'help'." And with a chuckle to
himself, he rose, said his goodbyes and left. The cool night air did
little to raise him out of his drunken stupor. He didn't even notice
the small dark figure that followed him from the front of the tavern.
Merntik turned to walk down a side street that led to his living
place and that was when the man appeared in front of him. "Stop
there Merntik...". That voice was as familiar to him as any ever
would be.
"Jernan, what finds you here this late at night? Scraping for
your dinner in the gutter?". As any could guess, Jernan and Merntik
did indeed know one another, and they held more hate towards the
other than any thought possible.
"Ahh, Merntik. You're tongue still has a fork I see. I have so
missed your conversation. And will forever, after you are dead."
Every once in a while Jernan had tried a futile attempt to kill
Merntik. They had studied under the same master when they were
young, but Jernan became impatient with what he thought were
monotonous studies and left long before he was ready to face the
world that a thief must face. And as could be expected, he was soon
arrested and imprisoned for a number of years. After he got out of
the Lord's prison he once again delved into the criminal element
where he found that Merntik had made quite a name for himself. The
jealousy that he harbored toward Merntik along with a few meetings
since then was what caused Jernan's obsession with the elimination
of Merntik.
Merntik, tired and not wanting to allow Jernan first blood
feinted to the left and produced a dagger from beneath his cloak. He
then did a quick recovery and lunged after Jernan. But missed. He
ended up going tripping over his cloak. As quickly as he could, he
got to his feet and managed to strip his cloak off increasing his
maneuverability. Jernan had already drawn his knife and whirled
around. Jernan stabbed at Merntik. If he had been a bit faster,
Merntik might had taken it in the stomach. As it was, he felt the
steel enter his leg. Jernan gave the knife a twist and the shock was
too much for Merntik. His knees buckled under him, and he was
suddenly on his back facing up at Jernan. Jernan walked over slowly
and kicked Merntik's dagger further down the alley.
"I would have thought that when this time had come you would
have given me more of a fight. Tsk.... It seems that you slipped
once too often, Merntik." He walked over and Merntik saw him take a
foot long steel pipe from the ground nearby. "There is really no
need to be gentle about this I guess..." and with that he grabbed
Merntik by the collar of his tunic, lifted him up, and hit him in
the stomach. The pain was almost to much for him as he tottered on
the brink of unconsciousness. His drunken state and the loss of
blood had left him unable to focus. He never should have travelled
alone on this night. His mistake might have just cost him his life.
Jernan pulled back for another blow when a hand came out of the
shadow. The third man grabbed the pipe and wrenched it from Jernan's
hand in one swift move. Jernan whirled around redrawing his dagger
and jumped for the man but his hold on the blade was broken as the
stranger brought the pipe down with blow that could have only broken
Jernans hand. The stranger then brought the pipe down on Jernans
neck and the would be murderer crumpled, like paper, under the blow.
Merntik had seen this all from the ground where he had fallen
when Jernan released him. The stranger, his face hidden in shadow,
walked over to Merntik and knelt down beside him. Merntik could only
mutter, "Thanks..." before he was overtaken by unconsciousness.
The young thief awoke an unmeasured amount of time later. His
wounds had been cared for and he was bathed and lying on a cot. He
tried to sit up on his elbows to further survey the room but his
body had already decided that it was in control at this particular
time, and his stomach, bruised from the previous skirmish, had
knotted together. He could only groan and fall back in the cot. He
heard a movement from across the room and turned as far as he could
and said, "Hello? Who is there?". He was silently wishing he had so
much as a bobby pin for protection. Then he heard the clinking of
dishes and the smell of an obviously strongly seasoned stew waifted
over from somewhere. He was suddenly ravenously hungry. Still the
man had not yet come into view, so Merntik thought to get him to
speak. "Who is there? I want to thank you for you help, I was sure
that I had had my last drink.... Hello? Please, I would like to pay
you for your help....". At last he heard steps coming toward him and
his eyes opened wide as a look of recognition came over his face.
"Mern. Now how would it look if I took money for helping you....
brother", Gallen said as he knelt down beside his brother with the
steaming bowl.
"Oh my God...", was the only Merntik could think to say. Then he
smiled and reached out to hug his brother, but fell back in agony
once again.
"You always were headstrong when you were sick", Gellan said, as
he offered a spoon on the stew.
"Where have you been? What have you been doing? Why did you not
come home?" Merntik asked, "I mean, Gellan... Seventeen years!...."
"Shhhhh.. Mern. I am here now. I will tell you everything but
first you must eat. Then we will talk of me."
-Ed Murphy
Part II
The Magician
Roharvardenul walked away from the Fighting Unicorns well
pleased with the deal he and Ka'en had made. Patting his side, where
the book rested in the folds of his cloak, he walked slowly to the
shadows of a side alley. Once hidden from casual observers, he let
the 'whore' illusion that hid him fade, as well as the 'man in
brown' one he wore under it. And he smiled in the knowledge that
even should the missing book be somehow traced to that most capable
thief he had hired, it could not be traced further - he did not
believe in taking chances.
Vard (a name he much preferred to his given one for its
simplicity - Roharvardenul was very difficult to pronounce correctly
for one not raised with it, and he hated it when people
mispronounced his name) moved even deeper into the shadows until he
was sure that no one could see him. He began to concentrate on
building up yet another illusion. This would be very difficult -
invisibility was hard to achieve, and even harder to maintain,
especially when moving. Vard had practiced long and hard under his
erstwhile masters, and he knew his craft. Soon, even careful
scrutiny of the shadows wherein he hid would not have revealed
Vard's presence - he was invisible.
When he had reached an equilibrium within himself, and he knew
that he was ready keep the spell going as he moved, he inched his
way out of the alley and around to the rear of the Fighting
Unicorns, studiously avoiding the infrequent torch- or lantern-cast
pools of light that were scattered about - hiding himself was hard
enough; hiding his shadow as well would be nearly impossible.
Placing his steps as noiselessly as possible, Vard crept into the
Fifth Quarter and its concealing darkness.
Feeling more secure once he was three streets deep into the
Fifth Quarter, Vard began to move faster, but kept up the
invisibility. He knew that he couldn't hold the spell much longer.
He wanted to be as far as possible from the fringe Inn before he
became visible again. He was already weaving the illusion that would
replace the invisibility - he tried to be himself as little as
possible outside the walls of his fortress home.
Curiosity has killed more than cats in the Fifth Quarter, but
anyone with a little left might have seen a child, an urchin, appear
running from nowhere, clad in scant rags and bare feet. An urchin
was a common sight in the Quarter, the sudden appearance was not.
Still, had it been seen, the incident wouldn't have passed the lips
of the observer, for the insane are dealt with even more severely
than the curious in the alleys of the Fifth Quarter.
Threading his way through the maze-like inner streets of the
Fifth Quarter, Vard eventually reached a blank, wooden wall at the
end of a particularly narrow alley. The hidden catches were both
difficult to find, even for him, and hard to press all at the same
time (to prevent accidental discovery). Finally, the wall parted
just enough for him to slip through, then slammed shut seconds after
its opening, leaving Vard in total darkenss.
He stood in the darkness for several moments, letting the
disguise he wore fade away. Here, he needed to be himself, for he
had set traps to protect this secret way into the heart of his home
from strangers. Filling his mind with the patterns the traps
expected, he strode confidently through the utter lightlessness
towards the inner sanctum. It seemed that hours passed in the
minutes it took him to reach the final curtain, but finally he
stepped into light.
The small room he had stepped into was deep below the streets of
the city, although the gradual slope of the corridor was only barely
detectable as one walked it. An ornate chair was set against one
bare wall. There was a soft carpet on the floor, but the only other
decoration in the room was a large pattern of lines surrounding what
looked like a stylized door on the wall opposite the curtained real
door. The decor of the room was completed by two lamps flanking the
door, and a medium sized chest resting near the wall pattern.
Vard took a deep breath and relaxed - walking the gauntlet of
that corridor made even him nervous. He walked over to the pattern
which was more than a decoration. It was, in fact, a portal into the
cellars of Aahashtra, his fortress home. With it, he could make the
40 league trip to and from Magnus in one step. It had taken a lot of
effort to create the portal, but his frequent trips to the Crown
City made it necessary.
Laying his hands within the terminal-circles at the edge of the
pattern, Vard began to prime it, readying it for the activation
spells. It was just beginning to glow faintly when he heard someone
enter the room behind him. He whirled, fire beginning to limn his
hands as an attack spell filled his mind, but he let it slip away
when he saw that it was only his servant Qrun returning from his
errand. Qrun bowed to his Master and took the wrapped bundle that he
carried over to the chest. Opening the lid, the servant carefully
placed the bundle on top of the many other oddments that filled the
chest. He turned and bowed to Vard again.
"Ah, Qrun, what did you find today? Anything of special
interest? Have you completed your rounds?"
"Master, yes, I have visited all the shops you told me to. These
last items are the most interesting I found. They registered eight
on the meter." Qrun unwrapped the bundle in the chest, displaying a
leather-cased harp and a slim-bladed sword. "See, Master, even a
little above eight."
The servant produced a strange device from the pouch hanging at
his belt and held it next to the harp and sword. It was a simple
rectangle of black wood, with a tube of glass set into a little
trough on one side. There were lines etched across the glass at
regular intervals, and a number was graven into the wood next to
each line. As the device neared the two objects in the chest, a
bright bar of yellow light began to move up the tube from below the
mark labeled '1'. When Qrun held the device almost touching the harp
and the sword, the yellow bar had pushed past the mark labeled '8'.
"Very good, Qrun, very good. These items will serve me well!
Let's see if they have any identifying markings, eh?" Vard lifted
the harp case from the chest and examined the silver-decorated
leather carefully. He opened the case and removed the beautifully
wrought harp and examined it. Plucking a few strings that sounded
marvelously in tune, he said, "It names itself 'Soft-Winds'.
Beautiful name, eh, Qrun? Wonder who the owner was? Belike some
bard, down on his luck. Well, his loss is my gain, right?" He placed
the harp back in its case and set it back in the chest. He picked up
the sword. "Matched set, these were," Vard said. "I can feel they
had the same owner. Wonder what could have parted a bard from both
his livelihood and his protection?" He peered closely at the
carvings on the sheath and drew the blade after unfastening the
peace-bond. He read the runes etched among the delicate leaf pattern
that chased up and down the center of the well crafted blade. "And
this weapon hight 'Leaf-Killer': an odd name for a very fine blade.
It belonged to a south-western family at one time, and was
transferred from son to daughter last, if I read my runes correctly.
So, the bard who lost these was a woman! No matter, they will serve
as well in any case."
Vard placed the re-sheathed sword back in the chest beside the
harp, and bade Qrun secure the chest for travel. While his servant
attended to that, Vard returned to the task of activating the
portal. Presently, the pattern built of special tiles and set into
the very fabric of the wall began to glow strongly, with a slight,
pulsing beat. The portal was open.
Vard took one last look around the room to be sure that it was
empty. With a wave, he extinguished the lamps by the door, and by
the light of the pattern he followed his servant into the portal and
vanished from Magnus. Immediately after his form vanished into the
pattern, its light went out, leaving the secret room in darkness
until the next time Vard had to come to the Crown City.
The Book
Lights sprang on of themselves in the room in Aahashtra that
mirrored the one hidden under Magnus as first Qrun and them Vard
stepped through the center of the glowing pattern. Vard said, "Take
that to the sorting room, Qrun, and take care of its contents. Tell
Eirul to bring me something to eat in my study, if she hasn't
already." As Qrun carried the chest through the curtain at the far
end of the room, Vard followed him as far as the first side door.
There, the magician turned aside from the long hall and went through
the door and up the stairs behind it that led to his study.
He found a bright and cheery fire burning behind its screen in
his study and a tray of tarts on a table in front of it. He bit into
one and smiled. Eirul was a superb cook. The tarts were a specialty
of hers and a favorite of his.
Vard removed the Book from the folds of his robe and set it
reverently on his reading desk. After lighting several of the lamps
that stood around it he went over to a tall bookcase to get down
some reference volumes. He settled into the stiff-backed chair at
his reading desk and opened the book to the first page. He was
pleased to find that it was written in what was called Middle, or
Pure, Fretheodan, the language of that empire's most productive
period. He was conversant in the language, so he began to read, not
taking the time to look up words or usages he didn't understand. He
wanted to get an idea of what was contained in the book before
analyzing it.
Pausing only to nibble at the food he never saw Eirul bring, he
read the book from cover to cover. By the time he had finished it,
almost a full day had passed and he was sure that the Tome of
Yrmenweald was exactly what he had hoped it was. It contained the
secrets of a vast powersource that the Fretheod Empire's wizards had
managed to harness. It gave details on how to duplicate the feat,
and exactly what could be accomplished with the harnessed power.
Vard was sure that he could put the Yrmenweald to as good a use as
had the Fretheod. He had always dreamed of being the most powerful
wizard in the world, and with this book he could be.
But, first things first. Vard had gotten the gist of what the
Tome contained. Now he wanted to know exactly. It was essential that
he understand, word for word, the instructions left by the wizards
who had harnessed the Yrmenweald the first time. Patience was
something Vard had learned long ago, along with thouroughness, and
now he put both to work studying the Tome.
First, he translated the Tome into the trade language that the
Fretheod Empire had created. It was a language that was able to
express complicated ideas very clearly while still being easy to
learn because of its logical structure: its rules had no exceptions
since it was not a naturally evolved language. He was able to
clarify to himself what certain passages meant by the way they read
in the trade tongue. Then he translated the trade version into his
own native tongue, gaining even more insights into the text. The
last step was a detailed examination of all three versions,
comparing them and finalyzing the exact meaning of the Tome. He was
aided here by his collections of material from the Empire's history,
including maps, journals, and books written by Fretheod scholars.
This helped him pin down geographic references and fit them into his
own frame of reference. It also helped to clear up idiomatic usages,
obscure (to him) literary references, and the other little things
that kept him from total understanding of the Tome.
He learned that the source of the Yrmenweald had been found by a
team of explorers who were charting the continent they called
Gereon, which was south of their homeland and east of Vard's. One
day, the native guides they employed showed them a taboo area where
a stone had fallen from the sky. They were told that the first
people to go near the place, soon after the sky-stone had come down,
had been burned to death by the heat of the earth. Several weeks
later, when the earth had cooled, another group of people had tried
to get to the sky-stone. These had been driven off by strange lights
in the pit where the sky-stone rested. When they died later of a
strange, wasting sickness, the area had been declared taboo.
However, the Fretheod explorers insisted on seeing for
themselves. The tales of the sky-stone were several years old, and
they persuaded their guides to stay with them by suggesting that
perhaps the 'evil spirits' inhabiting the place had gone by now.
Jarl Hremon, the leader of the expidition, entered the
depression created by the sky-stone first. Burried in the earth, he
found a wall of silver metal that sparked feebly when he neared it,
then went out. He tripped on a clod of dirt and fell against the
metal. When he did, the entire wall shimmered and faded into
nothingness, revealing a large, dark cave.
Hremon got a torch and led his men into the strange cave. They
found much that they could not describe or understand, but they did
find - well, something. The Tome used a strange symbol for what they
found that seemed to be enough description for them. No mention was
made of exactly what it was, or what it looked like, or where the
symbol came from. Vard could find no other reference to a symbol of
that type anywhere in any of the books he had collected. For his own
convenience he assigned a sound to the symbol. He called it 'keseth'.
Somehow, Hremon had recognized that there was potential in the
keseth. He had a permanent camp set up around the pit, and sent a
man back to the capitol with a message informing the King of their
discovery and suggesting that the Court's wizards send someone back
to further examine what had been found.
The King sent a full legion of his army to Gereon, escorting
most of the Weavers in the capitol including Swithwald, their
master. It was Swithwald who closeted himself with the keseth for
many days. When he emerged from the cave, he knew what the keseth
was capable of, and to what use it could be put to.
Swithwald left for the capitol after instructing his wizards in
what preparations to make for the keseth's transportation. When the
Master Weaver was home, he set about building a place for the keseth
deep in a long disused mine. He had the full support of the King
once he had informed the monarch of his plan, and being able to draw
on the resources of the whole Empire made the work go quickly. Soon
the vault was ready. In an exhausting exhibition of magic that
required the services of every Weaver and a good many of the lesser
mages, the keseth was transported from the pit on Gereon, into the
vault that Swithwald had made where it would be safe and available
for study.
Years went into that study. Swithwald bent all his energies on
harnessing the power that the keseth held. Finally, he found a way
to keep the keseth bound while allowing it access to its power. The
discovery of cwicustan by another exploration team probing into the
northern wastes of their own continent was the deciding factor in
harnessing the keseth's abilities. After much research into the
strange, almost living, crystal called cwicustan, it was discovered
that any part removed from the whole was still affected by some
things that happened to what remained. It was thought by the
researchers to use cwicustan as a magic channel, for a spell cast at
the heart-lode would emanate from any and all fragments of that
lode. Swithwald heard of its properties, and set teams of
researchers to finding out how to apply that ability to the keseth.
Finally, the connection was made, and the Master Staff was formed.
The Son Staves that were formed from the master were linked to it,
and the Master Staff was linked to the keseth enabling anyone with
access to a Son Staff access to the power of the keseth.
And that power was, in the main, farseeing with incredible
clarity. Commanders could keep an eye on enemy movements from a
considerale distance. Explorers could view the terrain they would be
crossing well before reaching it. Ship captains could spot land from
afar, as well as keep an eye on weather patterns using another minor
ability of the keseth. And it was the power of the keseth that
turned the agressive and formidable Fretheod Nation into a
world-spanning, invincible Empire.
Finally, both Swithwald and the King decided that they needed to
safeguard the core of their newfound power. Once Swithwald was
certain that the keseth was safe and secure in its vault, he sealed
it and took a map, one of his servants, and the key across the sea
to one of the nation's outposts. In the cellars of a watch-keep
named Wudamund he he burried for safekeeping the map to the vault,
the key to enter the vault, and the servant who knew the traps
guarding the vault. He then instructed the Tome to be written, to
hold all of the knowledge of the Yrmenweald (as they came to call
the power that the keseth gave to Fretheod), the keseth, and the
Staves. And lastly, he and the Weavers worked a greater magic than
the one that had moved the keseth. All knowledge of the keseth, its
whereabouts, and the source of the Staves' power was removed from
the minds of all the Fretheod people. Only those with access to the
Tome would know the real power behind the staves, and only someone
able to raise the dead could gain access to the vault where the
keseth was bound. With the Tome entrusted to the royal bards, both
Swithwald and the King were sure that the secrets would be kept
safe. No one imagined that treachery from within would finally end
the Empire.
It was almost by chance that Vard had come across the one thing
that would enable him to take the Yrmenweald for himself. He had
purchased what turned out to be the seachest of Tarhela, the last
Skaldric of Fretheod, from an illiterate hoarder who didn't know the
value of what he had sold. Among the shreds of rotted clothing, and
more intact books, he found the Skaldric's journal. Within the
journal was the only written reference to the Tome of the Yrmenweald
in existence.
Vard immediately began a magical search for the tome. He traced
its path through history from the shipwreck of Tarhela's ship, to
its final resting place within the walls of the Bardic College in
Magnus. Trickery, magic, and a lot of favors had eventually gotten
him the keys to the vault where it was stored. It only remained to
hire Ka'en to steal it from under the noses of the Bards without
their knowing.
And now, Vard was even closer to ultimate power. He knew that
Dargon Castle had been built on the partial ruins of the watch-keep
that the Fretheod had called Wudamund. With a little research of his
own, he knew he would have no trouble unlocking the secrets hidden
in the cellars of Clifton Dargon's home. The more difficult task
would be to find some cwicustan, for he knew that he would have to
begin from scratch in constructing a Master Staff of his own and
that required his own supply of the living crystal. He decided to
make that his first priority.
Crystals
It was only an hour from sunset as the good ship Morcyfaill
dropped anchor in the harbor of a small fishing village called
Hadrom on the east coast of Duurom, the present name of the
continent that was once the center of the Fretheod Empire. The
longboat was lowered over the side. Owain Garothsson took his leave
of Captain Camarond, and he and his men climbed down into the boat
and were ferried ashore. No amount of gold Owain could offer would
get Camarond to sail farther north. Owain was resigned to making the
rest of the trek afoot.
Vard watched the disembarkation from a special room in his
fortress. It was a small chamber at the top of a squatly conical
tower, with barely enough room for himself and a chair and table.
The only light in the room came from an oblong of translucent stone
that rested between two silver plates on the table and glowed with a
faint turquoise light. Vard's hands rested lightly on the silver
endplates and his eyes were closed. He watched the far off scene in
Hadrom in his mind, checking on the progress of his pawn. The
blue-green bar of glowing stone bound Owain to Vard's will by means
of a property of magic known as Contagion. Stated formally, the Law
of Contagion stated that 'Things once in contact continue to
interact from a distance after separation'. This allowed Vard to use
control magic on an object that had once been in Owain's possession,
and thereby control Owain.
Of course, this ordinarily wouldn't have been enough for him to
completely control a person from such a distance. The Law alone
wasn't strong enough to allow him to control someone who was just
across the room from him. But Vard had discovered more about the
intricacies of the Law of Contagion than any other mage whose works
still survived. He had learned that the stronger a person's
emotional bonds were to the object, the stronger the Law bound the
two. Once he had isolated that property in the object, he had found
a way to magnify that property so that he could use his control
magic on the object with an almost overwhelming effect on the
subject. The strength of the modified control depended on the degree
of the initial attachment, but if that attachment was strong enough
Vard could be assured of complete control with a minium of effort.
At some point in his career, Owain had lost a bamboo transverse
flute that had meant a great deal to him. Vard had invented a
measuring device that codified the degree of attachment between
object and former owner. The tube of yellow light in the black wood
rectangle had reached midway between the marks labeled '7' and '8'
when held next to the flute. Once Vard had located the flute in his
sorting rooms, where all of the items he and his servants collected
were stored, he had processed it to magnify the attachment property
to usable levels. The result was the turquoise bar that rested on
the table before him in his control room.
More than eighteen months had passed between the time Vard
resolved to obtain some of the cwicustan and the day he sat watching
Owain and his band disembark from the ship that had carried them to
Hadrom. The time had been spent first finding a cache of cwicustan,
and then finding a way of getting hold of it. Vard never did such
things for himself as they were far too dangerous and there were
easier ways of getting them done. Even if he had desired to venture
into the northern wastes of Duurom himself, he had no patience with
traveling the hard way. And there was no way to use his magic to
travel the distance with ease. Teleportation was a difficult spell
and it required either vast amounts of power and strong
enchantments, or precise and exacting knowledge of the destination.
Vard had neither at hand, although one of the uses he could forsee
for the Yrmenweald when he had harnessed it was as an aid to
teleportation. With the ability to view distant places in amazing
detail he would be able to transport himself anywhere on the face of
the globe with little more than a thought. He would be revered and
respected for having such power.
The thought crossed his mind to hire an adventuring team to
retrieve the magical stone, but he knew that wouldn't work. He
couldn't afford to pay the team enough gold to insure that they
would return the stone to him. Cwicustan had enough visibly strange
properties to give an experienced adventurer ideas about selling it
in a better market. When he had hired Ka'en to steal the Tome, Vard
knew that the thief would have no use for an old book, and so would
not try to double-cross him.
Vard had to search for someone whom he could control. Where
money might fail, his magic wouldn't. Using specially developed
future-scanning spells designed to locate an object that fulfilled
the requirements of the castor, he had searched his storerooms,
eventually finding the flute belonging to Owain. The process of
refining the flute into a useable form took six months. Fortunately,
he had no trouble taking control of Owain once his aparatus was
ready. Ocaisionally, a very strong will could put up a fight, and he
had to take care (and much time) to insinuate his control carefully
into the subject's body and mind.
The rest of the elapsed time was taken up in waiting for the
expedition Vard had caught Owain in the middle of preparing for to
be diverted to Duurom, and then for the two month sea voyage to
Hadrom. He had had no trouble getting Owain to change the object of
his adventuring, even over the objections of his fellow explorers.
He was also able to keep the man from revealing the reason that they
were suddenly going north into Duurom, instead of south on Cherisk
into the Skywall Mountains (which wouldn't have involved any sea
voyaging at all). He didn't have the materials to control all eight
of the adventurers, so he had to keep the cwicustan a secret.
As the longboat was rowed to shore by ship's men, Owain looked
over the seven he had with him. Two of them had been with Owain on
other adventures. In fact, Auvgin and Telrmun were two of his
closest friends. But not one of the adventurers was quite sure just
what they were doing in a boat bound for a fishing village.
Sometimes, that included Owain.
Owain was an adventurer. That wasn't the only thing he had ever
done: only the lucky or short-lived could make adventuring their
life's work. Owain had held many jobs, from guarding merchant's
caravans to hauling goods in a warehouse. He did those other things
to amass enough money to go adventuring. He hoped one day to bring
back such a big find from some ancient temple or ruined city that he
could retire with his riches and be remembered forever for his final
accomplishment.
Six months previous, Auvgin had come to Owain with enough money
saved up to fund almost half of the stake required to outfit an
adventure to investigate some maps and tales of strange happenings
in the heart of the Skywall mountains. After some negotiations, it
had been agreed that Owain would put up the rest of the money needed
to investigate the rumors of vast treasure that Auvgin had heard.
With the skill of much practice, Auvgin and Owain had soon put
together a band of people and the necessary supplies to follow
Auvgin's plan.
And then, almost on the eve of their departure, Owain had
changed that plan. Now they would be traveling to the northern
wastes of Duurom. He had refused to tell them why, except that he
had heard even better rumors than Auvgin had brought of easy
treasure to be had there. Since he had the most money invested, it
was easy for him to quell the grumblings of Auvgin and the others,
and they headed for Duurom.
The reason Owain hadn't told the others why he had changed their
plans was because he couldn't. Something had told him to go north
into Duurom, enticing him with visions of a strange crystal that
grew there. What was really frightening was that he couldn't resist
the order. He had no choice. He would have gone alone if the men in
his expedition had refused to go. But, he couldn't even tell anyone
that he was being forced to go north. Whatever was cooercing him was
preventing him from talking about it.
As the longboat manuevered alongside the dock, Owain looked
first back at the Morcyfaill and then north beyond Hadrom. He
wondered if whatever was forcing him after the crystal would let any
of them come back alive.
Hadrom was well prepared to outfit travelers going north. It was
the northernmost village on Duurom's east coast, a week away by ship
from its southern neighbor due to an archipelago that contained too
many shifting shoals and shallows to chart, forcing ships to go
around, and a month away overland due to the mountains that grew
from the sea along the line of the islands and continued inland
across half the continent. The only pass thru the mountains was two
weeks away from each village, although a desperate man could find a
shorter though much more dangerous route.
The self-sufficient fishing village also served as an outpost
from which to explore northward. It offered goods and services
needed for an expedition at reasonable prices, enabling explorers to
travel light until they reached Hadrom.
Owain and his band spent a day and two nights in Hadrom getting
supplies and information for their trip. When Auvgin suggested
hiring a guide, Owain flatly refused. The force driving him informed
him that it would be their guide to the cwicustan, but it left it up
to Owain to provide a reasonable explanation to his followers.
They left Hadrom on the second dawn since their arrival on
Duurom. Day after day, which became week after week, they walked,
ever farther north. Duurom was no longer settled much above Hadrom.
Owain saw no indication that it had ever been inhabited save for the
occasional rune-marked obelisk which were identical to several he
had seen at home. When six weeks had passed, the grumbling among his
men was getting dangerous. It got worse when Owain informed them
that they were still at least a month away from where they were
going. And then, as they were gathered around the camp's fire, the
bird-thing attacked.
It took everyone by suprise. Having spent six weeks traveling
with not the slightest problem had dulled their reflexes enough for
the bird-thing to stoop down on them unawares, its long and sharp
talons grabbing hold of Telrmun and piercing his body as it lifted
the screaming man off of the ground a short ways then dropped him.
Telrmun gave out a little cry as he hit the ground, then lay still
and soundless, splashes of red dotting the front of his tunic.
The rest of them were slow enough drawing steel and nocking
arrows that the bird-thing, its beak now open and producing a noise
like no normal bird any of them had ever heard, was able to latch
its talons into Druorn. That young man was able to take a swing, the
first of the party, but his blade didn't even nick the glistening
silvery hide of his attacker.
Owain tried to get an idea of what the bird-thing looked like as
he attacked it during its screeching swoops. It was huge, larger
than a man by half. It had no feathers, but rather thick pebbly skin
that protected it from all but the strongest and truest of blows.
The bows of Maloc and Eergna were useless - their pull wasn't strong
enough to drive their arrows into the hide. Its wings were stiff and
didn't seem to move at all. Its head was long and pointed at both
ends, and it had large intelligent-looking eyes. Owain was sure that
it wasn't a natural creature.
Owain and his men were able to finish off the bird-thing without
losing anyone else. After burying Telrmun and Druorn, the six
remaining decided to put their grumbling behind them and continue
the expedition in a more careful manner.
The remaining weeks passed with no more arguments about where
they were going or why. The far northern wastes were populated with
all kinds of strange beasts and birds, none of which seemed quite
natural, so that they were kept too busy staying alert for trouble
and defending themselves to argue. Owain was reminded by them that
the Empire which had once spanned all of the land they were
traveling through had been well supplied with magicians and wizards.
He supposed that the monsters were byproducts of magical
experiments. He might even have been right.
Finally, they came to a rather small range of mountains that the
voice in Owain's head indicated was their destination. The six spent
a night at the foot of the smallest mountain in the chain, and were
up bright and early the next morning to find the treasure.
Owain led the way up and over the mountain that was really a
medium sized hill. On the other side was a valley that ran down the
center of the whole range. It looked just the sort of place for a
hidden temple or ruined city - always sources of fabulous wealth. It
was heavily forested, mostly by conifers which meant that the valley
floor was carpeted with green even in the semi-eternal winter of
this frozen land.
They soon reached the floor of the valley and turned east at
Owain's lead. The valley was full of ordinary sounds as the
adventurers moved silently through it. Birds cried in the trees, and
there were rustles in the undergrowth indicating small animal life.
There was absolutely no evidence of man in the valley, not even an
obelisk anywhere. The small fauna seemed to have no fear at all of
the six humans slipping through their forest. Owain even saw
something that looked remarkably like a deer just standing in the
shadow of a tree, and it didn't flee when they walked by.
It took two hours to reach the east end of the valley. The
forest grew right up to the foot of the tallest mountain in the
range and no further. The slopes of the mountain were bare of
everything but rock. Owain pointed at a dark hole in the mountain's
flank and said, "That's where we are going."
The voice in his head told Owain that the crystal grew in the
back of the cave, but it also said that there was danger in the
cave. It still refused to let him tell about the crystal. As he
hesitated about just how to get into the cave while avoiding the
danger in it, the voice commanded him to order the others into the
cave. This would lure out the danger, and allow him to slip in and
get the crystal. He had no choice. Even as the commands entered his
head, his mouth was giving them voice.
He followed his companions up the side of the mountain, slipping
to the side as they reached the mouth of the cave. He listened to
the others march confidently into the darkness; the voice had
assured them through his lips that there was no danger at all within.
The footsteps had almost died away when there came a cawing
roar, somewhere between the sound of a lion and that of a huge
eagle. On the heels of the sound came startled yells, one scream of
mortal pain, and then running.
Four of the five who had gone into the cave now came tearing
out. They scattered as soon as they were in the open and turned back
to face what they had found within the cave. As it bolted into the
sun and spread its huge wings, Owain recognized one of the fabled
gryphons of legend. Half lion and half eagle, it was majestic and
terrible as it took to the air cawing its rage and lashing its
lion's tail. There was blood on one of its taloned fore-feet and at
the tip of the beak.
Although Owain would have rather gone to help his companions,
the voice had clamped down on him in total control. He could only
look back as he was forced into the darkness of the cave to see the
gryphon land amid the four men who were now armed. He didn't see the
battle begin, but he could hear it as he went deeper into the
darkness - the battle shouts of the men, the roaring caw of the
gryphon, the sounds of wounds on both sides.
Owain finally reached the nest of the gryphon. He was suprised
to find that there was light, provided by a mass of strange-looking
crystal against the back wall. In the dim light, he saw the dead
body of Tellor lying where the gryphon had left it.
The voice that had control of him cared not at all for Tellor,
alive or dead. It directed Owain's body over to the glowing crystal,
and had him remove a hammer and a delicate chisel from his belt
pouch that he didn't even know was in there. After carefully
examining the growth of crystal, he was directed to place the chisel
carefully in two places near the base of one large mass and tap it
lightly with the hammer. Placing the tools back in the pouch, Owain
was then made to take hold of the mass of crystal and pull. Much to
his suprise, it came away from the wall with no trouble at all. It
was also very light for its size. Measuring three feet long by one
around, it weighed no more than five pounds; an easy if awkward
burden for the trek home.
A bag was fished out of Owain's pack by his own unwilling hands.
He could feel the voice's intent to leave the other four to the
mercy of the gryphon. But, though he wanted to help in the fight
with every fiber of his being, the voice's control was too strong.
He had no choice but to place the crystal in the bag, secure it to
his pack, and then make his way back out of the cave.
When he reached sunlight, he saw that the battle was still going
on. Telkor, who was Tellor's twin, had not survived his brother by
much. Lorth was limping on a bloodied leg, and had hooked a crooked
bleeding arm in his swordbelt. Of the three remaining fighters, only
Auvgin was unmarked. The gryphon was faring better than its
opponents, but it too bore wounds. Someone had managed to disable a
wing, preventing the half-bird half-lion from taking to the air
again. Owain hoped that his three remaining companions would
vanquish the monster. As the voice controlling him forced him toward
the saddle between this mountain and the next, he sent a silent
'good luck' back to the battle. It was a long time before the sounds
of the conflict faded into the distance.
The walk back to Hadrom was a nightmare for Owain. The voice was
no longer in his head constantly, but it had laid a conpulsion as
strong as a geas on him to return to the fishing village where a
ship would be waiting to take him back to Cherisk. Detailed
instructions filled his mind about how and where to go once reaching
Marrak, the ship's first port-of-call on Cherisk. He finally knew
that he was to deliver the crystal to a wizard named Vard. He
secretly cherished a wish to be able to make the wizard pay for
forcing him north, and leaving the three to make it home alone
assuming they survived the gryphon.
Vard was sitting in a rear booth in the Fighting Unicorns
disquised as a somewhat tattered merchant when Owain strode into the
bar. Vard had chosen this as a rendezvous again because Baranur was
the closest city to Marrak wherein he had a hidden portal.
Owain had been ordered to take a room near the river and clean
up a little before coming to the 'Unicorns. It was a very
presentable adventurer who settled himself across from the merchant.
Only his eyes bore evidence of the six month plus trek he had
undergone, half of it alone.
False small talk was made about Owain wanting to hire out with
the merchant on a caravan while one of the barmaids took their order
and came back with their drinks. Once they were alone, Vard asked
for the bag with the crystal to be passed under the table. Keeping
up the chatter, Owain did so. Vard hastily checked the contents of
the bag. Satisfied, he fingered two phials he was carrying in an
inner pocket. One contained slow poison, and the other was a
powerful potion that induced amnesia. He wasn't sure which to give
the man who sat talking across the scarred and dirty table from him.
Finally, he shuffled them around and took one at random. With the
ease of a practiced prestidigitator, he slipped the contents into
Owain's bell shaped stein of ale. He proposed a toast to seal their
fake bargain, and Owain drained his cup in one swallow. Without
waiting around to see which phial he had selected, Vard got up and
left the inn, slipping with his usual ease into the depths of the
Fifth Quarter and back to his fortress.
Owain ordered and drank another ale before leaving the
'Unicorns. He made his way back to his own inn and collapsed on the
bed in the room he had rented. Sometime in the night, two things
happened. First, the control that Vard had exercised over him
vanished as the wizard destroyed the transformed flute. And, all
memory of what had happened to him from the time Auvgin first
approached him about an expedition he was planning vanished. When he
awoke next morning, he was very puzzled about why he was in Baranur
and where the past year had gone.
Vard set about preparing the cwicustan as the Tome instructed so
that it would be ready for use when he finally found the keseth.
When that was finished, he turned his attention to the next two
phases of his quest for the Yrmenweald. First, he had Qrun delve
into the deepest vaults of the fortress wherein were kept the most
dangerous and powerful books of lore he had managed to acquire by
fair means or foul. While his servant was so employed, he went into
the Sorting Rooms and prepared a location spell to help him find an
object he could use to control someone who could get the treasure
out of the hidden vault in Dargon Castle.
The ball of light he formed between his hands began to drift
around the room when he said the last words of the spell. It looked
like a drunk wil-o-the-wisp as it darted erratically around the
room, from shelf to shelf, object to object. After making the rounds
of the room three times, it finally settled around something. When
Vard looked at the objects, he smiled. He picked up the sword named
'Leaf-Killer' and the harp named 'Soft-Winds' and took them upstairs
to be processed.
-John L. White
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME EIGHT NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
*Consummate Love Jim Owens
*Legend in the Making 'Orny' Liscomb
Date: 080587 Dist: 393
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Well, I suppose it is appropriate that a Dargon story containing
a wedding would appear directly after my own marriage. This past
Saturday (August first), we gathered our close friends at a nearby
YMCA camp on Lake Maranacook. The weather was beautiful and the
ceremony went perfectly. The reception featured steak, barbecued
ribs, and corn on the cob, and was held outdoors. An excellent time
was had by all, and I might venture to state that the bride and
groom are very happy together. My thanks to everyone who attended
and to those well-wishers on the network.
Plans for Pennsic are coming along very quickly now, and I shall
expect to see people there. We shall be trying to get the Dargon
project authors together on Thursday if possible. The newlyweds will
be there all week, and may be found at the Endewearde campsite. Our
banner is a blue field with a silver tower and wreath in the center.
Alternating black and gold rays eminate from the tower. We shall be
the only Endewearde representitives attending, so once you have
found our site we should be the only tents there. Anyone at Pennsic
is welcome to come looking for us.
So that is the news. As for this issue, we have an extra-special
treat for you. The first story is the continuation of Jim Owens'
story begun in "Ornate Love", and provides a fitting conclusion. The
second story is my own "Legend in the Making", which has been in the
works for over 6 months. I hope you find great pleasure in it.
My regards...
-'Orny' Liscomb
Consummate Love
Levy trembled as he poled the raft closer into shore. The cedars
towering above his head shaded what little sun the early winter
provided, bringing a chill to Levy's body. The water soaking his
pant cuffs was cold, as was the air. It wasn't the cold, so much,
that was making Levy shiver, however, but nervousness. Finally,
after almost five months, he was going to see Sarah again.
Levy still recalled that day in early summer when he had stood
on the dam at the end of the lake. He could still remember the shock
he had felt when the wave swept him over the face of the dam, and
the look on Sarah's face as she watched him being swept away by the
flood waters. The months had dragged by, at first, as he recovered
from the wild ride down river. Then, as he worked to earn enough
money to make his way back north to where Sarah lived, time suddenly
seemed to speed up. It has only a few weeks ago that the trader had
showed him the utensils, ornately carved like the ones Sarah had in
her house. Once he tracked them to the town, it was only a few days
searching before he once more found the artificial lake that
surrounded the island Sarah lived on.
Levy guided the raft up to the dock. He tied it to the mooring,
then climbed onto the dock and ran to shore. He ran up the steep
path towards the house. As he ran he called.
"Sarah!" Levy watched the slatted windows in the house above as
he ran. "Sarah!"
He reached the house and ran to the door. He found it heavily
latched and tied. He ran down to the workshop where Sarah made her
crafts. It too was locked. He stood there, his heart sinking to his
feet. Now he knew why there had been no smoke, even on those cold
days while he was building the raft. Now he realized that he had not
seen her boat below at the dock. Sarah was gone.
Levy searched the whole island. Finding nothing, he returned to
the house. Cutting the cords that tied the door shut, he entered. A
search showed that Sarah had taken all of her clothes, and all the
household goods. The food was all taken as well. Levy re-sealed the
house, and with a heavy heart, returned to the raft.
Levy poled the raft back to his shoreline camp. It was dark when
he got there. He started the fire again, and fetched his stuff from
the tree where he had stashed it. He ate a cold supper, and then
went to sleep.
The next day Levy broke camp. He loaded up his horse, and began
to lead it around the lake. He reasoned that Sarah had to hide the
boat somewhere, as she could not leave it out in the open, nor could
she take it with her. Therefore, somewhere along the lake there were
marks where a large object was pulled from the water. He had gone
about a mile when he spotted the trail. It led right up the clay
bank, and to a small clump of trees. There, hidden under a large
pile of dead branches, was the boat. Levy quickly found hoofprints,
and the chase was on.
For days Levy followed the tracks, cold and wind his constant
companions. Finally the tracks turned onto a small path. At the end
of the path Levy found a small house. When he reached it, he found
it too boarded up. A larger path led south from the house. Levy
followed it down into a small village. One simple question to the
local innkeeper told him what he wanted to know. One week ago, Abel,
the owner of the small house, had shown up in town with his sister,
Sarah. He had asked the innkeeper, an old friend, to watch his
house. The two had purchased traveling goods, and had ridden west.
Levy thanked the man, and started off.
Levy rode hard for a week. He stopped in the towns along the
way, asking questions and buying supplies. In each town he found
people who remembered a man and a woman traveling together, and
through these references he managed to close to within two days of
them. By that time they had changed directions, and were headed
south. By that time also, however, snow had started to fall.
As Levy started into his second week of trailing Sarah and Abel,
he ran into a blizzard. He rode for a day and a night solid to get
to the next town. By the time he got there he was almost frozen. He
spent two days in the inn, waiting for the snow to slow enough for
him to travel. He used the opportunity to earn some money repairing
the old town clock. By the time the snow let up, Levy was itching to
be off. He thanked the innkeeper, and started riding.
Levy's luck turned bad after that. Halfway to the next town he
reached a fork in the road. He chose the southern fork, assuming
Sarah and Abel would have also. When he reached the next town,
however, no one remembered two recent travelers. Levy then rode to
the next town, hoping that the town's people just didn't remember
them, only to find no trace of them there, either. Heavy with worry,
Levy turned back. One day out of town another storm hit, forcing
Levy back to the safety of the inn. It was three days before it
lifted, and by then Levy had caught cold, and couldn't travel. When
he overcame that, he headed back up the trail. The snow made travel
hard, and it was a week and a half before he made the fork again. A
day later he rode into the first town along that road.
Levy rode up to the inn. He tied up outside, and strode into the
main hall. He found the innkeeper tending fire.
"Good Sir! Might I have a word with you?" Levy was slightly out
of breath.
"Of a certainty, young man. What might I do for you?" The
innkeeper stood up straight, wiping his hands on his apron.
"Have two travelers passed this way recently, a man and his
sister? It might have been some days now."
"Any reason in particular you'd like to know?" The innkeeper
eyed Levy carefully. Levy was used to such reactions, having gotten
such from other innkeepers.
"I must speak to the lady of very personal matters. I've trying
to find her for six months now, and I lost them back at the fork in
the road. Have you seen anyone like what I'm looking for?"
"I'm sorry, young man, but of a truth, I've not seen any man and
woman traveling together for almost six months. I believe you mean
them no harm, and I'd like to help you, but I can not. If they came
this way at all, they must have ridden right on through, as I'm the
only innkeeper in town." The look on his face was one of sincerity.
"Thank you. Thank you very much." Levy's whole body drooped. He
was exhausted, cold, and no closer to finding Sarah than he was
before. "Might I spend the night? It'll be dark after a while; I've
no stomach for riding further today."
"But of course! Take your horse to the stable, while I make room
for you." The innkeeper walked off.
Levy ploddingly unloaded his horse and released him to the
stable. He carried his gear to his room, and sank into a deep,
sorrowful sleep.
From then on life held little joy for Levy. Town after town he
stopped at, but no one had seen or heard of two travelers like Sarah
and Abel. The winter grew deep, and the snow with it. He wondered if
he shouldn't backtrack, in hopes of finding the trail again, but he
just couldn't stir himself to turn back. Weeks plodded by as Levy
worked his way further southwest.
It was a grey afternoon when Levy sighted the bloodmarks in the
snow. The road was well trampled, but lonely. Levy hadn't seen a
traveler since morning. When he saw the crimson drops, he stopped
immediately. They lay on the side of the road, in unmarked snow. He
looked around carefully. Seeing no one, he dismounted quietly and
examined the marks. They were drops, as if someone had cut their
hand, and then shaken the blood off onto the ground. There were no
other marks around, however, so Levy remounted and rode on. He
hadn't gone far when he saw the tracks leading off the road into the
woods. He dismounted, and examined them. It was no great surprise to
him to find copious bloodmarks in and around the tracks.
Levy sat there, torn. It would just be asking for trouble to
follow the tracks into the trees, away from the public road. On the
other hand, a known danger can be dealt with. It was naive to
believe that someone who struck once would not strike again. Levy
thought for long moments on the question. Finally it was the thought
that perhaps he could help someone that prodded him off the road and
along the trail.
Levy carefully stalked along the trail. For the first few
hundred feet, the trail appeared normal, except for the small traces
of red. Once the road faded from view, however, normality vanished.
Levy was horrified to see a large blotch of blood spread across the
snow. Levy quietly pulled his sword from his saddle. He looked at it
for a long moment. Levy had used a sword before, but had never
killed a man. Dozens of stories ran through his mind, stories of
fights, stories of battles. He hesitated, then carefully slid it
back into its sheath. He bent his head for a moment, in silent
prayer, then continued. He didn't have far to go. A few hundred feet
further in he found a body, sprawled across the snow, a sword wound
across its head. It had been stripped of everything but its
blood-soaked clothes. There was no horse, although from the tracks
leading away from the body the man had been mounted.
Levy stood there, shaking. He didn't recognize the man, but
death is a frightening thing even in anonymity. Finally, Levy got
himself moving again. He looked around, to be sure the attackers
were long gone, then began digging a grave. As the winter was
already deep, he finally found a good use for his sword: breaking
through the frozen top layer of sod to get to the softer soil below.
Once the body was interred, Levy started following the tracks. He
reasoned that the last thing he wanted was to be wondering where the
murderers were.
Levy tracked the murderers for the rest of the day, and the
morning of the next day. Just after noon the trail came to a stream.
Levy followed the tracks down the stream. Soon Levy could see the
stream was coming up to a small pond. Leaving his horse tied to a
tree, he crept up to within sight of the pool. Around the pool was
gathered four bandits. They were speaking in a dialect so thick Levy
couldn't understand half of what they said. They had a small fire
going, and they were roasting some small game. One of the bandits
got up and walked to the road, to check for travelers. Levy quietly
drew back into the trees.
Levy quietly returned to where his horse was tied. He untied it,
and started leading it westward through the trees. After a bit, he
turned north again. Levy led his horse quietly to the roadside. He
wanted to give the thieves as wide a berth as possible. He came out
onto the path about fifty yards west of where the pool formed.
Cautiously he poked his head out of the trees. The path bent, and he
was only able to see the pool area. There, by the water's edge,
stood a lone figure. Levy's heart almost stopped. It had been many
months, but he still recognized the figure at the pool. It was Sarah.
Levy's mind and heart started to race. He snatched his sword,
scabbard and all, from where it was stuck into his pack. He started
running back towards the pool, along the path. Sarah, oblivious to
him, walked out of sight along the pool's edge. Levy doubled his
already pounding pace. As he neared the pool, he caught sight of
Sarah again, alone still. She looked up in surprise, and then broke
out in an astonished and delighted smile.
"Levy!" Sarah started to run toward Levy. The two met, and
caught each other. Sarah started crying, but Levy had no time for a
tearful reunion.
"Keep quiet! Don't make any noise!" Levy whispered loudly into
Sarah's ear. "Let's get out of here!"
The two turned to leave, but Levy found the way suddenly
blocked. Two bandits stood there, grinning. Levy started to turn to
run back into the woods, when something hit him, and he blacked out.
He came to on the ground. He started to sit up, and caught sight
of Sarah struggling in a bandit's arms. He started to get up faster,
and was rudely yanked to his feet by strong arms. He was whirled
around by two more bandits to face the fourth.
"Well, what have we here?" The man grinned a dirty smile. Levy
never found out what the man considered him to be, for there came a
hoarse yell from behind him. The bandits all turned to look, and
Levy twisted around as well. There stood Sarah, watching as her
previous captor struggled in the grip of a newcomer. The man was
short, and dressed in black leather. His short, dark hair was the
picture of perfection. He took the burly bandit by the shoulders,
and shook him savagely. Then, faster than Levy could follow, the man
in black lifted the bandit straight up, and then threw him in the
pool, where the bandit floated lifelessly.
One of the bandits holding Levy let go, and stepped towards the
newcomer. The other, finding himself alone to handle Levy, smashed
Levy in the face with a forearm, knocking Levy to the ground before
moving himself to take on the stranger. The forth bandit stepped
over Levy as well.
Levy, cradling his aching head, watched as the first bandit drew
his blade and slashed at the man with one stroke. The blow was
clean, aimed right for the man's midsection. The only problem was,
when the blade reached the man, the man wasn't there any more. With
a blurringly fast move, the stranger ducked UNDER the blade, then
threw himself at its wielder. The two crashed back into the third
bandit, who fell. The swordsman steadied himself, then tried another
swing. This the man merely blocked, grabbing the sword arm, pulling
and twisting it. The bandit stumbled forward, doubled over. There
was a loud crack as the newcomer delivered a savage kick to the
thief's throat. The stranger let go as the murderer fell in a heap.
The bandit who had fallen got to his feet. The black-clad man
approached him. The thug stabbed at the other's midsection, but the
other twisted away, grabbing the base of the blade in his bare,
right hand. The stranger pulled on the blade, dragging the murderer
forward. The stranger then twisted the blade around, dragging the
arm with it, and plunged the sword into its owner's back. The
newcomer released his grip as the body fell.
The last bandit had watched the whole affair from several steps
back. He now drew a small dagger. He drew back his arm, and was
felled by a blow to the head from Levy, who swung his sword without
even taking it out of its sheath. Levy stepped back as the man in
black stepped up to retrieve the dropped dagger. Levy watched in
shock as the man calmly slid the blade between the criminal's ribs.
Levy just stood there, as Sarah ran up, and embraced the
stranger. Levy looked around at the four bodies. Rarely had he ever
seen so much death in such a short time. His stomach started to
churn, but with an effort he pushed it down. Levy stepped over the
inert forms to where Sarah was hugging the man. The stranger
extended his right hand. Levy took it, noticing that there were no
cuts on it at all.
"Thank you. You saved my life, and Sarah's. I'm ..."
"Levy. Levy Barel. I know. I'm Abel."
Levy reeled. He had expected Abel to be a farmer, not a vicious
fighter. Still, Sarah was showing no discomfort around him. Abel
released Sarah and turned to the horses. "Let us go. This is not a
good place to be, anymore." Levy followed, not having any argument.
They mounted up and started to ride. Sarah leaned over and gave
Levy a hug. "I've found you! You don't know how I worried!"
Levy returned her embrace awkwardly, afraid he was going to pull
her from her horse. "I was looking for you, too. I...kind of left in
a hurry." Why do I feel so awkward all of a sudden? thought Levy.
All this time I've been looking for her, here she is, and now I
don't know what to do! "You were looking for me then?"
"Yes. After you got washed away, I couldn't rest until I knew
what happened, so I packed up and went to my brother for help."
"How did I get ahead of you? I know we didn't pass on the road..."
"We stopped at a friend's house just after the big fork. We
spent over a month there before moving on."
"Well, I'm glad we found each other. We...need to talk."
The three of them eventually camped for the night. Levy found
himself sleepless, however. All he could think of was actions in the
fight. Finally he sat up, running his fingers through his hair. He
put on his shoes and squatted by the fire. He turned at a sound
behind him, only to find Sarah stepping up beside him. She kneeled
down beside him.
"What's wrong? Couldn't sleep?" She herself had that soft look
that told Levy he had awoken her.
"No. Something is bothering me. Something I did today." He poked
the fire with a thin branch.
"If you mean that fight at the pool, there was nothing else to
do. Even Abel was fighting. Normally Abel wouldn't hurt a fly."
Sarah rubbed Levy's shoulder.
"That's fine for Abel. But what about me?" Levy paused,
gathering his thoughts. "I first found signs of that group
yesterday. There was blood on the road, and a trail leading into the
trees. I followed the trail, thinking it was the best action. The
blood got heavier, and I drew my sword. Then I started thinking. Who
am I? What was I going to do with that sword?" Levy huddled down
closer to the ground, and Sarah put her arm around him. "Could I
rely on myself to fight off someone? And what gives me the right to
decide that my life is more important than someone else's? I could
only come up with one answer: I put the sword back. And yet, when I
saw you standing there, by the pond, with those murderers all
around, the first thing I did was grab my blade."
"You wanted to protect me. Anyone would have grabbed a weapon."
"Yes, but what had changed? I was still the same man, I hadn't
changed. No one had appointed me as judge over those men. What good
are all my fine truths if I only use them when it's convenient?"
Levy looked at Sarah. "And yet...I couldn't have let them hurt you..."
Seeing the expression on his face, Sarah spoke. "We all do what
we think best at the time. Sometimes we regret it later, but it's
done. We just must live with it, and go on." She stood, and started
to go.
"Wait." Levy took Sarah's arm and eased her back down "We're
alone now, probably the last chance we'll get for a while. I want to
talk to you." Sarah remained silent, so Levy continued. "After I was
washed down the river, I spent a long time recovering. Not only did
I have to get well, but I had to pay off my debts to those who
nursed me, and earn enough money to buy a horse and some stuff.
Then, the first thing I did was go down to Dargon, to an old friend
of mine."
Levy paused. He felt so unsure of himself, he didn't quite know
what to say next. Sarah just sat there with questioning eyes. Levy
stood up, and stepped over to where his pack stood. From it he took
a roll of leather. Sarah stepped up beside him and put her hand to
his side, as if to stabilize him. Levy led her back to the light.
"I asked him if I could go through the old records. He allowed
me, and so I looked all through the old records, and I found this.
It's the family crest that we had before we got our present one."
Levy unrolled the leather. On it was inscribed a colorful image,
a family crest. Sarah gasped.
"...but that's...that's MY family crest!"
She looked at him, suddenly expectant. Levy stood, feeling panic
coming on. He knew what he had planned to say, but now he wasn't so
sure he wanted what he had planned to ask for.
"What's so interesting that it must be discussed at night? Night
is for sleeping, not talking." The two turned to see Abel
approaching. He too looked like he had been awakened from
comfortable sleep. He squatted by the fire, warming his hands.
"Levy couldn't sleep. He was thinking about that fight today."
Sarah laid her hand around Levy's shoulder.
"I know how he feels. If I hadn't been told what to do, I would
feel the same way."
Levy looked down at Abel. "What do you mean?"
"I saw, in a dream, a man telling me I would meet bandits along
the way today." Abel's voice lowered. "He said that I was not to let
them live. I have no authority to take life," Abel paused for a
moment, "but the one I serve does. I only kill for him."
The three sat in silence for a moment, than Levy returned to his
bedroll, his thoughts only on what Abel had said. Sarah followed
him, silent. Abel was still by the fire when Levy fell asleep.
The next day the three saddled up, and continued southwest.
Travel was safer, but the weather got worse. The trio had only
gotten a few days down the road when another heavy storm stopped
them. Once more Levy took the opportunity to repair the town clock.
Levy stood inside the old town hall, staring at the mechanism.
It was a water-powered clock, and over a hundred years old. Like
many of the time pieces in the area, it had been built by a
wandering group of clockmakers. Few people knew how to set it, and
no one knew how to fix it. Levy had studied clocks under one of the
best clock makers in Dargon, but even so the workings of the device
appeared intricate and mysterious. Sarah had accompanied him to the
hall, and she now sat near one of the many lanterns, watching him.
Levy hefted a broken cogwheel. "This has to be the key. Every
other cogwheel is in place. But where does it go?"
"Look for an empty spot." Sarah hugged a blanket closer around
her damp shoulders.
"I have...there aren't any. Maybe this is a spare or something."
"Then it wouldn't go anywhere. Maybe something else is wrong."
"Clock makers don't leave spare parts. Everything has a place,
so therefore this has a place. But where?" He set the broken wheel
down, and picked up a replacement he had cut in the village smithy.
He started walking around the device, examining the mess.
"Well, I'm sure you'll find where it goes." Sarah's voice was
quietly confident. "Levy, what was it you were going to tell me,
that night, after that fight by the pond?"
Levy stopped for a moment, without looking at her, then
continued his search. "I wanted to show you that I had found your
family crest, and that we are actually related."
Sarah got up, and started to follow Levy as he circled the
clock. "For some reason that doesn't surprise me. You remind me a
lot of my father."
Levy stopped and looked at her. "I do?"
"Yes. You're both so confident, so good at making things work,
making things happen. When I'm with you, I think of him." Sarah's
voice softened at the mention of her deceased father.
Levy looked up at the mechanism as Sarah looked away. Suddenly
his eyes widened. "Ahah!" He ran around the clock, grabbed a stool,
and then ran back. He placed it on the floor in front of a
particularly large gear, and climbed onto it. He stared intently
upwards for a moment, then sagged. "No, there's already a gear under
there." He climbed back down.
Sarah looked at Levy for a moment. "Do they put gears underneath
other gears?"
Levy turned and looked at her. "Yes, they do. Why?"
Sarah led Levy around to the other side of the clock, and
pointed upward. Levy followed her finger. There, high above the
floor, was a large gear. Sarah grabbed one of the lamps from the
floor, and shone its light upward. There, just visible between the
gear's teeth, was a stout rod.
Levy seized the ladder, and climbed up. He took the gear he had
made, and carefully levered the larger gear out a bit, exposing the
rod. He then carefully slid his gear onto the post, meshing its
teeth with the larger gear's second, inner set of teeth. He had to
tug on another, large, spoked gear to make the new gear fit, but it
did, dropping cleanly into place. Levy then jumped down, and
released the power shaft brake. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the
clock moved back into motion. Levy grabbed Sarah in a big hug, which
she returned.
"It works!" Levy held Sarah at arm's length, looking into her
eyes. "However did you see that?"
"I was studying the movement too, when you asked for that light
before, and I just saw it. I was wondering what it was for, but
didn't know until you told me about that other, hidden gear."
Levy looked at her for a moment. "Sit with me, please." The two
sat of the cold wood floor. Levy took Sarah's hands in his. "Were
you ever betrothed to anyone?"
Sarah looked confused. "What does it mean to be betrothed?"
Levy swallowed, his arms starting to tremble. "We you ever
promised to anyone in marriage?"
Sarah's eyes sparkled. "No..."
"Will you marry me?"
Sarah only paused a moment. "Yes."
The two sat there for a moment, then fell into each others arms.
It was a sunny spring day when the three finally rode into
Levy's village. The first place they stopped was at Levy's father's
house. There he presented his bride-to-be to his parents, thus
completing the first step of the ritual of marriage. The next step
was to ask the village Elder to marry them. As Levy's father was the
village Elder, they didn't have far to go.
With the first round of formalities out of the way, the
festivities could start. It wasn't often the son of an Elder got
married, and especially not one as well known as Levy. Elders were
rich, and could throw good celebrations, and Levy had many rich
friends, who could also throw good parties. Further, everyone in
town liked Levy, and they all contributed to the festivities.
Finally, after word got south, to Sarah's relatives, many of them
came north, and they were rich, and they brought a lot of food,
drink, and gifts. By tradition, the couple had to wait a two months
between announcing their engagement, and actually marrying. Most
couples hated that time, for it seemed to drag on so. Levy and Sarah
never even noticed it. By the time all the gatherings were over, it
was time to prepare for the actual ceremony.
The morning of the wedding found Levy walking up the path to his
father's house. He was dressed in his formal, tribal dress, dark red
wool with brightly colored bands of needlework. Tradition had mostly
spared him, as the groom, from any wedding day rituals. He was
grateful for that, having spent the morning alone, preparing himself
mentally. As he neared the house, however, joyful squealing told him
Sarah might not be so solitary. He walked up to the door, and
knocked. His mother opened it, but did not come out, standing
instead in the entrance.
"What do you want, Levy?" She was in a good mood, but seemed to
be restraining herself.
"I'd like to speak to Sarah, if I can." He tried to peer inside,
but his mother held the door even closer shut, only allowing her
head to show.
"Levy!" Levy could hear Sarah calling from within. Her voice was
followed immediately by intense giggling, and then by a delighted
shriek. The window beside the door exploded with a shower of warm,
soapy water. Levy stepped back, barely avoiding getting wet.
"I'm sorry, you can't see her until the wedding. We're giving
her a bath right now." From inside the house came more giggles,
followed by splashing, laughter, and the sound of someone getting
slapped, somewhere.
"Uh, OK. Tell her I love her." Levy tried once more to peer
inside, in vain.
"We will. Now scoot." His mother pulled her head inside, and
closed the door, leaving Levy to head off for the barn, where the
wedding was to take place.
Levy found his father talking with the village fathers. He
greeted them all, and they all wished Levy well, and then he and his
father took a walk, to talk.
"Are you ready, Levy?" Eli was also wearing his formal clothes,
which in his case were rather bulky.
"No. Were you?"
Eli laughed. "No. I don't think you can be. Sometimes I think
only married people should get married. I mean, it's the most
important thing in the world, and we leave it to total novices."
Levy laughed. "I suppose. Well, this is it. As long as I can
remember I've looked towards this day, and now it's here. And I'm so
nervous I'm shaking." He held out a quivering hand, and his father
laughed at the sight. Levy dropped the arm back to his side. "It's
silly. After all, Sarah's just a woman. She isn't going to hurt me;
she loves me. Why else would she marry me?"
"Right. Just remember to treat her like that. You have to live
the rest of your life with her...start it right."
They arrived back at the barn, having walked a big circle around
the yard. By this time the guests had started arriving. Levy and his
father, as per tradition, greeted them at the door. As the barn
started to fill, noon crept up, and soon Levy was sweating under his
wool clothes. It wasn't all the heat, however.
Soon it was time for Levy to move to the front of the barn with
his father. Mattan, Levy's younger brother continued greeting the
guests. With nothing else to occupy his time, Levy started to shiver
in earnest. He stood in one spot, not moving, rehearsing what was to
follow in his mind. His feet almost left the floor when he heard the
shout from outside.
"Here comes the bride!"
Levy turned to face the open door. People crowded in the way,
but they soon parted. There, leading the wedding party, was Sarah.
She was clad in her clan colors, also red, but a brighter shade.
Tradition was kind to her, allowing her a muff to hide her hands in.
Levy's felt as if they were going to fall off, they were so awkward.
Sarah was smiling, a nervous, but beautiful, smile. Seeing her, all
alone in front of her party, facing so many people, many of whom
were strangers, Levy felt for her, and, finally, stopped shaking.
She joined him at the front of the crowd. He took her, and for
the first time, publicly kissed her. The crowd started chanting the
word 'Amonta', an ancient word meaning 'lovers'. As the tempo and
volume increased, they parted, and then Levy leaped onto the
platform with his father. He reached down, and helped Sarah up as
well. They turned and faced the chanting but expectant crowd. Levy
raised both arms and shouted.
"Listen all you people!" The words rang out above the chant. The
people, expecting this, immediately stopped. "This day I take this
woman, with her permission, as my bride! If there be any challenge
to this, speak now!"
There was no answer. Levy hadn't expected one, but had there
been one, he felt ready to accept it. "Then she is mine, and I am
hers, forever!"
Eli stepped forward and joined their hands. "Inasmuch as there
is no challenge, I now pronounce you man and wife." As the two
embraced and kissed, the roof rang with the massed shout of 'Issi!",
another ancient word that meant 'two, yet one'.
Eli turned to step off the platform, when something hard and
heavy brushed up against him, almost knocking him over. He looked
up, to see a short stout man standing between him and the kissing
couple. The man was wearing shiny, black leather, and had
immaculate, short hair.
"Listen to me, now, all you people!"
Levy and Sarah looked up startled. This wasn't part of the
ritual. Sarah gasped in shock.
"Abel! What are you..."
She stopped in amazement. Abel's eyes were shining brightly from
within. Levy stared at him as well, as a silence fell over the crowd.
"Mark this day well! Mark it for many years! For I tell you a
great thing!" Dead silence reigned in the building. Abel's words
echoed off the walls. "Of this union shall come a child, a man
child, and he shall do many marvelous things! He shall be of great
renown, and shall be a blessing to many people!" Abel blinked then.
Instantly his eyes were a normal, dark brown. He looked out at the
assembled crowd, who were all staring at him. He paused, momentarily
overwhelmed. The brief inspiration that had led him to the platform
was finished, and now it was just him. Then he opened his mouth, and
yelled what seemed to be the right thing to say. "So let's celebrate!"
The celebration continued well into the night, and would
continue for weeks to come. A delegation had arrived from Lord
Dargon himself, bringing enough food to feed the mass of people well
for a dozen days. The newlyweds, however, as most newlyweds do, had
other, more pressing business, and left shortly after dark.
Levy and Sarah arrived at their new home just as the fireflies
started to come out. There they found a fire burning, their bed
neatly made, and the traditional nightfruit resting on a bare table.
Together they sat on the bed, and, as per tradition, together bit
into the red fruit. They then broke into soft laughter as the juice
ran down their chins, something that, if it wasn't traditional, was
at least common.
Levy leaned forward and licked the juice off Sarah's chin,
ending with a kiss. She reciprocated. They ate the rest of the
fruit, and kissed again.
"It's finally over. We're married." Levy embraced Sarah firmly.
"At last." She ran her hands over his back.
"You don't know how long I've waited for this."
Sarah chuckled sultrily. "Oh, yes I do."
Just then came a knock at the door. Levy frowned, then got up.
He walked over to the door, and opened it. There stood the Ariel's,
neighbors from a mile away.
"We wanted to congratulate you!" Abe Ariel shook Levy's hand
vigorously, and his wife gave Sarah a hug. "We're going home now.
See you tomorrow!"
They then walked off into the dark. Levy and Sarah looked at
each other, and then laughed. Levy shut the door, and they walked
back to the bed. Levy grabbed Sarah and pulled her down on top of
him. She squealed happily, and then started kissing him. Levy kicked
his shoes off, and with his feet pulled hers off as well. She slid
down beside him, and they embraced tightly. Then there came another
knock at the door.
Levy got up. I hope this doesn't get to be a habit, he thought.
At the door there stood John, a fellow apprentice at the smithy.
"Just wanted to congratulate you! And you too, Sarah!"
"Thank you, John. Have a good night." Levy watched while John
disappeared into the dark, then shut the door.
A few minutes later two more people walked up to the door. It
was two more neighbors, from across the next creek. It was a harried
Levy that opened the door, and a rumpled Sarah that accepted a
hurried embrace. The neighbors didn't seem to notice, however, and
left cheerily. A few minutes after, when yet another family stopped
by to give their congratulations, it was an empty house they found.
Levy held Sarah's hand as he led her down the path to the quiet
brookside. There they found a small meadow, far from any houses.
There they spread the still-warm blanket, and there they lay down.
After they kissed, Sarah whispered to her new husband. "You're a
wonderful, wise man, Levy."
"You're a wonderful, beautiful woman, Sarah." He kissed her.
"What do you think your brother meant by what he said?"
"I don't know." She kissed him, carressing the back of his head.
She lay back, on the blanket. "He said we're going to have at least
one child."
Levy leaned across her. "At least one."
Sarah put her arms around his neck. "How many children do you
want, Levy Barel?"
"A thousand!" He started kissing her neck.
"Well," she answered, smiling broadly, "we'd better get started!"
-Jim Owens
Legend in the Making
Victor Kent quietly admired the schooner Victory Chimes as she
rested at dockside. She wasn't really an attractive ship, with her
gaff and boom rigging, but she was a ship that had filled Kent's
childhood dreams. In fact, she was a ship who filled the dreams of
many, both children and young sailors alike. For many years, the
stories of Captain Smith and the mysterious VC had been told by the
men of Dargon to their children, and Kent was one of those young
lads whose heads had been turned by the call of adventure. His
father had been a merchant, and had often returned from work with
tales he had heard from the docks, and more often than not the hero
of the story was the derring Captain Smith of the Victory Chimes, a
swift three-masted schooner. When he was seventeen, Kent had signed
onto a packet ship as a galley hand, and got his first taste of
reality on the high seas. But now he was a man, and a year ago, at
the young age of twenty-three he had been given the command of a
merchant bark owned by the Fifth I merchant shipping firm. Yet now
he was about to give up his first command to become first mate on
the Victory Chimes. It had hardly been a fortnight since the word
had gone out - the VC was putting to sea!
Despite the legendary accomplishments attributed to the vessel
and its captain, the Victory Chimes had performed little more than
routine merchant liner shipping within the rather limited memory of
most people. But the word was out that Captain Smith was going to
take her on an exploration mission, and that he needed crewmen. The
tales of the captain's bravery and wisdom echoed through every bar
in the port section, spreading through the town of Dargon proper
even to Dargon Keep and to the villages surrounding the port city.
As quickly as the news could spread, men came from far and near to
become crewmembers for the trip. Kent had listened to the rumors,
and had decided to talk to Smith about taking him on as first mate
for the voyage. This was, indeed, a dream come true.
He carefully set his foot on the gangway, and stepped aboard.
Captain Gordon Smith stood majestically on the castle as the
Victory Chimes was let from her moorings. He was dressed in attire
befitting a captain of a merchant vessel, and his white hair drifted
casually in the salt-tanged breeze. In the port, there was a very
large crowd gathered to watch their departure for unknown lands.
Smith noticed that it was no longer only children who came to see
the VC off, as it used to be. Today there were sailors, merchants,
some warriors, and even a few dignitaries, their eyes all focused
upon his figure and his ship. The harbor was filled with craft not
only from Dargon, but from many other nearby ports. As the VC slowly
glided by, the onlookers excitedly waved their caps at the crew, a
few of whom returned the gesture. Standing tall and aloof, Smith
tried to give them the best show he could, but his heart really
wasn't in it. He thought to himself perhaps he should have coaled
his white hair earlier, but it was too late now.
Soon enough they would be out to sea, and the few straggling
craft that followed the Victory Chimes would turn back towards port,
and he would be able to relax. The crowd's fascination with him had
set him in a dark mood, and he mused silently to himself as he let
the mate, a young man named Kent, guide the schooner from the harbor
into open sea.
The first two weeks of travel went very well aboard the VC, Kent
thought to himself. He had been given complete command of the ship
by captain Smith, and he had revelled in commanding the legendary
black ship. The weather had been sunny and the winds equally
favorable, and they had made good headway, steering consistently
west by northwest. However, Kent noticed the beginnings of a storm
coming up from the southwest. Shortly after midday he had one of the
crew notify the captain in his cabin, and he returned with the order
to maintain their course if possible, and to come about high to the
windward should the winds come from the southwest.
Within the hour the storm was upon them. Kent set the westerly
course and lashed the wheel down. He stayed above deck with three
other crewmen to take any necessary actions. Due to the westerly
bearing, the swells broke over the port bows, setting the deck awash
with foam and freezing spray, and Kent was forced to luff the ship
and ease off the sheets to keep her from capsizing. Kent tried to
gauge their course, and felt sure that they were being pounded
leeward, far to the north of their original position.
By late evening the storm had subsided, although the seas were
still heavy and the wind drove consistently from the southwest. As
the night wore on, Kent maintained his course, although he was aware
that the ship was still being driven far north of where they
intended to be. When morning arrived the seas had calmed, yet Kent
could feel a distinct chill in the air. In fact, as day broke,
several large ice formations could be seen floating some ways off.
They had, indeed, been blown far off course, and were now much
farther north than the port they had set out from. Kent was in the
process of trying to chart their position when a cry rang up from
the crew: land had been sighted!
The conning mate, Lees, had sighted a mountainous island rising
from the sea several leagues to the north, yet he insisted that it
showed no signs of snow. As the captain came on deck, Kent climbed
the rigging up to the halyards and looked. The island was small but
it rose from the water directly into a large, forested mountain, and
the slopes were lush with vegetation. The sky about the island was
tainted a strange silvery color.
When he returned to the deck, Kent reported to the captain. The
sun had warmed the chill from the air, and the captain immediately
set sail for the island. However, as they approached the island, the
air grew distinctly warmer, until Kent wondered how such a place
could exist within the cold climate so far north of Dargon.
The island appeared to be the cap of a vast underwater mountain,
rising abruptly from the sea. The steep slopes rose in jagged
cliffs, making it very difficult to imagine that anyone could live
there, though occasional lush valleys ran towards the mountainous
center of the island. However, the most bizarre aspect of the island
was the vegetation. Kent could identify many plants he had seen
growing only in tropical areas in Baranur, far south of Dargon, and
yet all the plants and trees had leaves which had an almost-visible
quicksilver sheen to them. The captain decided to search for a
suitable place to anchor and proceed to explore the island.
They hadn't followed the coastline for more than twenty minutes
when they came upon a suitable harbor. However, as the VC entered
the lagoon, around the edge of the woods there appeared a small
collection of primitive huts. There were people living on the
island! In fact, not long after the huts came into view, an
indecipherable holler went up in the woods as the ship was noticed
by the inhabitants. Within minutes a handful of dugout canoes were
on their way across the lagoon and towards the ship, the natives
bellowing their greetings and gesticulating comically. Kent laughed
as he saw one man run into the shallow water and leap awkwardly into
a canoe, dumping himself and the two previous occupants into the
drink. The captain ordered the anchor dropped, as the VC was soon
surrounded by smaller craft, her deck overrun by curious and anxious
natives. Oddly, Kent noted that their skin, very little of which was
covered in most instances, was slightly dark, and that it also bore
a strong sheen of that unnameable hue. In fact, he noticed that
their eyes all were strongly shaded with the odd coloration. Kent
watched as perhaps fifty islanders ran from one item to the next,
not doing much damage. He watched as one man examined a capstan,
then kicked it, then moved on to the anchor ropes, then went to
examine a doorknob. Kent laughed heartily at the native's expression
when Lees, the lookout, opened the door and emerged from the galley,
much to the islanders' fascination and surprise.
Each of the crewmembers was soon surrounded by several native
men and women. The ones around Kent rubbed their fingers through his
dark hair (which seemed to be their method of greeting), and then
proceeded to talk at him in their language and pinch and investigate
his skin and eyes. He patiently let them have their insistent way,
and imagined that his skin color somehow must be as strange to them
as theirs was to him.
As evening finally fell, the crew could see that a large fire
pit had been arranged by the beach, and that preparations for a huge
feast were being made. The captain had the crew gathered on deck
and, upon the urging of the natives, launched a boat for the island.
Those crewmen who could not fit in the dingy were gladly accepted as
honored passengers in tribal canoes. Despite Victor's opposition,
the captain did not order any of the crewmen to stand guard over the
ship, reasoning that the ship was within sight, and nothing could
happen on it without their knowledge. Besides, who would want to be
left out of the evening's proceedings?
The trip to shore was chaotic, but uneventful. The crew was
finally assembled by the fire pit and guided to a large mat, made of
fragrant, freshly-cut grasses. There they were seated, each with a
native upon either hand, while the women brought exotic foods for
their men and their guests. Standing at the head of the 'table' was
a large wooden depiction of what appeared to be a bear. Stained with
various colors, the massive saurian watched silently over the feast.
However, a cold shiver ran down Kent's neck when he noticed that the
bear's eyes had been painted with a stain of that ever-present
quicksilver glow he had seen in the plants of the island.
The feast went on, with each course outdoing the previous in
strangeness. One of the drinks the crew was introduced to was mildly
intoxicating, and many had drunk far too much of it. Several left
the area at the coaxing of buxom native women, but Kent spent most
of his time trying to talk with one of the natives. He had learned
that the man was named 'Zut', but that you had to accompany the
sound with an rise in tone and shrugging of the shoulders. It
appeared that the natives used the same words for several different
ideas, and accompanying gestures often made clear which word was
correct. Just watching the natives talking to one another had set
many of the crew into gales of uproarious laughter. Many had made
comic imitations of the speaker, who then addressed the individual
again, apparently to correct the pronunciation or gestures made by
the crewman.
Kent had tried to communicate with Zut, but hadn't achieved very
much. He had tried to ask the native about their chief, but Zut had
emphatically pointed at the bear statue, saying "Tsiti!" Kent
figured that the native had interpreted the concept of 'chief' as
'god', and had shown him the totem of Tsiti, their animal-deity. He
spent some time trying to get the native to learn some words in his
tongue, but only was successful in teaching him 'Victor', 'victory',
and 'skin'.
The following morning, most of the crew were again assembled
upon the mat and fed. Kent was somewhat troubled by the fact that
Zut was not at the meal, and tried to ask another native why Zut was
not present. The native looked at him and babbled.
"Zut! na'hai Tsiti!" While speaking this, he managed to somehow
shrug his shoulders, make motions like waves with his hands, and
then close his eyes. Apparently Zut had something to do with Tsiti.
Kent wondered. Perhaps Zut was a priest, though he carried no
markings or demeanor that differed from the other men. He tried to
tell the native to bring him to Zut.
"Bal'oa nia tsapful," replied the native. Somehow Kent got the
impression that the conversation was ended, though he really had no
idea why.
After breakfast the native urged Kent to follow him away from
the village and into the island. Kent talked Captain Smith into
coming along, on the basis that they would be exploring the island.
Most of the crew had all gone in separate directions, but would be
back by nightfall. With that, they were off into the mountainous and
overgrown island interior.
They followed a worn footpath through the woods, but the
existence of a path didn't make the going much easier. The trails
had been made for bare feet, and were too soft and spongy for boots,
which Kent and Captain Smith soon removed. The guide had led them on
a trail which led high into the interior area of the mountain, and
the going was very steep and very warm. It was some time after noon
when the guide excitedly beckoned them towards a rise in the trail.
As Kent climbed up the rise, what he saw was one of the most
beautiful and most bizarre scenes he had ever seen. They were
standing at the top of a huge cliff which fell away several hundreds
of feet to the sea. The view looked down upon the northern shore of
the island, which the VC had not scouted. The view was breathtaking,
but even more startling was the view to the north of the island.
Several leagues distant was another island, yet this one was nearly
flat, and about it there was a strong, visible aura of the strange
color they had seen only in shades in the plants and animals of this
island. There was no question that the northern island was the
source of the unnatural hue.
"What in hell is it?" came the captain's exclamation from behind
Kent.
The native, seeming to understand, simply replied "Tsiti."
Kent tried to describe his thoughts to the captain. "Apparently,
Tsiti is the bear figure we saw at the village. They seem to worship
this being, and that island is somehow linked with him. It's obvious
that they must think it's sacred. But that's about all I know."
The captain pondered silently for a moment. "Damn. Well, we're
supposed to be exploring and adventuring. I guess we can't very well
turn away from something like this, can we? Let's head back to the
village and round up the crew." With that, he turned and began
carefully picking his way back down the path. Kent gave the native a
reassuring look and followed.
The afternoon was cooling off, and the early twilight shadows
were beginning to lengthen as the group plodded down towards the
village. Captain Smith immediately had all the crew gathered by the
beach, and described what they had seen that afternoon. He planned
to have the crew spend that night on board ship, and in the morning
set sail northward to explore the other island.
The crew had enjoyed their stay on the island, and weren't at
all pleased about returning to the Victory Chimes; however, they
decided to endure it after having convinced several native women to
accompany them. The night passed quietly, and the following morning
the natives were asked to leave the ship, and the VC set out from
the harbor. They skirted the coastline fairly closely for most of
the way, and so it was not until near midday that they began to see
the strange color appear pronouncedly in the sky to the northward.
Finally they came around a headland and saw the northern island.
Many of the crew turned away from the bizarre vision, yet many stood
gaping at the unnatural sight. The flatness and lack of vegetation
on the island made it seem even more alien than the rugged mountains
of the southern island, and even Kent stood dumbfounded by the
potency with which the abnormal coloration had contaminated the area
surrounding the lifeless, featureless island.
Kent could sense the tenseness of the crew as the ship left the
coastline and headed across the stretch of open sea between the two
islands. As the noontime sun beat down steadily, Kent began to see
heat waves rising from the water. His vision became more blurry and
he thought he had become sick, until one of the crew staggered to
him, complaining of the same symptoms. After asking several other
men, he concluded that the color was somehow effecting their vision.
He stumbled aft towards Captain Smith.
"Sir, the crew can't function... the waves, the color is
blinding them!"
Smith stood immobile and replied, "We'll make an anchorage soon,
Kent, and go ashore. I won't flee from a little sea-blindness!"
Kent made his way to the rail and watched the island through his
blurred vision as they approached. It was broad and flat and
lifeless. He couldn't make out either the southern island or the sun
clearly, as his eyes began to burn and redden. Soon they dared not
approach the island any closer, so Smith ordered the anchor dropped
a suitable distance offshore.
Captain Smith had the crew gathered abaft and addressed them. "I
have decided to send a party of men ashore to explore this island,
and find the cause for these weird lights. I shall be in charge of
this party, and the rest will stay behind at the ship. Now, who is
willing to venture ashore?" At this, the men began to mutter lowly
between themselves. At length, a voice spoke up.
"Captain!" One of the crew, a man named Jason Black, stepped
forward. "Most of the crew don't want any part of this island. It's
not something honest men should go poking at. If you go messing
around in things like this," he nodded towards the island, "there's
nothing but harm going to come of it."
The crew seemed to be in consensus, and Kent began to suspect
that a mutiny was brewing, but another voice spoke up, that of Lees,
the lookout. "Jason, when you and the others signed up for this
voyage you were all set for adventure and exploring. The captain has
seen more than his share of the world, and if he's not scared of
this, then neither am I. I'll go with Captain Smith, even if I'm the
only one!" With that he joined Kent and Smith before the group, who
continued to favor Jason's opinion. No one else stepped forward.
"Very well, then. I shall go and explore this island with Kent
and Lees." Then, looking at Black, "I shall deal with your lack of
enthusiasm later. Now, prepare to lower the boat."
Soon thereafter Lees was rowing the ship's boat towards the
island. The haze of the midday sun bore down upon them, and Kent
found it difficult to make out the shore. The captain sat in the
dory, cursing the crew and the island beneath his breath. They
arrived at the shoreline and stepped out onto warm, black sands.
They pulled the boat high out of the water, and headed inland,
occasionally stumbling on unseen rocks. Kent's vision became worse
and worse, and their progress slowed and became more arduous with
each step. The heat waves blurred his vision almost completely,
making it difficult to see the terrain in front of him. As they
plodded forward the blinding alien color became stronger, and it
became more and more difficult to continue. Kent had to fight the
need to rest. He began to wonder why he had ever signed on with the
insane captain Smith. His feet seemed leaden, and his very soul was
dead tired. At length the captain ordered a halt and collapsed to
the ground.
After a moment, captain Smith asked Lees to go forward a bit, to
see if anything could be seen, but not to go far. The lookout
continued on, and was gone from sight almost immediately. Kent sat
down near Smith and rubbed his burning eyes in vain. They weren't
having any luck in finding an explanation for the bizarre color, and
he was about to suggest that they return to the ship when he heard
Lees cry out in fear. He forced himself to his feet and joined the
captain in stumbling towards the sounds.
Kent outpaced the older captain, who continued to stumble behind
him as Lees' yells turned to pain-maddened screams. Kent continued
to rush forward, and suddenly came upon a scene of sheerest terror.
Before him stood a huge monster, which had attacked the seaman. The
beast stood half again as tall as Kent, and looked vaguely
bear-like. However, it was covered with thick black scales, and its
eyes were faceted like those of an insect. In those eyes burned a
searing flame of that color which Kent knew was from hell itself.
The beast had ripped off Lees' right arm, and held him by his left.
Kent tried to master the screaming fear which was building up inside
him, but he knew that Lees was already beyond rescue.
Suddenly, from Kent's left, captain Smith staggered forward and
into the beast, which turned and sent a powerful taloned fist in a
wide arc towards the old man's head. Kent leaped forward and tackled
Smith, taking him backwards and out of the range of the monster's
blow. On the ground, the captain immediately turned and ran,
crouching low to the ground. Kent followed, trying to keep within
sight of his superior.
After several minutes of blindly stumbling away, they began to
slow their retreat, but suddenly the beast came down from above
them. As he rolled to his left, Kent thought he caught a glimpse of
leathery wings behind the beast. Again the two ran in the direction
they guessed the ship lie, although now they did not slow their pace.
Kent was never sure how long they stumbled around the island in
their color- and fear-blinded madness. Finally, they came upon the
black sands of the beach, and followed it until they came upon the
Victory Chimes' boat, which they quickly launched and returned to
ship. There Jason Black stood on the deck, waiting.
"Where is your friend Lees, captain?"
Smith didn't even answer him, but began giving orders to weigh
anchor and unfurl the sails. Kent looked at the seaman and said
"Lees is dead." Apparently the sailor saw something strange in
Kent's eyes, for he turned and began making ready to sail without
further inquisition.
Despite the onset of darkness, the VC made its way away from the
island and set a southwesterly course. The captain retreated to his
cabin and left Kent standing orders to continue on their present
course until they reached the islands of Bichu. Through the night
Kent reflected on the event, and thanked Mitra that no one else had
been killed by the hell-spawned monster.
The westward voyage had been a tiring one for Kent. They had
spent forty five days sailing southwest from the arctic islands, and
Kent had begun to understand why so few ships had made the crossing
to Bichu. He had not imagined there could be so much empty sea in
the entire world. The captain had remained isolated in his cabin,
leaving the command of the Victory Chimes to young Kent, who was
somewhat angered that Smith hadn't turned out to be the brave
adventurer he had been portrayed as in the now distant stories of
his youth in Dargon.
He gazed westward towards their destination, the mystical land
known as Bichu. Nothing broke the endless horizon, which completely
encircled them, blue upon blue. He had known of men who had gone
insane upon long voyages. They had stared at that unchanging horizon
so long that they were convinced that it was not the horizon at all,
but a tapestry hung to deceive them, and that it was closing in on
them. His thoughts were interrupted as Jason Black climbed up to the
poop to speak with him.
"Any idea when we'll see land, Victor?"
"Not yet. Maybe a week or so. Can't be much more."
The seaman looked down nervously for a moment, then faced the
mate straight on. "Kent... you're a good mate. You know that the
skipper isn't fit to command a ship. All he's done on this voyage is
sit in his cabin and drink. He had us bring him another keg of
brandy this morning. And when he hasn't been drunk, he's led us into
trouble."
"Oh?" Kent knew that Black didn't trust the captain, but to
speak this way, he must have friends who felt the same way. The
crewman read his expression perfectly.
"Most of the crew are with me. They saw what happened to men who
trust the captain - men like Lees, rest his soul. Now we know you're
an able commander, and we aren't going to die for the captain's
mistakes. You obviously should be in charge of the ship."
Kent's thoughts raced. The captain obviously was not capable of
command under these circumstances, but Black was asking him to lead
an outright mutiny against the captain who was the hero of every
seafaring story in Dargon! "Look, Jason. I don't want you boys doing
anything. Let it be for now - the captain isn't doing us any harm so
long as he's in his cabin. I want to talk to him myself. Can you
keep the crew from doing anything?"
"That I can do, at least for a while." With that, Black elbowed
Kent in the stomach and stepped down towards the bows, leaving the
mate wondering if it had been a gesture of friendship or of warning.
Kent stood at the door to captain Smith's cabin. He had thought
out what he was going to say to the aging captain, and all he had
left to do was to gather his nerves and say his piece. After a few
moments of silently wishing that the problem would resolve itself,
he rapped upon the wooden door. From within a response came, and
Victor Kent opened the door and stepped inside.
Smith's cabin was a mess. Of course, Kent had seen it before and
wondered at it, but as he thought about it, he realized that captain
Smith had lived in the same room for probably more than twenty
years. Spending that much time in one place, one could expect a
man's home to be cluttered. Smith sat in an upholstered chair, a
goblet of brandy close by, idly gazing at a huge chart upon the port
bulkhead. The chart showed the explored lands, and Kent had spent as
much time as possible examining it, using the excuse of plotting
their course. Smith looked up at Kent and motioned to another
similar chair which stood back to the wall with the chart.
Kent sat down, dreading what must come. At length he began.
"Captain Smith, the crew has asked me to come talk with you." At
this, Smith's attention became focused. "They feel that you haven't
properly commanded this voyage, and that you've spent too much time
in your cabin. They think you made some bad decisions back at those
islands."
"And they've asked you to mention this to me?" Smith countered.
"And what do you think?"
Kent hadn't considered his own feelings, but he tried to put
them into words. "Well, you're not the leader I thought you'd be
when I signed on in Dargon. You certainly haven't lived up to your
reputation for wisdom."
Smith leapt up angrily and paced back and forth through the
room, thrashing the air with his arms. "Damn it! I left Dargon to
get away from those asinine rumors! Can't you people just let me
be?" The captain, recovering from this violent emotional explosion,
sat back down again. "Well, I suppose you're right. I was hoping
when we set out that it would be different, but I guess it's true."
The captain paused, and Kent wanted to speak, but he hardly knew
what to say. Eventually Smith went on. "Let me tell you a story. I
have never told this to anyone, but I suspect that it would be
appropriate to tell you now." The captain looked old and tired as he
drained his goblet and motioned for Kent to fill it from a decanter
on the table.
"Many years ago, I got my first command. I had been working as a
scribe before that, but I knew a friend in the harbormaster's
office, and I asked him to see if he could get me a ship to command,
despite my lack of experience or training. He finally came through,
and I was offered a position as captain of a patrol sloop called the
Victory Chimes. It wasn't this ship, mind you, it was smaller and
older. So I went about my duties of stopping suspicious vessels, and
so forth.
"It was during the annual summer Festival that it happened. A
pirate who called himself Soloman Banshee stole the Bard's Crown,
which had been given to the winner of the minstrelry tournament for
the past, oh, fifty years." Kent knew the object, for it was the
centerpiece of one of the most important events of the Festival. He
also recognized the story as the one where Smith had rescued the
crown. However, he did not interrupt Smith, as it might cause
another outburst, and Victor was intrigued at the possibility of
hearing the tale in the captain's words.
"At the time I was at sea, patrolling the northern coastline. My
mate saw Banshee's ship sailing northwards. They apparently saw us
at the same time, for they abruptly changed their course to put
plenty of space between us and them. My mate, a strong lad named
Larson, urged me to attack Banshee's ship, telling me that no pirate
would run from such a small craft unless he had something precious
and illegal on board, but I was afraid, and I gave the order to hold
our course, despite the oath I took as a patrol commander." This was
something Kent hadn't heard in the folk tales. Indeed, the truth was
not quite the same as the myth.
"That afternoon a storm blew up, and that night was a long and
difficult one. Early in the morning the ship ran hard aground on a
rocky headland that had gone unseen. In the morning, she lay hard on
her side during low tide. I ordered the ship abandoned and struck
out southward, hoping to come to a village.
"Near noontime, Larson came back from scouting ahead. He had a
sword wound on his left arm, but his face was sheer ecstasy. He told
us that he had come across Soloman Banshee's camp, and dispatched
the only sentry there. Then he slowly drew forth from his cloak the
silver Bard's Crown.
"We all wondered what to do, for surely Banshee would be back,
and would miss the crown. Despite other advice, I decided to take
the camp and wait for the pirates, and either destroy them or bring
them to justice. We set up our camp in the middle of theirs, but
failed to notice their arrival that evening. I was sitting by the
fire, watching Larson pick over the food at the pirates' table, when
Banshee slashed his back open from behind. I grabbed the pouch
beside me, which contained the Bard's Crown, and ran like mad, while
my crewmen were cut down behind me."
Captain Smith paused, his hollow eyes staring blankly at the
floor. Kent sensed that Smith's reputation wasn't completely
deserved, and it appeared that the very event which caused his
notoriety had not been one of bravery, but of cowardice. Smith took
a long draught of brandy and continued.
"I finally reached a village and bought a horse. When I returned
to Dargon, the Festival was still going, and I was received as a
hero. I was granted honorary barddom by the College of Bards, and
Lord Dargon himself insisted that he build me a beautiful ship,
which is this ship, the VC that everyone knows.
"And so I was a hero to the people of Dargon. The tale grew more
and more preposterous each month. The Victory Chimes was built, and
I sailed ordinary voyages, but the legend couldn't be stopped. The
following year I overheard a story in a bar that I had come across a
chase between a pirate drumond and a merchant galley. The person had
mistaken my name for that of Simon Salamagundi, who had actually
done that." Kent started, and Smith noticed it. "Yes, Simon
Salamagundi the stew vendor. He was one fine captain. Do you
remember the story about a captain tricking a pirate king into
forming an alliance with Dargon?"
Kent nodded. The story he had heard said that that captain had
been Gordon Smith.
The old man frowned. "No, that was Salamagundi, too. My legend
is a myth. It doesn't exist. I have never been a brave or wise man,
I fear."
"Then why did you undertake this exploration voyage?"
The captain sat silently for a moment before answering. "Well,
at first I thought that after all these years, maybe I could command
men and a ship, and maybe do something good. Maybe after all these
years, I could do something to deserve that reputation. Now I know
better. But, I had another reason, as well."
Kent looked puzzled.
"I can't live in Dargon forever. I am a folk legend, not a man,
and legends do not go out quietly. When we dock in Bichu, I will
stay there, and live out my days there quietly and in peace, without
young men looking at me as if I was a god."
"And what of the ship? And what of the crew? We want to return
to Dargon!"
"And so you shall, Kent. When I leave you in Bichu, I will turn
over the command and ownership of the Victory Chimes to you. You've
commanded her well on this voyage, and she deserves a better owner
than I." Kent could hardly believe his ears. Here was his childhood
hero, saying openly that he wasn't a hero at all, and now the old
man suggested that he would be given the ship of his dreams as soon
as they made port! Kent tried to find words to say, but realized he
wasn't even sure what he was feeling. "But... what will we tell
people when we return to Dargon?"
Smith smiled slightly. "Just tell them that I stayed behind in
Bichu. They will find a fitting ending to the story of Captain
Gordon Smith themselves, no matter what you tell them. He will die
as a lord in Bichu, or lost in some foreign land."
Kent spent a long moment in thought.
"I'm sorry, Captain Smith. I understand now. I'll let you know
when we make landfall."
With that, he struggled to the door and left Captain Smith, a
man broken by his own legend.
The Victory Chimes lay up next to a large pier on the shore of
Bichu, a mythical land with ways very unlike those of Dargon. They
had been there almost a week, and the crew had enjoyed the time on
land, but Kent knew that they would soon be restless to return home.
They had been told that Smith was to remain in Bichu, which drew
some odd looks, but no one had protested.
Gordon Smith stood upon the wooden pier with the young captain,
Victor Kent. Smith noticed that Kent had matured since the time when
he had stepped aboard the VC to talk with Smith about being first
mate for the voyage, and he was satisfied that Kent would make a
fine captain. They said respectful farewells, and the young man
boarded the ship and cast off.
Smith stood upon the pier, watching the ship he had never felt
he deserved move effortlessly from the port and towards her home,
and he felt good. Perhaps he had finally accomplished something
right, something worthy of a legend. With a deep sigh, he turned
away from the slowly receding Victory Chimes and from the legend of
Captain Gordon Smith, and walked quietly away.
-'Orny' Liscomb
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME EIGHT NUMBER FOUR
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
Ceda the Executioner: 7 Joel Slatis
Sir Lyoyn of the Pale Loren J. Miller
*Spirit of the Wood: 5 Rich Jervis
*Cydric and the Sage: Part 2 Carlo Samson
Date: 083187 Dist: 412
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Well, the honeymoon is over, in a thoroughly literal sense. I
have returned from the Society for Creative Anachronism's annual
Pennsic War unharmed, save for a slight sunburn and some poison
ivy... For those of you who aren't familiar with Pennsic, imagine
over 5000 medieval recreationists taking part in a week-long event
featuring tournaments, merchants, feasts, revels, court, raids, and
much more, culminating in the annual war between the Midrealm and
the East Kingdom. Let me tell you, it was quite an experience! And
although the Dargon project conference never did materialize, John
White and I did manage to get a little talking done, and I managed
to meet a reader or two as well. All in all, it was a very enjoyable
experience, and I hope to see more of you there in future years!
But back to the news. Hardcopy subscriptions are almost ready to
actually be implemented (after blowing up my last printer, I have a
new one currently on order). And a potentially major development was
the recent announcement that the WISCVM inter-network gateway is
considering closing down. There is currently a lively debate by the
powers that be as to how BITNET is going to maintain access to other
networks. I strongly suspect that BITNET will continue to maintain a
gateway, even should WISCVM shut down, and I doubt that there will
be any great effect upon FSFnet distribution should this occur.
And finally, you might notice that direct FSFnet distribution
has broken 400 with this issue. I'm very pleased with this, and am
hopeful that we will continue to grow. Be sure to show issues to
friends who might be interested, and keep spreading the word! This
will be the final issue of volume 8, and the first issue of volume 9
should be out in mid-September. And remember, September is "Be Kind to
your Editor" month...
-'Orny' Liscomb
Ceda the Executioner: Chapter 7
It was close to the end of that day ere Ceda rode out of the
west gate of Caahah on his wingless dragon mount, Melgon. In the
pouch at his side was the Crown of Grobst D'arbo and on his back
rested Renielk which glowed in a bright white aura as they rode
though the Ruirsian countryside approaching the forest of Nen. He
rode half that night with the radiance of the moon aided by the axe
to guide his mount before they set up camp on a mound of lush grass.
By first light he had awakened and was on Melgon riding fast for
the forest border. To the north the Aun Hills were barely visible in
the early morning sky and to the east the sun was already rising
making long shadows in front of them as they rode on; before
midmorning they had reached the large forest of Nen.
At the forest entrance where the path disappeared into the dark
trees before them, Ceda stopped Melgon as he took Renielk from his
back and placed it across his legs before entering the forest. The
gem had been glowing white since he had left the distant city of
Caahah and was subsequently useless to him, but in any case Ceda
sensed that the glow had lessened a bit. He slowed his mount to a
cautious trot while loosening Melgon's reins before entering.
The trail grew difficult as he entered; being in bad upkeep it
would take some time to ride through Nen, though going around would
take much more time than Ceda had to spare. He pushed Melgon on
slightly faster as they made their way though the trees and soon the
entrance was well out of sight behind them.
All around the Traveler and his mount were green plants; the
soil was moist and the air was sweet. Nen had not yet been infested
by the vile creatures of the Sarshirians.
Suddenly four men dropped from the trees above Ceda's head. They
had long and sharp swords but wore no armor. Ceda immediately slid
down Melgon's scaly back onto the soft ground and gripped Renielk
tightly as he turned to face the attackers.
"Halt!" Shouted one of the men as Ceda lowered his axe
recognizing the blue and yellow colors of Ruirsian warriors. "He is
a man."
"Hail, scouts of Ruirse! I am Ceda of No-Al Ben. I am in hasty
flight and ask that I may pass. I ride with authority of King
Threythus and all that hinder me in this hour shall answer his wrath!"
"Strong words you speak," said the leader. "But these are times
of war and all who travel through the lands of his majesty Threythus
must do so with the consent of his scouts. What is your destination?"
"I am bound for the desert," answered Ceda yielding. "What else
must you know? Time is short, ask swiftly!"
"Where in the desert do you intend to go? Know you not of the
Orcs? They roam much of the area to the south of the City of
Pheeng'Am even though we control it; it is too dangerous to travel
there without a large escort. If it is to No-Al Ben that you travel
then I advise you to take the road back east the way you came and
journey around the Aun Hills to the desert in the north."
"The way north of the Hills is no longer safe. The enemy has
taken all of Weuyrt and killed nigh twenty thousand men with a force
of mighty giants. The last of the scouts of the north called Azzar
returned to Caahah seven suns ago with the news. He also said that a
great host has crossed over the Voidland into Ruirse and they
advance on Caahah. They may have arrived even now and a battle may
be at hand."
"The news you bring is not unknown to us for there have been
other scouts that have told us the same. In any case the army of the
enemy has not come this way, or by the path to the north of the
Hills, for we have scouts there that travel here every day and have
not seen or heard anything unusual. They have gone either back to
Weuyrt or East to the Little Kingdom if they have not come to Caahah
- that I can assure you."
"This is for the most part good news," said Ceda. "I must go
now. Thank you for the information. What is your name?"
"I am called Aesl. Farewell, and ride north if your way permits
for the south is unsafe at all times of the sun and the moon."
"Farewell," answered Ceda as he remounted Melgon and rode forth
down the rode towards Pheeng'Am.
It was three days until he reached Pheeng'Am. The City was now
well fortified with many guards and warriors. Some men from No-Al
Ben were present and were many from the country of Caffthorn. As
Ceda entered the city, the sun was just setting over the white sands
to the west.
The next morning Ceda was on his dragon mount riding into the
age old desert. The sky was blue and the gem was white, though no
sign of trouble had aroused Melgon or come to Ceda's attention. They
rode with great speed through the desert as the sun became hotter
heating the sands in turn making the air dry and unsavory to their
parched throats.
Night came rapidly and the sun sank between two towering dunes
that stretched up before them as they rode westward. They still had
no sign of trouble aside from the gems white warning so Ceda decided
to continue on into the night reasoning that it would be far less
dangerous and far more comfortable without the light or the heat.
After a few more hours ride they pulled to an abrupt stop and
Ceda rolled of of Melgon's back on to the cooling white sands. They
slept until some time into the next morning when the sun, high up in
the sky, finally gathered enough heat to wrench them from their sleep.
Two days later Ceda reached the area that he had last seen the
tree almost a year before. The ground looked no different than any
other place on the desert floor and mounds of sand rose all around
him. He searched all day for the tree, walking in a small radius
from where he first stood and then slowly moving outward. He was in
a hurry for it was nearly nine full days since Ceda had departed
Caahah. Searching until the sun had completely dropped out of the
sky he finally gave up and went to sleep.
The next morning he was up with the sun and riding in circles
hoping to come across the tree that day. By noon he was discouraged
and tired. The tenth day was upon them and Ceda had still not found
it. Finally he gave up trying to find the tree in that manner. He
mounted Melgon and rode up and down the larger mounds in the area in
hope of spotting the tree in that manner as the day drew on. While
searching, his thoughts drifted back to Caahah. The army from
Arnmere must have come by now; If they had, he though, then the Lost
Army would be of no help to them by the time they would reach the
city that lay nigh two hundred miles east. If they had indeed turned
back to the caves being content with the victory over Weuyrt then
they would not need the Army, but still, it would be good to have
the help of such an ally. If however, the forces of Arnmere had gone
to the Little Kingdom first then they would have already defeated it
and have come to Caahah out of the west, and if they had gone south
to Dhernis then they would have reached it before the seventh sun
falling after Ceda's departure.
He searched most of the day and by the time the sun had dropped
in the western sky he was tired, hot and near desperate. Fear rested
on him like a heavy weight on his heart as he constantly thought
about his friends and allies that he left behind in the possibly
doomed city. along with that fear rested the burden of the crown and
the chance of being found by a group of Orcs that may be out in the
desert. Suppose there were some at the tree, waiting, to protect
their future by stopping the Army's return? If that was so, then
there was surely a great force at the tree.
The moon came out and Ceda dropped of Melgon's back onto the
white sands. His thoughts drifted again to the east and the City of
Caahah. He wondered if it was still there or if the forces of the
enemy had gone to the Port of Dhernis instead. Perhaps they went
passed Caahah and then came from the east to the fair city of
Bilfneuin. 'I have failed,' he thought. 'No matter what their
destination they will reach it long before I ever even find the
accursed tree.'
He reclined onto his back and looked up at the rising moon. A
strong wind was blowing and some of the sand blew up and his face.
He brushed it off and sat up. The breeze had moved something on to
his chest but it took a moment before his tired eyes could focus on
the object. Before him was a greenish brown leaf. Ceda looked at it
in wonder before it occurred to him where it had come from.
"Melgon!" He shouted. "Lift your weary head and your body too!"
Melgon growled in a low voice and rose. Ceda jumped to his back
and pulled his reins so he faced into the desert wind. "Onward!
there is still a hope!"
They moved slowly down the hill that they were on and came to
two small dunes at the bottom. They continued on between them and
arrived in a small shielded area. mounds were on three of the four
sides, but not tall enough to block the sight of a large man. Just
enough to stop roving eyes from spying out the small growth that
lived therein.
Melgon would go no further so Ceda dropped from his mount and
approached. He looked at it in amazement for it had not changed from
the last time he saw it - not in the slightest way.
"I may not have failed, Melgon of Cergaan! We will wait for the
morrow and then we shall find the Lost Army. We will bring them back
into our world in the beginning of the new day to mark the beginning
of the new era that shall come with them! I have not failed!"
Day was coming and that would be a relief. The Enemy had
attached with sudden ferocity eight days after Ceda had left the
walls of Caahah.
Aroth stood next to Threythus and Ballison as the watched the
battle progress from the palace tower. There were more foul
creatures outside the gates than any had ever seen before.
The Nuadrin were the worst. They fought with tridents, black and
deadly. They did not tire and they were fearless, or so it seemed.
They fought like wild starving animals would over a small morsel of
food; such was their vigor and might, and in their dark eyes burned
a hole of an unquenchable hatred.
Aroth's Elves sat along the battlements; their bows aimed,
poised in a slightly tilted position as they shot arrow after arrow
into the horde of wild Orcs that constantly bombarded the walls with
their own bodies in effort to climb over. One after another another
fell dead as did the Nuadrin and many other horrid beasts when the
slender arrows pierced their weak armor, but it did not help; there
were too many to defeat that way.
Threythus drew a mighty horn to his lips and winded it with a
great blow. It was heard all over the city, the signal to open the
gates and let our troops out to fight on open ground. The Orcs were
razing the wall and had to be stopped.
The great ringing of the horn finally ceased and Threythus
lowered it from his wrinkled mouth and reattached it to his bent
side. His face was sorrowful and disbelief rested heavily in his
tired eyes as he watched the battle.
With the final note of the horn the gates opened in a mighty
clamor crushing several Orcs under the awesome weight. Then a great
cheer arose as many angry Axemen stormed over the battered door and
cut like a hot knife into the ranks of the enemy as Orcs fell on all
sides with hideous screams.
The odor that they brought with them was perhaps their greatest
ally. The smell consumed men's minds as they fought. It slowed their
reflexes and weakened the spirit. Some of the weaker men fell to the
to the ground unable to move or think as a result. And the odor
stayed not on the battle field. It drifted all over the city
bringing with it fear to the women and children that hid, sheltered
in the interior of oppidan.
Through the stench of the enemy troops came other smells. The
smell of men, drenched in sweat from the heat of battle, and the
smell of bodies. Many dead bodies that lay piled in large heaps
where they fell.
Blood covered the fields outside the wall, both from the enemy's
troops and from the men. It ran from the necks and the severed limbs
down into the ditches forming small pools and streams. Streams of
pure blood running through the trenches outside the city gates.
Dammed in places by the dead that filled it as they fell to their
end, it made puddles that rose as high as ones knees. Some of the
wounded that were unable to move as a result of the noisome air or
an injury also fell here and drowned in these puddles. Others,
wounded or afraid, hid beneath the murky thickness of the red liquid
when sought by an enemy blade until the immediate danger had passed.
The Axemen fought on, but to them it seemed ludicrous. For every
Orc that fell dead there were ten more to take its place. Slowly the
number of men left alive on the field decreased. And those that
remained with their axes in hand swung madly at the terror before
them and became tired.
Threythus blew into his horn again and the gate fell open. Into
it came a great many wounded men and some that had remained
unscathed. With them came a rush of Orcs. Before they had again
closed the metal doors to the city, nigh seventy beasts had entered,
but were slain quickly by the Elven archers on the walls.
The battle raged half the night before the enemy troops pulled
back from the walls to regroup and rest. Some Orcs remained near the
city to search through the remains though they lived not a long time
so close to the walls of the city.
Aroth and Threythus left Ballison in the tower as the descended
the long steps to the streets of Caahah. They walked around talking
with the men while trying to comfort them and spread enthusiasm, but
could not. The next day could be the end of the city and all knew it.
Many lay dead in the streets after having limped uselessly back
into the city or having been carried in by a friend when the gates
were reopened. Women and children sat in dark corners and cried
softly to themselves over the body of a dead relative or friend.
Most of the people were unable to talk, the lumps that rose in their
neck seemed almost large enough to choke them as the tears welled in
their grief stricken eyes dripping slowly down their sad faces and
falling to an end before their huddle bodies.
Despite the general atmosphere, the Axemen and the men of
Caffthorn remained cheerful. They sat together and talked and
laughed. Most of them were not hurt, and those that were did not
seem to be greatly moved by it. Some of them were dead, and for
those a toast at their meal and bowed heads seemed the only lament
by their friends. These men loved war and hated the Orcs.
Dawn came and the enemy drew near the city walls. This time the
Axemen and men of Caffthorn fought side by side. They opened the
gates as soon as the enemy was within bow shot of the city and out
sped nigh five thousand men, all well rested with food and wine in
their bellies. They charged right into the ranks of the advancing
horde and killed many within the first few moments.
But then came the giants of Weuyrt. Like great thunder they
poured from the back ranks of the unorganized surge of horrible
beasts, tearing the up the field before the walls. The other
creatures moved aside to let the giants pass as the great horde
tramped by in an angry onslaught.
The Axemen pulled back slightly as the giants approached. They
were big in size and numbers, there were over one thousand of them.
Finally they reached the front. The men off Caffthorn were
crushed before their might and many fell. Elves that lined the walls
shot many desperate arrows at the towering giants, and some of them
fell dead, but most of the arrows fell to the ground failing to
pierce the thick skin and armor of the beasts.
Threythus was up in the tower watching the battle with Ballison
and saw the giants attack. He looked to the King of Caffthorn and
lowered his head. "I sense that this night will see the death of the
kings of Ruirse and Caffthorn. If the battle does not turn soon, I
shall give the order to withdraw to the city walls and try to hold
off the giants from here."
"Yes," replied Ballison. "I believe that may be our only hope.
But remember, it IS a hope."
The battle raged and the men of Caffthorn were beaten down
before might of the giants. Many lay dead on the field among those
that had fallen the day before. Finally there was a signal.
A deep and mellowed blast filled the ears of all in the city. It
sounded in every room and every hall and up the tower. It was low
pitched and rang long in the ears of Men and Elves. Then it subsided
and all looked up in wonder, for the horn had not come from the
tower but from far to the south on the road from Dhernis.
The Kings turned their attention from the battle and gazed
southward past the sheltered walls. Not far off down the road were
many torches. They burned brightly in the morning sky and moved
quickly over the land up the road to the field. Bearing the first of
the torches came Rackins of The City of Elves. Next to him was Merth
on his right followed by several other Elves. Left of him came
Azzar, tall next to the Elves, and proud. Next to Azzar came a stout
figure, he was shorter than all that walked beside him and he was
neither Elf or Human. His name was Rekrovax, and he was the ruler of
the Dwarf Kingdom of Balmoth on the southern continent of Cergaan.
Azzar had made it to the southern continent and with him he had
brought back a mighty force of fighters. Threythus smiled to himself
and looked at Ballison. "All is not lost," he said, "the wind may
change to any direction no matter how hard the gusts seem to blow."
Immediately things began to change. The Orcs withdrew from the
area near the wall and turned their full attention to the forces
that came up from the south. The Men of Caffthorn regained their
vigor and with a loud battle cry they surged forward into the horde
of giants killing many in their angry wrath and new strength. They
laughed loudly as they slew the huge creatures throwing themselves
into the retreating force headlong with their swords cutting deep
into the fat bodies of the massive giants.
Many of the Orcs were now in battle with the armies of Cergaan.
It took a heavy toll on their numbers and they soon were few and
week. By evening there were few remnants left of the great muster
from Arnmere but for the most part they were destroyed. Those that
remained had fled into the woods but were later killed by the
Caahahian scouts and patrols that swept the countryside.
After the battle as the sun was rising the army finally entered
the city. They were greeted by loud shouts and cheers from all
around and were treated with honor.
The night had hidden their numbers, but later they reported nigh
thirty thousand troops. Fifteen thousand Dwarfs of Balmoth and
another Fifteen thousand warriors from City of Elves.
That night all the bodies of the dead enemy were burned before
the gates of the city. Their weapons and armor were melted and
poured onto parts of the wall that were broken making a new and
stronger barrier.
The next evening, a meeting was held in the tower. Merth and
Rackins were there as were Rekrovax, Ballison, Aroth and Threythus.
They met in one of the lofty chamber that near the zenith of the
mighty structure.
The room they were in was large despite its thin and slender
appearance from outside. In it there were windows facing in the four
major directions and many chairs and couches lined the richly
decorated walls. Tables were laid out with food and drink and as
they ate they had a long overdue council.
Merth began. He was seated by one of the windows looking out
westward over the lush green fields of the Ruirsian countryside.
"Where is Ceda of No-Al Ben? I must see him at once; he should be
present here."
"He has left us. Aroth returned with a marshal from Leafholm and
two of the southern ports. With them they brought the Crown of
Grobst D'arbo for they had recovered it in spoils after a battle in
the Desert of the Hidden Army. Ceda took the Crown with him when he
left for he seeks the Lost Army."
"He seeks the Army?! What folly sent him on such an errand?"
cried Merth turning around and facing Threythus with sudden anger.
"We knew that there would be an attack by the forces of Arnmere
and when we received the crown, we thanked Sarve and sent the Chosen
Traveler to seek the tree and find the Lost Army. Aye, the profacy
shall come true!" said Ballison clenching his fist, "and the Army
shall complete its task. So should the world be!"
Merth lowered his head into his hands. His temperament was of
great sorrow. "I have feared this would happen!" he moaned. "But it
was as the warning said: 'He shall seek the tree and find it'. You
have done a great service to those of Arnmere."
"What is there to fear?" said Aroth. "So the Lost Army will be
found and the Dark Mountains of the south shall be conquered! What
are your thoughts, wise Wizard of the City of Elves?"
"Ileiruon laughs even now, but it is too late to stop what is to
be. I advise you all, and it is a fool that turns my advise away, to
call for your armies and have them come together at some well
fortified place, for the lost army shall return, but it will not be
what you expect." Merth turned his gaze back westward and looked out
over the fields. "A great danger is soon in the coming, and no man
or child will be save ere it is dealt with."
All looked at the Elf for a moment before anyone spoke. "Merth,
my faithful servant, tell us of what you speak, for we do not
understand your warnings," said Rackins at length.
"Yes," said Merth. "I... I must-" he stopped. "Why?" he said
closing his eyes. "The evil comes," he continued. "They will
not...-" He reopened his eyes and looked to Ballison and Threythus.
"I have just spoken with One who knows. Send messengers and bring
your remaining soldiers and the rest of your men here, or to some
other stronghold. Send your women and your children away, Dhernis
would be the safest place for them. Do it now, before it is too late!"
Rackins looked in astonishment at Merth, "In Tavaar's name, why?!"
"Ceda has found the tree and the Great Army will return to our
world by the morn!"
"And for this we must bring our remaining peoples here?" laughed
Ballison. "Perhaps your wise wizard is feeling the torment of age?"
"The Army is not of men." said Merth. "They are Nuadrin!"
Ballison looked at Merth in astonishment and then turned toward
Threythus. "Can this be? How could the tales be changed so?"
"Over the years they have been manipulated by Ones who know and
would have things different if they could; and now they have." said
Merth apathetically. He seemed dazed as if he were not totally aware
of where he was. He looked nervously around the room and then back
out over the see of green fields beyond the western wall of the city.
"Is there a chance of stopping Ceda, or is it too late?" said
Aroth. "I shall make for the desert at once-"
"Ceda has found the tree. The Army will be recalled and you will
not even have gotten to Nen ere their heavy feet make prints in the
soft white sands of Greyboren," said Merth.
"Then they are only twelve days march from the city! We have not
the time to bring our people here!" cried Ballison. "They must
travel through the desert ere they can come to this place!"
"Aye, perhaps you are right," said Merth. "But there is more
time that. The Army will not know that they have ever been gone.
They will think they are still in the past and will march to the
Twin Fortresses before going anywhere else. It is wise for Rakine's
people and those of Bilfneuin, Naz'Clow and Breanduin to remove and
come here or to where they might find safe shelter if Caahah falls.
The port of Dhernis should be left populated, for those who escape
may take ship and depart for Cergaan. For that reason, Leaders of
the southern continent, I bid you not call more warriors to this
place. They will not make the journey in time."
Rekrovax gripped his sword. "I shall do as you ask, though my
people shall stay here with you. We do not run and shall die
defending your city ere we leave for Dhernis in disgrace!"
"As will we!" agreed both Rackins and Ballison.
"Good, then let us send messengers to our peoples and have them
come here or do what they will, and let us turn our attention to
preparing for the return of the Army that was Lost and then
Re-found!" answered Merth in a sudden vigor. "Ceda carries with him
Renielk, Axe of Caffthorn, and instead of falling the tree, he
brings it to life!"
The night was wearing away but Ceda could still not sleep. He
rolled onto his back and then back to his side. It was cool in the
desert after the sun fell. He fingered the crown running his fingers
across the silk-like interior. The Malthoogian Jewels glowed under
his covers and Renielk lit the area with its strong white glow.
He lay the rest of the night starring up at the dark sky. There
were no clouds and the stars shone above him in strange brilliance
but the tree and the crown dominated his thoughts.
Melgon did not sleep that night either but lay beside Ceda with
both of his red eyes open. They moved slowly, searching up and down
the landscape before him peering into darkened moors unilluminated
by the brightness of the stars or moon, for signs of danger.
Finally the stars faded into the sky of the new day as the pale
light of dawn filled the desert revealing the white sands to Ceda's
tired eyes. "Well," said Ceda rising and turning toward Melgon. "We
have waited for more than ten suns falling and only with the luck or
Tavaar will we bring the army before there is an attack on Caahah,
but let us delay no more."
He rose taking the crown in one hand and Renielk in his other.
The tree was still as he approached it. He neared cautiously taking
slow and careful steps fearing the wrath of the king or sudden
attack of any Endillonions, but none came. Presently he stood in
front of the growth. It seemed to change slightly as Ceda had
approached and looked proud and possessive of some hidden energy
despite its distorted appearance.
Ceda turned and looked at Melgon who had backed away a
considerable distance. "Crown the King, and he shall rise..."
recited Ceda. "I have a notion, though I doubt it is what is
required of me. If the King was mutated to this tree, then he is
still the king. Aye Melgon?"
The dragon took another step backwards. "Of all the beasts I
tame it has to be a wingless and mute coward!" said Ceda jokingly to
Melgon as he turned again toward the tree.
"Tavaar's luck be upon us," he said. Taking the crown in both
hands and fastening his axe to his back, he reached up and stood on
the tips of his feet straining to reach the highest of the wasted
branches. His fingers raised the crown even further and stretched
them over the tree's top finally placing it on a single branch. He
then relaxed his body and stepped back.
Immediately the ground began to shake. The gem on his back took
on new brightness rivalling the desert sun and burned fiercely in a
great white aura. Ceda staggered backwards until stopped by Melgon's
tremendous grey body and leaned there watching the desert area that
lay before him.
Rents opened up in the ground and deep holes that led into
darkness dominated the desert floor. Mounds of white sand drained
into the gaps changing the area radically before the Traveler and
his mount. Great explosions burst forth from the newly formed pits
of the desert blowing dark and noisome smoke high into the air
followed by high spurts of fire. A constant rumbling noise was
evident shaking the very foundations of the land beneath their feet.
Then the gapping holes began to close as suddenly and as fast as
they had appeared. As they drew shut, the edges brought dusty
figures with them, covered with sand and completely motionless.
Soon the desert was silent and before Ceda were thousands of
relit campfires. A few horses stood near him and the closest of the
figures was nigh four dragons lengths away. They were Nuadrin.
Slowly they began to stir. The sand that had covered them fell to
the ground and was lost in the sea of white grains.
Ceda was astounded. Neither he or Melgon were able to move, the
shock of the fifty thousand Nuadrin had taken its toll. The beasts
looked up at the sky as they regained consciousness. They too were
aghast and for a moment were dubious as to what was happening, but
that moment wore quickly away. Those that regained their awareness
quickly noticed Ceda standing near the kings fire. Leaping to their
feet with a fierce ululation they bounded quickly toward him.
Grobst arose and looked around him. His face was hideous and
cruel and his expression the same. He too saw Ceda and sprang at him
with a merciless cry.
Ceda regained control of himself and turned quickly leaping onto
Melgon's back. "Arnea seek Duval! Ride!" he shouted. "Ride with the
speed of your lost wings! Ride! RIDE!"
Melgon wasted no time. He leapt forward at an amazing pace as
his gargantuan claws bit deeply into the desert sand throwing up a
shield of dust behind them. Fear held him and Ceda and weighted
heavily in their minds.
"Ride!" shouted Ceda again, shaking the reins forcefully. "We
must reach Caahah with the coming of the fifth sun falling! RIDE!"
Leaving the great army behind they leapt over hills wasting no
time while they had energy left to go on. Behind them was the Grobst
D'arbo, the Desert of Greyboren lay before him, and great worldly
changes were happening.
D'arbo stopped short. The dragon and its rider had gotten away
and were now beyond his reach. A strong looking Nuadri approached
him from behind, "Father, I shall go personally and slay him!"
"Nay, Tondrux," said Grobst. "Let the foul Dragon-rider go. Let
him warn the Twin Fortresses of their peril, or die if he meets the
scout we sent forth."
"Ileiruon will be pleased, father," said Tondrux. Then looking
up at the morning sky he said, "I am worried, how came it to be day?
And how did the Dragon-rider come so close without being noticed?"
"Of this, I have not an answer, perhaps Ileiruon or those of our
allies in Endillion will give us a sign. For now, let us rest and
this evening we shall march."
-Joel Slatis
In the Land of the Yellows
The Tumescent Spleens,
With their plumage displayed
Flashing violet and green,
Would go prancing about
With their toes in the air,
They would hem and they'd haw
Giving strangers their glare.
And the stout Knight of Fuschia,
Sir Lyoyn of the Pale,
Heard tales of their manners
From Annwara the Frail,
Who had ventured one morn
In the slippery dew,
Picking lotus and mandrake,
A Persephone two;
So the earth opened up
And Big Earth Hog came out
And lo he did laugh
And Annwara, shout.
The force of her cry
Would have quickened the dead,
But the spleens hemmed and hawed
And glared slowly instead.
The Hog snatched her up fast
And He dragged her below
To his den in the Dirt
With no spittoons or clothes;
Where the tale of her stay
Is too lengthy to tell,
And it's sordid and grimy
And it's boring as hell.
But a true party lizard
Aided Annwara's flight
And they swarmed up a ladder
In the wee hours of night;
And the lizard, named Brutus,
Showed Annwara the path,
And stayed to impolden
The Big Earth Hog's wrath.
While she stumbled and crawled
Through the thistles and mud
The exsatchous Spleens
Flapped their cheeks and said, "Chud."
Which meant in their tongue,
"Oh you graceless young fool,"
"Go on back to your pots"
"And your Pasta Fa-Zool."
A Spleen elder named Bloost
Kicked behind her frail knees
And tugged at her hair
And forced her to sneeze.
The whole flock abused her
With effultent spite,
While the Hog chewed up Brutus
With one Big Earth Bite.
Brutus cried lizard tears,
Sliding down the Hog's throat,
As Annwara fell
To the back of a stoat
Which quick flew away;
While she blessed her luck
The Big Earth Hog stomped
And swore in his muck.
Now safe and secure
In the Fuschia stockade,
Annwara related
Her sad serenade.
And the stout Knight of Fuschia,
Sir Lyoyn of the Pale,
Summoned up all his courage
Within barrels of ale.
And he took up his armor,
And his trusted old lance,
And strapped on his shield,
And girded his pants,
And armored his beast,
Growing old in the stable,
And mounted its back,
Straight as he was able.
He gallumphed along
To the Land of the Yellows,
And the Spleens gave a glare
And shouted and bellowed,
And charged him hands high,
And called out "Soouuuiiiieeee!"
His war-beast spun 'round,
Proceeding to flee.
The Big Earth Hog appeared
And started to snort,
The Spleens threw their spears
At stout Sir Lyoyn for sport,
The stout Knight regretted
His naivete,
And made an attempt
At a prompt getaway;
But the Spleens and their Lord
Were too bold for the Knight
And they knocked him out cold,
And they wrapped him up tight.
For the stout Fuschia Knight,
Though a fierce looking foe,
From indulgence, in stout,
Had become, soft, as dough.
Not the spotted old armor,
Nor the trusted old lance,
Nor the fearless old shield,
Nor suspenders with pants,
Helped the drunken old knight.
With the meaty war-beast,
The Big Earth Hog baked him,
And the Spleens had a feast.
In the old Castle Fuschia,
Annwara ope'd the gates,
And she sold all the silver,
And she sold all the plates;
And the ancestral jewels,
With their fabled, rare stones,
She stole from the caskets,
Stripping ancestral bones.
Then she called her old friends
And the Spleens came to see,
With the Big Earth Hog, they
Split the money in three;
They went on their ways,
And she traveled the land,
Growing rich, for old fools
Were always at hand.
Loric
Loric floated just above himself. There was a warmth surrounding
him and a buzzing in his ears. An eternity later is seemed, the
buzzing resolved itself into speech. His eyes came into focus and he
stared long at the canopy of trees above him trying to decide if he
was above or below them, and when someone walked around the edge of
his vision, he knew that he had not gone to the Spirit as he thought
he should have. Something must have held him back...
'It must have been the Teline,' Loric thought disjointedly to
himself, 'How else can it be that I have died and yet I still see?'
The tendrils of the Devatha have released me. I see many of the
Downlanders... their dead brown faces holding masks of mourning. The
wailing of the women is loud but I can not move to cover my ears!
I see Dernhelm dispatch the Devatha with a single stroke. He
breaks the horn from it's head stalk and I am surprised to see that
it is dry and hollow inside.
He blows the call of loss thru it and is anwsered in the
village. DEE-ath! DEE-ath! I do not want to be dead! I shake myself
hard to show him I am alive but my body doesn't move.
Look at me uncle! I live! I saved the kesh-blade of my father
from the Pit. It's there on the ground at your feet! Two masked
villagers come and lift me up. I am moved but I cannot move. I do
not feel their grip on my arms and legs.
The sound of Bullroarers announces our arrival in the
Village-under-the Trees. They lay me on dried rushes among my
friends. I get a glimpse of Jakul and Hiram both with matted hair
and covered with a light blue clay. Were they in the Pit too, I want
to ask, or some other trial? I want to cry but my eyes are a dead
man's: they will not cry for me now.
I try to look away but my eyes will not close. All I can see is
the sky and the treetops. Did I do well? What are they doing now?
The Village is so quiet. Have they all left us here for the birds to
find? Did we shame our families and they are refusing our bodies?
I can hear Dernhelm talking, but his words are unclear. He's
mumbling something and the Downlanders are responding. Chanting.
Mumble memble chant mumble mumble memble.
Ah! Now I see him at the edge of my eyes. He's leaning over
Jakul. There's his father Koonial--what are the doing with those
switches- -They're striking his body!
Koonial turns to Dernhelm and says "He is dead, my son is dead,
the tribe has lost a hand." Behind him I can see a long, somber line
of villagers.They all have switches. Each strike Jakul's body and
then toss the switch on top of him.
Now Dernhelm's moves to Hiram. Hiram's mother Joulin is coming
with his sister Teelan helping her. She hasn't walked alone since
the night the nets fell on her and took her husband and my father.
My Father! Who will come for me? There is none to show the
Downlanders I am dead! My father died on the nets, my sister had
left to seek her own song and Oldsir had his second vision and is
with the Spirit of the Wood now. I wonder if they will hang me in a
tree or plant me among the Adinase so that Eidie can come and ask my
spirit who should dance for whom?
Now Dernhelm is giving Joulin the switch. She's hitting Hiram on
the head, the chest, and the legs. I see little puffs of blue dust
each time she hits. Are you dead Hiram? Was your song strong enough
to join the Spirit of the Wood or are you there, trapped like I am?
"My chief, my son is dead, the village has lost a hand."
Teelan is in line behind her, she's smiles as she strikes, the
switch sings it's pain path each time. Ah, Teelan, If you had danced
for me before I died I would have been a strong father for your
children and eased the days of your mother...and I would teach you
not to strike my friends so hard, even if that friend is your brother.
Dernhelm is looking at me now. He's going to hit me. I should
have guessed! My uncle is the only Tolorion left in the Village. I
try to feel the pain but it isn't there, the world has gone to fog.
One ,two ,three! I am dead! Is that my blood on the switch? How can
I bleed?
"My brother's son is dead, the village has lost a hand."
Pyres! I understand now, thought Loric, feeling distant and
uncaring of the living world, they mean to burn me! Thank you
Dernhelm, thank you my chief! I will be free to go to the Spirit
now, thank you....
Dernhelm
For a moment Dernhelm thought he saw his nephew's mouth twitch
like he was coming back from the dead. His open, glazed eyes were
disconcerting in the torch-light. If the boy came to life now it
would look bad. The ceremony must be finished.
With a frown he leaned down and closed Loric's eyes and motioned
for the Speaker-for-animals to come forward. The Speaker howled and
growled and hissed a song of mourning for the fallen boys and for
the many animals that would not feast on their catch this day. Then
he jumped from pile to pile snorting flames from his nostrils to set
the dry rushes aflame.
Dernhelm grimly watched the switches pop and smoke darkly.
Waiting until the right moment to signal the final passage from the
death of a boy to the life of a man.
Finally when the flames all but obscured the bodies and he could
smell the hair begin to singe, he blew on the horn of the Devatha
three short bursts.
He smiled cynically as the pyres collapsed in on themselves. He
knew that under the supports the boys were being wrapped in hides
and coated with healing salves. He turned to lead a procession of
Downlanders to the river where they would keen and smite the water
and call upon the Spirit to receive the boys with favor.
There were rush boats to be built, octli to be consumed and
tales to be told all night long. Later, after the elders had joined
them he would leave quietly to care for Loric's 'body'. After the
boy had been sealed in a caul and left for the Spirit to care for
him, I can look forward to a quiet turn of the moon.
The boy was too much like his Grandfather to come back after a
day or two with only a tale of his death and of singing with the
Spirit. He would actually try to bring something to the village to
help us understand the Spirit of the Wood better.
Dernhelm's smile faded as he passed into the trees remembering
when he too believed the Spirit guarded them. That was before he had
become chief and had revealed to him the mysteries that surrounded
every action the Downlanders took from birth to death and birth
again. When Loric joined the Spirit he would make no hearth-fire for
his brother's son--could not, for the Spirit did not move him anymore.
-R. Allen Jervis
Cydric and the Sage
IV. The Sage
Twilight had settled upon the town by the time Cydric and
Holleena finished their meal of Simon's fish stew and left the
docks. The full moon was beginning to rise as they arrived at the
house of Corambis, which stood at the far eastern edge of the Old
City. As Cydric's black stallion came to a stop in front of the gate
of the iron fence which enclosed the front yard, Holleena slid off
the horse's back and said, "Here you are, Cydric. Just go to the
front door and knock--he is usually home around this time."
"Wait a moment! Where are you going?" Cydric called as she began
to walk away.
"To my own home, of course," Holleena replied. "It is not very
far from here."
Cydric quickly dismounted. "I should at least accompany you," he
said. "It is getting dark, and--"
"I appreciate your concern, Cydric, but I will be quite safe, I
assure you," She nodded toward the house. "You had better make your
visit now, before he goes to sleep."
Cydric looked back at the house, then shrugged. "Are you certain
you will not need an escort?"
"Quite certain."
"Well, then, I shall not detain you any longer. I thank you for
your kind help, Holleena--perhaps we will meet again sometime, at
the tavern for instance?"
"Perhaps," she replied with a slight smile. Turning, she walked
briskly away down the block and disappeared into a side street.
Cydric led the black stallion through the iron gate and tethered
it to a nearby hitching rack. He paused a moment, recalling what
Holleena had told him about the Sage: He made his living by
interpreting dreams and omens, and by casting personal horoscopes.
His practice earned him enough gold to enable him to have his own
private booth in the marketplace. He was well known and respected,
and it was said he possessed all manner of arcane knowledge.
Casting a final glance back at the horse, Cydric strode up the
paved path that led to the Sage's front door and knocked. The door
opened and a grey-haired bearded middle-aged man dressed in a loose
maroon tunic and green trousers peered out. "Yes?"
"Good evening, sir," Cydric began. "Are you Corambis, the Sage?"
"I am indeed," the man replied. "How may I be of service?"
"Well, sir," said Cydric in his most courtly tone of voice, "I
am Cydric Araesto, of Baranur, and I have a certain matter to
discuss with you."
"A certain matter, eh? It must be of major import, since you
have sought me out like this," said the Sage.
"Your pardon, sir, I did not mean to disturb your rest--I shall
come back tomorrow."
The Sage smiled. "No, no, it is quite all right. Come inside,
young sir, and we shall discuss this matter of yours."
As Cydric followed Corambis into the house, he tried to guess
the man's age. Although he appeared to be nearing his sixtieth
summer, the Sage walked with the stride of a man many years younger.
They passed through a short hallway, then entered the Sage's
small but well-furnished study. A bookshelf containing rows of
various leatherbound volumes occupied the entire west wall. The
north wall housed a cold fireplace; above the mantle, the stuffed
head of a nighthound glared down at them over a pair of crossed
swords. A bookshelf also occupied the east wall, but instead of
books it contained various small objects, the most prominent of
which were a pair of demon's horns, a bust of the goddess Cahleyna,
and the body of a giant leaf-roach encased in a glass pyramid.
Lastly, an ornately carved oaken table and three padded chairs stood
in front of the fireplace.
Motioning for Cydric to sit, Corambis took a pair of tobacco
pipes from a rack mounted near the mantle. "Smoke?" he asked,
offering one to the young man.
"I thank you, sir,"he replied. The Sage filled both pipes from a
pouch that hung around his waist, gave one to Cydric, then took a
seat at the opposite end of the table. Cydric took a sniff of the
tobacco and noted with delight that it was fine quality Comarian.
"Fazar!" Corambis said suddenly, stabbing a finger at the
fireplace. The logs burst into flame, and at the same time Cydric
saw a wisp of smoke curl upwards from the bowl of his pipe.
"She did not tell me you were a sorcerer," he said with some awe.
Corambis made a gesture of dismissal with his pipe. "In truth,
Cydric, my abilites are no more that that of minor conjuror. I have
neither the power nor the desire to become a full mage." He paused a
moment, exahling a cloud of smoke. "Who did not tell you, by the way?"
"A girl I met a Belisandra's Tavern. She told me how to find
your house."
"Did she also tell you that I only conduct business during my
regular time at the marketplace? But it matters not, I shall make an
exception in your case."
"You are most generous, sir," replied Cydric.
"Indeed," said the Sage. "Well now, what is it that you have
come all this way to discuss with me?"
"It concerns a vision that I've been having of late," Cydric
began. The Sage listened intently as he described the golden sea,
the colorless skull, and the carvings in the rock.
"I've even made a sketch." Cydric pulled a roll of parchment
from the inner pocket of his cloak and spread it out over the table.
"This is what I saw inscribed on the rock. When I compared this
outline to a map of the continent, I found that the "x" corresponded
to the location of Dargon. And you can see, your name appears below
the outline." Cydric paused and looked up from the table. "And that
is why I am here. I am hoping you can tell me what this vision means."
Corambis picked up the parchment and stared at it for a while,
puffing on the pipe and saying nothing. Finally, he stood up and
moved to lean against the mantle of the fireplace.Turning, the Sage
regarded the young man thoughtfully and said, "I do not believe that
I am the one you should be asking."
Cydric frowned. "Why not? You--"
"It is obvious that the person responsible for our visions
intended for you to come to Dargon and seek me out. That much you
have understood."
Before Cydric could form his question the Sage held up a hand.
"I shall explain what I mean." He tossed the parchment into the fire
and left the room, motioning for Cydric to follow.
V. The Message
Corambis led the young man into the cellar of the house. Pausing
in front of a wine rack, the Sage uttered an arcane phrase and the
rack slid aside to reveal a large well-lit room.
"My laboratory," he said with a sweep of his hand as they
entered. The room was full of various kinds of equipment, ranging
from alchemistic set-ups to animal skeletons in different states of
assembly.
"A truly marvelous collection you have here," said Cydric as he
roamed about the room, eagerly examining the many fascinating
objects that lay on tables and shelves.
"Ah, a student of the arcane, are you?" the Sage asked, pleased
with the young man's enthusiasm.
"I suppose I am. I've been fascinated by the works of Thassalen
the Mystic ever since I was a child," replied Cydric as he examined
a wooden mobile of the World with the surrounding sun and moon.
The Sage grinned and nodded. "Well then, you will certainly be
interested in what I have to show you. This way, if you will."
Cydric followed the older man to the back of the room where
stood a table, an ebony box atop it. "Open the box," said Corambis.
Cydric looked at him suspiciously. "I thought you were going to
explain what you were talking about before."
"The explanation, or part of it, lies within the box. Go ahead."
The young man paused a moment. Couldn't be anything dangerous
inside, he thought. Shrugging, he flipped the lid back. A gasp of
surprise escaped his lips. Within the box was a life-sized human
skull, made entirely of crystal. "The skull from the vision! But how?"
The Sage closed the box. "I knew that would get your interest,"
he grinned. "Well, this skull appeared on my study room table one
day several months ago. That same night I had a dream in which the
skull spoke to me, telling me that I would be visited by a man from
Baranur who sought the meaning of a mysterious vision. When he
arrived, the skull said, I was to speak a certain incantation to
receive further instructions."
"How can you be sure that I am indeed the one?" asked Cydric.
"I am fairly certain, since none of my customers in the last few
months have had dreams involving skulls. And I am also certain that
the skull's creator will have some means of verifying its 'chosen
one'," Corambis replied.
The young man reflected upon this for a moment. "Have you ever
had that dream more than once?" he asked.
"Indeed I have, Cydric. It appears in my mind at various times,
much like your vision, I would suppose. In fact, I experienced the
vision a short time ago, some time before you arrived."
Cydric felt a sudden chill. "So, our visions are connected in
some way to the skull. Have you any idea who sent it?"
"I know not who sent it but I believe that person to be an Elder."
"An Elder? What would an Elder want with us?"
"Well now, Cydric, the only way to find out is to ask him, eh?"
Corambis opened the box again and took out a piece of parchment that
lay next to the skull. "This is the incantation that the skull told
me to speak."
"You're going to read it now?"
"No better time like the present." Corambis squinted at the
page, then began reading: "'Ghe farsta li voyar etye tavarsta li
omnae, nechuzar Bahz se khya seke.'"
They waited. Nothing happened. "Hmmmm," Corambis mused. "Perhaps
I mispronounced that last phrase. Let me--"
A dazzling white light exploded from the skull, filling the room
completely. Both men instinctivly shut their eyes and threw up their
arms to block out the blinding brightness. Before either could
react further, the light ceased as suddenly as it had appeared.
Cydric slowly lowered his arms and peeked at the skull. A soft
red glow slo wly pulsed at its center. "Apparently you did pronounce
it right," he said.
"Indeed," said Corambis, squinting intently at the skull. "What
next, I wonder?"
As if in response to the Sage's question, the red glow pulsed
faster until it became a steady blaze. It expanded to fill the skull
completely. Then the skull began to speak.
"Greetings," it said in a cold, ethereal voice. "I bring you a
message from Bahz the Elder, Seventh of the Council of Eight of
Zaad'Astropolous, capital of the Quentrellian Isle. He has need of
your aid, and is willing to reward you generously for your efforts.
You must travel to the Citadel of Sorrows, above the shore of the
Sea of Time, on the Plane of Tarradan, to free him from his unjust
imprisonment. Lest you think you are being lured into a trap of some
sort, the Elder sends you this assurance of his good faith. A nugget
of chrysoline, rarest of all gemstones. It shall protect you from
all forms of hostile magic, and be your passport through the
StarDoor." As the skull spoke, images formed within the red glow.
Cydric saw a dark-haired man in purple robes, then an island in a
turquoise sea, followed by the image of an imposing castle situated
on a foundation of barren rock. The final image was that of a small
blue-and-white jewel set in a platinum ring.
"The Elder urges that you respond to his appeal, for his time is
limited. Your reward will be very great, he assures you. Make your
journey at midnight; the jewel will be your guide."
A moment after the skull finished speaking, the red glow began
to die as cracks appeared in its crystalline surface. A pulsing
sound emanated from the skull, growing louder with each beat. Cydric
pressed his hands over his ears, but the sound still remained. In
his mind he saw the skull, small but growing in size with the volume
of the droning beat. Suddenly, the skull in the box shattered into a
cloud of crystalline dust just as the sound reached a crescendo. The
skull in Cydric's mind loomed large, filling his thoughts. Then a
sharp pain stabbed daggerlike into his soul. He cried out,
staggered, then collapsed to the cold stone floor. He was vaguely
aware of someone calling his name as darkness welled up and swept
him into unconsciousness.
-Carlo Samson
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME NINE NUMBER ONE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
FSFnet SF Short Story Contest 'Orny' Liscomb
the Cube Joseph Curwen
*Je'en: A Recap John L. White
*Cydric and the Sage: Part 3 Carlo N. Samson
Date: 101687 Dist: 459
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Well, it's been a full six weeks since the last issue of FSFnet
was sent out, and I must apologize for that. I'm sure that many of
you have been busy with returning to school, and things here in
MAINE have been mighty hectic. We've recently installed a new 3090
CPU to replace the old 3033 and 4381 we were running in tandem
previously, and the system is finally stable. The rumor that
LISTSERV@TCSVM was shutting down its TCSSERVE subserver (which
maintains a complete collection of FSFnet back issues) has proven to
be a falsehood, although the shutdown of the WISCVM internet gateway
in December is a confirmed problem for which the entire BITNET
community is still searching for a solution.
However, I'm sure that you will find this issue well worth the
anxiety of waiting. We have the announcement of the FSFnet science
fiction short story contest, which should produce some interesting
fiction, and which I hope many readers will take part in. We have a
short story by Joseph Curwen that I'm sure you will find intriguing.
And for Dargon Project offerings we have the third chapter in Carlo
Samson's "Cydric" tale, and a synopsis of John White's stories
(which will continue in part three of "Treasure" in the next issue).
All in all, a respectable offering.
Due to the long wait between issues, we have nearly 50 new
readers joining us for this issue, and I would like to thank them
all for their interest. The next issue, Vol09N2, should follow this
issue by no more than a week or two, and will contain the next
installment of "Treasure". If you aren't caught up with White's
work, I would heartily suggest that you request from LISTSERV@TCSVM
the back issues which contain his stories, as listed in his article
below. Enjoy!
-'Orny' Liscomb
FSFnet Science Fiction Short Story Contest
FSFnet is proud to announce our first science fiction writing
contest! All FSFnet readers are more than encouraged to enter this
wonderful contest. The rules are as follows:
Entries are to be science fiction short stories, and all entries
are limited to a maximum of 4000 words. All entries must be sent to
the userid CSDAVE at MAINE on or before December 31, 1987, and must
be clearly noted that they are contest submissions. Judging will be
done by a panel of five SF readers, in the categories of plot,
character development, grammar, and their value as science fiction
pieces. Prizes will be awarded to the authors of the top two
stories, and those stories will be printed in FSFnet Vol10N1 in
January 1988. Other entries will also be printed in later issues.
The prizes currently planned include posters of Geiger artwork and
other related materials, depending on availability.
All entries must follow the following subject guidelines. They
must be written using a 'cyberpunk' setting (for those of you who
are unfamiliar with this sub-genre, 'cyberpunk' is usually designed
to reflect a politically complex society where the line between
technology and mankind is very thin; see works by William Gibson).
The story may, alternatively, deal with computers of the future. The
author is free to develop any storyline he (or she) desires within
one of these two broad topics. If you have any questions regarding
the contest, please feel free to get in touch with me via MAIL.
-David 'Orny' Liscomb
The Cube
Few of us have not had the common experience of waking with the
thought "Where am I?" foremost in our minds, but in most such cases
we quickly recognize the strange surroundings. This was not true in
my own case. I awoke one morning from a deep, peaceful sleep to find
myself lying in a disrupted heap in a white plastic room. At least
it appeared to be plastic. The walls were glossy white and quite
smooth to the touch. The room was a cube, mathematically perfect in
form with the exception of my own presence. No seam suggested the
existence of an entrance, nor more importantly an exit.
From childhood, I've occasionally experienced a slight
claustrophobia, which now demonstrated itself with an unprecedented
zeal. With the realization that I could not escape, panic became my
foremost emotion. I ran to and fro pounding on the walls screaming
for release. I frantically searched each joint of ceiling, wall, and
floor. But to my considerable distress found that the room appeared
to be composed of one contiguous piece of material. My embarrassment
makes me hesitate to recount further, but I have resolved to shield
no aspect of my experience to the public, which shall serve as final
judge in this inexplicable matter. The tremendous weight of those
oppressive walls bore down upon me. I began to feel choked, certain
that I would asphyxiate in minutes. I sank whimpering to the floor.
After what must have been many minutes of self-pity and
wrenching horror, I fought to regain my composure. Blind panic had
probably robbed me of the greater part of my oxygen. I slowly
overcame the torrent of anxieties which had overwhelmed me. I would
remain quiet and still. I made a conscience effort to slow my
agonized breathing. Finally, coherency returned to my thoughts. I
estimated the room to be about ten feet across, though in my
delirium moments before it had seemed vastly smaller. That gave me
about a thousand cubic feet of air. I did not know how quickly a man
consumed air, but I hoped that this would give me several hours of
calm respiration. It occurred to me that I didn't know how long I
had occupied the room, but I dimly remembered that sleeping
substantially reduced one's oxygen intake. It did not appear to be
great length of time since the air did not feel stuffy nor did I
feel hungry.
I attempted to think back to my last meal, but a thick fog lay
across my memory. With great effort, I remembered the stale sandwich
I had hastily consumed in my eagerness to complete the first draft
of my doctoral thesis. I wished that I had partaken of something a
bit more substantial. With this start, I began tracing my steps
forward in time. I had finished critiquing the compositions of my
English 27 class and proceeded to my apartment on campus to type a
preliminary draft of the thesis. However after only a few minutes of
work, a power outage made my word processor useless. I stumbled in
the darkness to my sofa, where I resolved to take a short nap. I
fell asleep almost instantly as I had been sleeping little of late.
In spite of my best efforts, I could remember nothing after this.
Somewhat reassured of my immediate survival, my natural
curiosity began to demand attention. How had I come to such a
predicament? Surely the answer to this question would aid in my
pursuit of escape. With the failure of my memory to solve this
enigma, I was forced to turn to my immediate senses. Calmly I set
about examining my surroundings as closely as possible with what
natural tools I had at my disposal. My sight revealed nothing which
I had not observed previously with the exception of the condition of
my own apparel which while not regal was only slightly wrinkled.
Also my previous estimation of the room's size had been a bit shy of
the twelve feet which I now observed. I listened with all my powers
of concentration but beyond my own heartbeat, I could perceive only
a faint humming which might have been only my own fancy. My sense of
smell seemed only marginally more useful. I determined that the air
seemed to be slightly scented with a pleasantly familiar floral odor
which I could not identify. This alone encouraged the belief that my
captors,if any, had my well being in mind to some extent. There
being nothing to taste, I carefully probed the surface of the walls
and floor, which seemed to be uniformly smooth and dry to the touch.
But I gradually grew more despondent as my searches proved
continuously profitless.
Forcing myself to continue the tedious examination, I was
inspecting the base of one wall when I noticed a slight air current.
My fears of asphyxiation were unwarranted! Excited by my discovery,
I attempted to to determine its course but was dismayed to discover
that the breeze passed directly through the plastic surface. It
seemed to flow from the top of one wall to the base of the opposite.
At least I could now permanently orient myself while within the
room. Hoping that it was some form of membrane or fine mesh, I tried
pounding and kicking through the surface of the "vent". My attempts
were unsuccessful and somewhat painful, but I did learn that the
"vents" sounded more hollow than other portions of the wall or
floor. The surface itself seemed to have no special distinction or
weakness. My hope for escape had once more been disappointed.
Having completed a thorough investigation of my surroundings, my
next logical step seemed to be the development of explanations for
my situation. At first, explanations leaped into my mind but they
soon grew particularly outlandish and farfetched. So much so that I
began to doubt the usefulness of this endeavor. But I quickly
reasoned that my fantastic situation might have an equally fantastic
explanation. My first reaction was that I had been imprisoned by an
unknown party or parties. The identity of these individuals occupied
most of my thoughts. But to my knowledge, I lacked really hostile
enemies. An unestablished graduate student rarely attracts
physically dangerous enemies. Nor would hypothetical kidnappers
receive any funds worthy of efforts as phenomenal as the creation of
this prison. I had, of course, read of kidnappings wherein the
victim was buried alive, but such speculation only served to excite
my anxieties. The mere thought that this chamber might be buried
under tons of earth and rock transfixed my muscles with raging
tremors and weaknesses. In a effort to maintain control, I tried my
best to avoid such thoughts but was only partially successful.
One possibility did come to mind, however remote it was. A
friend and associate in the field of psychology was well known for
his occasionally gruelling psychological tests and ruses, but I
couldn't bring myself to believe that any professional would subject
a subject to such an imprisonment without some sort of prior
consent. Besides the inhuman cruelty necessary even under normal
circumstances, my friend was well aware of my claustrophobic
tendencies, so I doubted he could be responsible for such
unmotivated psychological brutality.
It occurred to me that the best method of determining my
captor's identity lay in the nature of my confinement. As I have
mentioned, kidnappers would be unlikely to employ such elaborate
devices. Nor could I envision someone doing this as a jest. This
left only those who had access to technology beyond that normally
encountered in day to day life and those who were also willing to
utilize it to confine me. I knew few science professors at the
university, as they traveled in different social circles, so that
department seemed guiltless. I could perceive no reason for a
corporate or government body desiring my capture. My work, although
hopefully inspired, was largely esoteric in nature. The
possibilities of some sort of disgruntled student perpetrating this
conspiracy seemed remote as well. And while any citizen could be the
object of terrorism, this is unlikely if one remains within the
confines of one's own apartment. In fact, within such an environment
any circumstance leading to capture and imprisonment within a
plastic cubicle hardly seems reasonable.
Of course, the thought that this might be some sort of dream or
hallucination did cross my mind. The fact that my last memory was
falling to sleep seemed to support this. But my own dream
experiences led me to believe otherwise. My dreams are normally
lacking in the intensity of detail which I encountered in the cube.
Also, I did not feel emotionally or intellectually constrained in
any manner as is common to dreaming. My own ability to react
logically and analytically to my experiences seemed to suggest that
this was not a dream. Also, if one realizes the possibility that one
is dreaming it is not usually difficult to cause oneself to awaken.
Rest assured that I tried. All of these points amounted to a virtual
certainty in my mind that I was not dreaming.
Another more macabre but certainly normal thought was that I had
in someway reached my afterlife. However, according to commonly
circulated stories about those who have returned from death or
death-like experiences, one is vaguely aware of a certain
indistinctness about one's physical form in death. Most seem to
recall actually departing the body as a spirit, a feature which this
experience certainly lacked. If I had in fact been whisked away to
my "Great Reward", I could think of no more hideous punishment than
spending eternity in a featureless cube. Surely, my "sins" in life
did not merit such treatment. Nor was I aware of any glowing white
light as is commonly reported. But now that lighting did occur to me
I noticed that the cube's surfaces radiated a soft incandescent glow
which thoroughly illuminated its interior. It is surprising that I
did not notice this earlier, but the resulting environment seemed
perfectly normal though shadowiness. But returning to my
speculation, I thoroughly resolved that this afterlife conjecture
was the least likely that I'd yet explored, especially since I am a
bit agnostic by tendency.
Having shed doubt on these speculations, I was compelled to turn
to those fantastic conjectures and fantasies which I have been
avoiding. Capture by advanced intelligences was favorite among
these. Mysterious mechanisms, such as the ventilation, lighting, or
the power outage which I had experienced before capture, lent some
credence to the idea that I had been captured by a mysterious,
technically superior group, whether they were aliens, time
travelers, Atlanteans, or some other even unsuspected organization.
I could almost believe that this cube was created as some sort
of sampling container for indigenous life forms. The cube might
simply materialize encompassing the specimen and then spirit him
away across great distances of space or time. I normally was quite
skeptical concerning such matters because I felt that such visitors
would make themselves know to the public if they existed. My beliefs
were countered by the popular idea that advanced intelligences would
avoid interference because of some sort of ethical responsibility.
This position seemed highly unlikely given any sort of historical
awareness of the results of an encounter between an advanced culture
and a more backward one. The American settlers had felt little
ethical obligation to the natives when they claimed the land for
themselves. Another proposition was that travelers from the future
would be reluctant to significantly alter their past. This seemed
more plausible as self-interest is a much more common motivation
than altruism. According to this reasoning, I must either be
considered unimportant to the course of the future or perhaps my
importance was the very reason for my capture. Possibly I had been
captured because my future actions would have consequences contrary
to the wishes of these speculative time travelers. Contrary enough
to warrant the dangers inherent in interfering with their past. It
was more pleasing to my ego that I be considered vitally important,
if undesirable, than to be relegated to the status of the masses of
insignificance. But still, all this imaginative speculation had
little basis.
Having shed serious doubt on all of these possibilities, I began
to despair in the possibility that ration could solve this enigma.
Perhaps this was something so far beyond human experience that a
mortal's mind could not comprehend it. If this was true, what then
lie in my future? The thought that I might remain here to the end of
my existence was fearful enough, but I suspected that even stranger
experiences lay before me. What lurked behind these walls? Some
malignant intelligence so alien as to prevent human understanding?
And if this were some sort of holding tank or vehicle, what would I
be forced to face after my stay here was through?
It was then that I first noticed the approach of those white
plastic walls. Perhaps they had been subtly enclosing on me for
sometime, but I suddenly became aware that the room was eight feet
across and shrinking rapidly. Of course, this realization triggered
the claustrophobia which I had been suppressing through concentrated
application of reason to analyze my surroundings. I screamed once
more; a deep wrenching scream which tore loose from the base of my
troubled spirit. My coherency was lost and still the walls pressed
inward. In a moment the room was only four feet in breadth.
Shrieking I attempted to stave off their approach, but met with no
success. Crouched on my knees I attempted to push outward on each of
the surfaces in a willy-nilly fashion. I desperately tried one, then
another in such a manner that I never brought my full strength to
any. My panic went beyond any previous level as I vainly attempted
to prevent my impending death. Even the frenzied strength of a
half-mad man was not enough to hold off those oppressive and
impersonal barriers. I lapsed into a tucked fetal position after I
no longer had room to use my arms. I watched my enclosure shrink
inch by inch, measure by measure, until I felt the weight of the
ceiling on the base of my skull. I awaited the moment when their
crushing pressure would drive the life from my frame.
Strangely, in this moment of imminent death a certain serenity
overtook me. I had done all that I could and still would perish. But
if death is inescapable, it is is some strange way more acceptable.
I noticed a certain hesitancy in the rate of the room's collapse.
The walls' progression slowed to a painful creep. In this weird lull
before my destruction my mind struck upon an idea which welled up
from the depths of my subconscious. An idea which would save my
life. For in that frightful moment when ration returned, I saw a
relationship between the size of the room and the level of my
anxieties. And with this realization the course of the walls'
movements reversed. They shrank away from me slowly at first, but
with increasing speed as my conviction in the belief grew. A
conviction which was fed by the successful retreat of the walls
themselves. In moments the room returned to its former size. Relief
burst forth from me in wild laughter and daunting courage as the
walls themselves began to change from white to gray to black. They
faded into the nonexistence of the darkness. That is how I escaped
the cube: not through clever reasoning or minute observation, but
through a billowing flood of hope, defiance, and joy which broke the
dam of my confinement.
After my fit of emotion had passed leaving me exhausted but
light hearted, I looked up from my position on the darkened floor to
recognize the dim light of the night filtering through the amber
shades of my apartment. I was, in fact, home. My experiences had
been some sort of wild delusion or dream brought on by overwork and
emotional exhaustion. I would see a professional psychologist in the
morning. I would never again drive my mental health to such
extremes. But at that moment, I needed rest. So, without moving from
my position on the bare floor I lay down and quickly fell deeply
into sleep.
The high light of the mid-afternoon sun brought me gradually
from my slumbers. But my wakefulness rapidly returned after I opened
one eye. For to my horror I beheld that I lay in the middle of my
bare floor with all of my furniture, rugs, books, and papers pushed
away in a roughly square pattern approximately a dozen feet across.
Even today, I cannot resolve the events of that night in my
mind. Was it, in fact, a dream, a hallucination brought on by my
internalized fears and anxieties as the doctors say? But how can
that explain what my neighbors saw when they came answering my
screams. I can only be thankful that the ceiling of my apartment was
abnormally high. Could it have been only a delusion? Or was it
something more real. Something beyond the range of normal human
experience; something which we shall never truly fathom. Make your
own judgements for I don't believe that anyone will ever positively
know the truth.
-Joseph Curwen
Je'en: A Recap
In the 33rd year of Haralan, King of Baranur, a renegade wizard
by the name of Vard hires a thief to steal a book from the vaults of
the College of Bards in Magnus (V.1). At the same time, another
wizard in the employ of the Council of Elders is given orders to
eliminate the last cult of an evil goddess named Jhel (I). This
wizard and his apprentice, Cefn an'Derrin and Mahr, determine that
the only way to eliminate that cult is to subtly influence the
friends of a bard named Je'lanthra'en to take her out on the town
(I). In riding back from the bar, Je'en takes a short-cut through
the worst part of the city, the Fifth Quarter, and is attacked and
mutilated (I). Her belongings (a sword, a harp, and the pendant of
her rank in the College of Bards) are stolen by the brigands and she
is left for dead when they learn that the City Watch is on its way
(I). Not knowing she is a bard, the Watch takes Je'en to a street
healer who cannot fully heal her injuries, leaving her scarred for
life (I).
Meanwhile, the thief hired by Vard, Ka'lochra'en (Je'en's second
cousin in fact), buys Je'en's rank pendant unknowingly from one of
the ruffians named Bellen (V.1). While Je'en is recuperating from
her wounds Ka'en infiltrates the Bardic College disguised as a bard
and successfully steals the book (V.1). Ka'en delivers the book to
Vard, who returns to his stronghold with a few purchases from the
pawnshops of the city, among them Je'en's sword and harp (V.2). Vard
studies the book and is happy to learn that it is indeed what he had
hoped it was - the only existing authority on an incredible power
possessed by a former empire known as the Fretheod (V.2). Vard hopes
to gain mastery of the world by gaining access to that power, called
the Yrmenweald (V.2).
Je'en recovers her health after being taken to the Royal healers
in Magnus, but she is scarred beyond recovery (I). She has lost most
of the use of her right hand (a sword thrust through her wrist), and
her voice (slashed throat) (I). In addition, she has a very bad scar
on her face (I). When she discovers that she can no longer sing, she
resigns from the College of Bards, taking with her only a seemingly
nondescript sword from the vaults of the College, and decides to
change her life and become a fighter (I). She goes to a fighter
training school run by Sir Morion and becomes most accomplished with
the sword (I). While there, she has fashioned for herself a silver
half-mask to cover the scar on her face and put her on an equal
footing with the other students (I).
Meanwhile, Vard has determined what he needs to re-harness the
power of the Yrmenweald, and he sends an adventurer named Owain to
get for him some of the living crystal known as cwicustan (V.2).
Vard is able to control people from a distance by means of some
special magics he has learned, using objects once owned by a person
to enhance the power of the controlling magics (V.2). Owain
retrieves the cwicustan at the cost of all of the people he went
adventuring with, delivers it to Vard, and has his memory of the
whole affair erased by a potion (V.2). The next step for Vard is to
retrieve the keys to the vault where the Yrmenweald is hidden, and
by his magics he locates the objects to use to control the perfect
person to get those keys - Je'en's sword and harp (V.2).
Je'en graduates from Morion's school after two years and goes to
Dargon to visit her brother, Kroan Jesthsson (I). She gets a job
there as a Market Guard, a job that is less than challenging (II).
The events set into motion by Cefn come to fruition as Cefn rescues
Je'en from a trap set by one of the Septent of the Order of Jhel
using the Sword of Cleah, Lladdwr (the "non-descript" sword Je'en
received from the College) as bait (II). Cefn looses his apprentice
to a trick of the Brother of Jhel, and asks Je'en to become his
partner in her place (II). Je'en accepts (II).
The new team have a few adventures, among them getting rid of
the sword (III). After several weeks of inactivity, the pair are
hired by one of the Rhydd Pobl (gypsies) named Maks (III). They
overcome an ancient, wraith-like wizard and his living tower, the
Glasmelyn Llaw, to rescue Maks' beloved Syusahn (III). Je'en and
Cefn are invited to the gypsy wedding in thanks (III).
Shortly after Cefn and Je'en's adventure with the Emerald Hand
(III) Sir Morion is visited at his school by the Falcon Herald of
Baranur who has a mission for the old soldier (IV). Morion
reluctantly accepts and sets out to eliminate a former student of
his named Kyle BlueSword who has been terrorizing the countryside
(IV). On the way, he meets up with a strange blue-haired woman named
Kimmentari who informs him that he has become caught up in the Dance
of Thyerin, one of her people's gods (IV). His mission is now both
to eliminate Kyle, and to retrieve a circlet from Kyle to be
delivered to another of his former pupils, Je'en (IV). Morion kills
Kyle, learns why he turned bad, and goes after the circlet (IV).
However, he is caught in a fatal trap just as Kimmentari comes to
help/warn/save him from it (IV).
The story shall continue from there in FSFnet Vol09N2.
An Index to the Stories:
I - A New Life - FSFNet Vol 5 Number 3
II - The Dream - FSFNet Vol 6 Numbers 3 and 4
III - Glasmelyn Llaw - FSFNet Vol 6 Number 5 and
FSFNet Vol 7 Number 1
IV - Duty - FSFNet Vol 7 Number 3
V.1 - Treasure: Part 1 - FSFNet Vol 7 Number 5
V.2 - Treasure: Part 2 - FSFNet Vol 8 Number 2
Cydric and the Sage: Part 3
THE STORY SO FAR: In Part 1 (chapters I-III), Cydric Araesto
arrives in Dargon late one afternoon. While resting at Belisandra's
Tavern, he experiences a vision that has been recurring in his mind
for some time. In the vision, he is alone on the shore of a vast
golden sea. He starts to take a drink of the golden water, but it
turns colorless in his hand. A transparent skull appears, and makes
some strange carvings in a nearby rock. He sees that the skull has
etched the outline of a continent, a small "x", and the name
"Corambis the Sage" into the stone. Then the skull flies away toward
a glittering object on the horizon.
Coming out of the vision, Cydric asks the serving girl, Thuna,
if she has heard of Corambis the Sage. Thuna goes over to a
blue-robed patron at the other side of the room and whispers a few
words. The patron approaches Cydric's table, and he is relieved to
see that it is a woman, who introduces herself as Holleena. Cydric
asks her about Corambis, and she offers to take him to see the Sage.
He agrees, and they leave the Tavern together.
In Part 2 (chapters IV-V), Cydric and Holleena arrive at the
house of Corambis after having a dinner of Simon Salamagundi's fish
stew. Cydric offers to accompany Holleena to her own home, but she
declines and walks off into the twilight. Cydric goes up to the
house and is welcomed in by Corambis. In the Sage's study, Cydric
relates his vision, showing a sketch he drew of the carvings in the
rock. Cydric explains that when he compared the sketch of the
carvings to an actual map of the continent, he found that the "x"
corresponded to the location of Dargon. Since the Sage's name
appears below the outline, Cydric has sought him out in the hope
that he will be able to explain the vision.
The Sage says that he is not the one Cydric should be asking,
and before Cydric can reply, takes him to his cellar laboratory.
There Corambis show Cydric a box which contains a crystal skull,
exactly like the one in his vision. The Sage reveals that a few
months before, the skull mysteriously appeared on his study room
table. That night, he himself had a vision that foretold of Cydric's
arrival. Corambis then takes out a parchment with an incantation
written upon it; the skull had instructed him to read it once Cydric
had arrived.
The Sage recites the incantation, written in a sorcerer's
language. A moment after he finishes, a white light explodes from
the skull then ceases, to be replaced by a red glow that burns in
the center of the skull. Then the skull speaks, telling them that it
has a message from Bahz the Elder, Seventh of the Council of Eight
of Zaad'Astropolous, the capital of the Quentrellian Isle. The skull
says that Bahz needs their help, and is willing to reward them. It
says that they must travel to a citadel located in another dimension
to free him from an unjust imprisonment; to assure them that it is
not some sort of trap, it promises to send them a chrysoline
gemstone that will protect them from all hostile magic. The skull
concludes by telling them that the Elder's time is limited, and says
that they should make their journey at the following midnight. As it
finishes speaking, Cydric sees the skull in his mind and hears a
loud, pulsing beat. The image expands and the sound grows louder
until the skull in the box shatters. Cydric cries out and falls into
unconsciousnewss.
VI. Answers and Questions
"Quentrellia--There are many legends and myths about
this small island nation (which existed at around the time
the Fretheod Empire was at its peak). Some historians
believe that it's capital, Zaad'Astropolous, was a major
trading port of the Ancient World. The island was ruled by
a Council of Eight Elders and presided over by a Leader....
"There are two stories about the Exile of Jehron Bahz,
the Seventh Elder of the Council. In one version, Bahz
attempted to overthrow the Council and seize power by
admitting a fleet of Huultaran raiders through the massive
Sea Gate which protected the entrance to the harbor of
Zaad'Astropolous. The invasion was thwarted, however, and
Bahz was arrested. In the other version, the Council
Leader falsely accused Bahz of treason and had him removed
from the Council (apparently because Bahz was a strong
critic of the Leader's policies). In both accounts,
though, Bahz was tried and sentenced to exile. He was then
imprisoned in an ice-wood cage (to destroy his magic
ability); then the other Elders cast him through the
Celestial Archway that Nephros had opened. Thus was Bahz
banished from the island....
"Three summers after the Exile of Bahz, a force of
Fretheod invaders lay siege to Quentrellia. One month
later, the island was captured and absorbed into the
ever-expanding Fretheod Empire...."
--"History of the Ancient World",
Volume 6; by Trenta, Historian
and Chronicler to King Vulpa of
Baranur; pages 144-145.
Cydric looked up from the book as Corambis entered the room.
"Ah, you are awake, Cydric. I am glad to see that you were not
permanently damaged by the skull last night. How do you feel?"
"A little tired, but otherwise fine," Cydric replied. "Thank you
for putting me up. I hope I haven't inconvenienced you in any way."
"Nonsense, my boy," Corambis snorted. "There's plenty of room in
this old house. Besides, I couldn't just leave you lying around in
the laboratory, now, could I?" He placed a hand on Cydric's
forehead, then nodded with satisfaction. "You just rest there and
read those books that I've selected. I'll be back in a moment." He
closed the door as he left the room. Cydric shifted a little in the
bed, took a volume entitled Arcana Antiqua from the stack on the
nightstand, opened to the marked page, and continued reading.
"...the existence of worlds beyond our own. These
other worlds, sometimes known as "dreamrealms", are
believed to be as numerous as the grains of sand on a
beach. Travel to the other worlds is mainly achieved by
projecting the spirit-body into the chosen dreamrealm.
Alternately, the physical self may be transported by the
use of a portal called the Celestial Archway, first
described by Nephros (the first known mage to successfully
return from the dreamrealms) in 'A Wondrous Voyage'...."
Corambis returned with a mug full of an aromatic liquid. "Here,
drink this herbal tea. It shall restore you to your full health."
Cydric took a cautious sip, found it rather tasteful, and took
another pull.
"Not as bad as you expected, eh?" grinned the Sage. "Well now,
have you read the passages I marked for you?"
"Yes," replied Cydric, "but some of this information I do not
quite understand."
"Oh? Such as?"
"The 'Celestial Archway'. It is mentioned in the texts, but
there is no description of what it exactly is."
Corambis handed Cydric the last remaining book from the
nightstand. "A Wondrous Voyage, by Ishar Nephros," read the cover.
Cydric opened the book to the page Corambis had indicated.
"...and as the old man died, he whispered to me the
location of the Cave of the Mystics. I followed the
directions, and sure enough found the fabled Cave, its
entrance cleverly hidden by a waterfall.
"I stood there for a moment, my mind filled with the
many tales and songs of the legendary Mystics,
predecessors of the Elders, older even than the Fretheod.
No one knew why they suddenly disappeared from the face of
the world those many ages ago; standing there outside the
entrance, I sensed that I was on the verge of finding the
answer to that question.
"I cautiously entered the Cave. The light from my
torch glistened off the moisture that coated the dark rock
of the interior. After walking for what seemed like days,
I came to a dead end. Anyone who had gotten this far would
have been forced to turn back, but not I. Holding aloft
the Symbol of Shazax, I spoke the ancient chant the old
man had revealed to me.
"The wall of rock fell away, and I stepped through the
opening into a huge cavern. There was a pool of water in
the center of the cavern, with a tall white tree growing
out of it. I advanced to the edge of the pool, barely able
to contain my excitement. Years of searching were about to
come to an end; I had at last found one of the Sacred
Places where the Mystics hid their most powerful magic.
"I spoke the second chant the old man had told to me.
Instantly, the water began swirling about, churning up
great waves. A bluish glow limned the tree; the very air
seem alive with power. Suddenly, the leaves on the tree
began flickering with color: green-blue-violet-
red-orange-yellow-green in blinding succession. There was
a sharp crack as the leaves burst from their branches and
took on a silver hue. The leaves whirled and spun like a
cloud of glow-flies, then formed into a silver sphere,
coming to rest on the surface of the pool.
"The waters calmed, and a bridge of light extended
from the sphere to the pool's edge. I stepped onto the
light-bridge and strode confidently to the glowing sphere.
I knelt down and picked it up (it had been about the size
of a large melon, but shrank to the size of an orange at
my touch). As I carried it back to the edge of the pool,
the bridge of light disappeared behind me.
"I placed the sphere on a large rock near the cavern's
entrance. Speaking the last of the old man's chants, I
hurled the Symbol of Shazax at the sphere. There was a
flash of light, then the sphere vanished. In its place lay
the object of my quest, the fabled Amulet of Hanarn.
"I picked it up and held it in my hand. I could feel
the power radiating from its center. It was the Mystic
power, the ancient energy that fueled that ancient race of
beings and enabled them to create spells and magical
devices so great that they remain unequalled to this day.
"I turned the golden Amulet over and read the
inscription engraved on its reverse. It was the command
phrase for invoking the Celestial Archway, a portal into
the fantastic worlds of the Dreamrealms. I gave a shout of
exultation when I read these words--this was exactly what
I had hoped to find! Many other mages had tried to create
devices that would allow physical travel to the
Dreamrealms, but without success. Indeed, those who
ventured forth with their crude creations were never heard
from again. But I now possessed the very device that the
Mystics must have used when they left this world for
whatever their destination.
"I was sorely tempted to invoke the Amulet right there
and then, but I knew that I had to properly document this
incredible find. With the Amulet safely stored in a
special pouch I rode away from the Cave, thinking of the
wondrous sights that lay beyond the Celestial Archway."
"So, has that enlightened you somewhat?" asked Corambis as
Cydric finished reading.
"Somewhat," Cydric replied. "But I always thought that the
Mystics were nothing but myths--children's stories."
"Well, all myths have some basis in fact," Corambis replied.
"And I also read once that it was impossible, even dangerous, to
physically travel to the dreamrealms."
"True, it is impossible, but only for the abilities of the
wizards presently living today. The age of the Mystics was an age of
great magic, an age that shall never come again in this world."
"What about the chrysoline ring?"
Corambis reached into a belt pouch and brought it out. "Before
you ask, it is absolutely genuine. I checked while you were asleep."
Cydric held the ring up to the window. The chrysoline stone
glittered and sparkled in the morning sunlight. "Rarest of all
gemstones, he he murmured as he handed it back.
"Indeed it is. Why, I could live like a king for the rest of my
days with the money that would bring, if I chose to sell it."
"Perhaps you should," Cydric said.
"Why do you say that?" asked Corambis.
Cydric placed the books back on the nightstand. "There's
something about this whole thing that does not quite fit... how can
Bahz have sent the skull and caused our visions if he was imprisoned
and exiled over a thousand summers ago? His powers were nullified by
the icewood, were they not? Indeed, should he not be dead by now?"
The Sage smiled. "My boy," he said, "There comes a time when one
must stop asking questions and start looking for answers." He picked
up the mug. "Do you feel well enough to have breakfast downstairs?"
Cydric nodded. "One more question, though; do you really
intended to travel to this other dimension? Something about this
does not feel right to me."
"Well, it does not feel right to me either; that is why we must
investigate this." He turned to leave.
"We?" Cydric echoed under his breath.
"You say something?" Corambis said from the doorway.
"Uh, nothing--I'll be down soon."
"Good lad." The Sage closed the door as he left.
Cydric lay back for a moment and thought of home. He shook his
head, gave a short laugh, then got up.
VII. Interlude
After breakfast, Corambis suggested that Cydric accompany him to
the marketplace. Cydric agreed, and started to go around to the
stables where the Sage had put the black stallion up for the night.
"It is a fine day, better suited for walking than riding," said
Corambis. "Besides, the fresh air and exercise will do you much good."
"Very well. But I was only concerned about your own health."
replied Cydric.
"How do you think I've managed to keep fit all these years, eh?"
chuckled the Sage.
They started off toward the marketplace. "There's something I
forgot to tell you," Cydric said. "Last night, just before the skull
turned to dust, I saw it in my mind, very clearly. It felt as if it
were going over every bit of my brain."
"Well, it was no doubt making sure that you were indeed the one
that its creator had selected. Such magical processes can be quite
ungentle on the mind and the spirit."
Soon they came to the marketplace. The daily crowd was starting
to gather, and a few early merchants had claimed the best stalls.
"Here we are," said Corambis, stopping in front of a large
wooden booth that stood in the center of the square. It appeared
cleaner and sturdier than the five other booths that clustered near
it; a small purple flag with a white dot in the center fluttered
from the top.
Cydric saw that unlike the common stalls, the booths had solid
wooden doors. On the door of Corambis' booth there was a strange
symbol, which Cydric recognized was a glyph of some sort. He had
seen such symbols in the books he had read in the Royal Library.
Although they would not stop a skilled mage, wardings were ample
protection against even the most cunning thieves.
The Sage traced the glyph with his right index finger, chanted a
short phrase, then opened the door. A few feet within was another
door, but with no symbol. They passed through the second door into
the audience room which was no more than ten feet on a side. Much of
the space was taken up by a large green table and two chairs.
"Those other booths--can just anyone use them?" asked Cydric.
"Lord Dargon's treasurer assigns them to whoever can pay the
rent for them," replied the Sage, sitting down in the left-hand
chair. "The stalls, on the other hand, are for everyone's use."
The Wheel of Life was carved into the top of the table. Cydric
recognized the nine constellations represented in each division of
the Wheel: the Knight, the Oak, the Fox, the Maiden, the Falcon, the
Torch, the Harp, the Mistweaver, and his own sign, the Ship. The
symbols for Air, Earth, Fire, and Water were inscribed around the
outer rim of the Wheel, as were the symbols of the Crown, the Sword,
the Scepter, and the Shield.
Just then a slender dark-haired girl walked in. "Good morning,
Master Corambis," she said.
"Ah, good morning, my dear," replied the Sage. "Cydric, this my
assistant, Thuna."
Cydric rose and took her hand. "I believe we've met. You also
work at Belisandra's Tavern, do you not?"
Thuna smiled. "Yes, I remember you. You came in late yesterday
and had a Special."
Corambis said, "Well now, we had better get to business. Cydric,
you may stay and observe, or explore the town, as you wish."
"Thank you, I should like to stay awhile." Cydric replied.
Corambis brought a small stool out from beneath the table and
handed it to Thuna, who took it and placed it in the small area
between the inner and outer doors. She then opened the shutters of
the windows on either side of the outer door.
"Very well, then, Cydric. Are you familiar with Wheel of Life?"
Corambis asked.
"Yes, somewhat," the young man replied.
Just then Thuna came to the doorway and announced the presence
of a customer.
"Stand on my right, Cydric," the Sage said. A moment later, a
middle-aged lady entered the room.
"Welcome, good lady," Corambis said, gesturing for her to sit in
the opposite chair. "The door, please," he whispered to Cydric as
the lady sat down. As Cydric closed the door he saw Thuna smile and
wink at him.
The room was dark. Cydric was about to comment on this fact when
the room suddenly lit up. He looked up and saw the source of the
illumination: a small glowing orb fixed to the ceiling of the booth.
"Well now, what may I do for you?" said Corambis to the woman.
"I would like you cast my stones for this week," she replied.
"And what is your birth sign?" Corambis asked.
"I am a Tallirhan," the woman said.
The Sage reached into a belt pouch and took out ten small wooden
discs, one painted red and the rest colored blue. He placed the red
one on the symbol of the Knight and the blue ones in the center of
the Wheel, over the symbol of the Mistweaver. He placed his right
hand over the discs, spoke a few words, then told the woman to
gather them up and hold them above the Wheel's center. When she had
done so, the Sage told her to concentrate on the symbol of the
Knight, then drop the discs. The woman paused a few moments, then
let the discs clatter to the table. Corambis glanced over the
pattern the fallen discs made on the Wheel, took out a scroll from a
tube that hung at his belt, unrolled it, and began his interpretation.
When he had finished, the woman paid him five silver Sovereigns
and left. "Well, Cydric, what did you think of that, eh?" Corambis
asked, leaning back in the chair.
"I found it most fascinating, sir," Cydric replied. "I would
very much like to learn more about the aspects of the Wheel, if you
would so instruct me."
"I would very glad to, Cydric, providing we return relatively
whole from our midnight meeting," Corambis said with a straight
face. He broke into a chuckle upon seeing a slight wrinkle of worry
crease the young man's brow. "The passage will not be unduly
dangerous, I assure you. I shall take all the necessary precautions
to insure our safety. But we will speak more of this later, eh? I am
sure you would like to see more of the town now."
"Oh, yes, I think I will do that. I shall be back in a few
hours," Cydric said, moving to the door.
"Good. Enjoy yourself. Tell Thuna to send in the next customer."
Cydric closed the door behind him as he left the audience room.
"You may go in now," Thuna said to the man standing just outside
the outer door. Cydric stepped aside to let him pass.
"Where are you off to?" said Thuna when the inner door had closed.
"I am just going to have a look around the city," Cydric replied.
"Oh, please, do not go just yet. It gets very dull just sitting
here with no one to talk to," Thuna said, laying a hand on his arm.
"Won't you stay for a little while?"
Cydric paused a moment, then said, "I suppose I have plenty of
time for sightseeing."
"Wonderful," Thuna said, leaning an arm out the window of the
booth and crossing her legs on the stool. She ran a hand through her
long black hair and tossed her head. "So, Cydric, are you here in
Dargon for business, or pleasure?" Her eye gleamed as she said the
last word.
"Uh, business, actually," Cydric said, leaning back against the
opposite wall.
Thuna waited, and when he did not volunteer anything more, said,
"It gets so warm this time of year." She undid a few of the laces of
her front-laced blouse and pulled it open slightly.
"What business did you say?" she asked.
Cydric quickly looked up. "Business? Oh, its nothing really. I
doubt it would interest you."
Thuna hopped off the stool and walked over to him. "Oh, but it
would," she said, leaning very close.
Cydric hesitated a moment, then said, "I... think I should be
going now."
Thuna placed a hand on his chest and gently pushed him back.
"Please stay, just for a few more minutes," she whispered. Backing
away slightly, she reached over and closed the shutters on the
window. "Don't go away," she said as she went over to the other
window and closed it up as well.
Cydric had his hand on the doorknob when Thuna intercepted him.
She turned him around and kissed him hotly. Cydric felt the blood
rush to his face, and throughout his body. "Do you, ah, think this
is appropriate?" he said when she released him.
"Isn't it?" she giggled.
"But the customers! And Corambis, inside--"
"No one will bother us if they see that the booth is closed. And
Corambis? Do not worry about him." Thuna stroked his cheek. "What
business do you have with that old goat, anyway?"
Cydric tried to gently disengage himself from the young woman's
embrace. "Really, Thuna, I must be off now," he said.
Thuna smiled prettily, then pressed him back against the inner
door. With a provocative look, she unlaced her blouse all the way
and let it drop to the floor. Then she threw her arms around him and
kissed him passionately, her body firmly pressed against his.
Cydric felt all resistance crumble away. He pushed all other
thoughts out of his head as he began caressing Thuna's unclothed
back. Suddenly, the inner door gave way and they both fell through
into the audience room. There was a moment of stunned silence as
Cydric glanced upward and saw Corambis and his customer looking down
at him.
Cydric quickly scrambled to his feet. "Uh, I was just about to,
ah, leave now, sir," he said, hastily dusting himself off.
"Very well, just be back around midday, eh?" Corambis replied,
ignoring the shocked look of the customer.
"Right." Cydric glanced down at Thuna, who rolled over onto her
back and licked her lips. Completely embarrassed, he wasted no time
in leaving.
Cydric wandered aimlessly for a good half-hour before the
incident with Thuna began to fade a little from his mind. He found
himself on Traders Avenue and decided to have a look in some of the
shops. He entered a small jewel merchant's store and asked the
shopkeeper to show him some diamond rings. Holding a small
three-stone ring the merchant brought out, Cydric sighed and
murmured very softly, "Sweet Lysanda, why did I ever leave you?"
After leaving the jewel merchant, Cydric next stopped in at a
weapons shop. "Grauban of the Blade" read the sign above the door.
As Cydric entered the shop a large man, apparently Grauban himself,
looked up from the battle-axe he was polishing and said, "G'day,
milord. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to see some swords," Cydric replied.
Grauban led him to a wall rack filled swords of various types.
Cydric picked up a curved scimitar and swung it experimentally. He
put it back and picked up a fine rapier with a gold and silver hilt.
He swung it and found that it felt just right in his hand.
"Ah, now that's a real beauty," said Grauban. "I can let you
have it for about, oh, two Cue."
Cydric thought about how he had lost his own sword on the
journey up from Baranur. Deciding that a replacement was a good
investment, he said, "I do not have any gold with me; make it thirty
Sovereigns and you have a deal."
After several moments of consideration, the weapons dealer said,
"I can't let it go for less than forty. I have a business to run,
you understand."
"Thirty-five Sov's, and not a Noble more."
Grauban scratched his beard, then said, "You bargain hard,
milord, but I accept that price. Will you be taking it with you?"
"I shall bring you the money tomorrow, and pick it up then."
"Fine. It will be waiting for you."
Cydric visited a few more shops. When he heard the town crier
announce that it was midday he headed back toward the marketplace,
wondering what he was going to say to Corambis.
The Sage was waiting for him outside the booth. Thuna was
nowhere in sight.
"Sir, about this morning, I--"
"No need to say anything, my boy," Corambis said. "It's quite
all right."
"What do you mean?" asked Cydric, a little surprised.
"Thuna used to be a street-corner girl, you see. A few months
ago she was attacked by a drunken rowdy. I saved her from being
killed, and took her into my care. So far she has led a rather clean
life, with a few occasional lapses. You need not worry about what
happened this morning. I have already spoken to her."
Cydric nodded and silently sighed with relief. "Where is she
now?" he asked.
"At Belisandra's Tavern. Thuna works afternoons, and Belisandra
gives her room and board in return, plus a small allowance. It works
out quite well." Corambis cast a glance back at the booth, then
said, "Well, now, shall we have lunch? What do you say to some nice
fish stew, eh?"
Cydric agreed, and they began walking toward the docks where
Simon Salamagundi the stew vendor could always be found.
When they were in sight of Simon's cart, a voice called out,
"Corambis! Over here!"
The Sage looked around and, identifying the source of the voice,
waved and returned a greeting.
"I must speak to my friend over there," he said to Cydric. "You
go ahead and get the stew--I will have whatever you are having." He
gave Cydric a few coins and departed.
"Ah! You back again, young sir?" Simon Salamagundi said as
Cydric approached the cart. Cydric greeted him and ordered two sweet
stews. As Simon filled the bowls Cydric asked, "Do you remember the
girl I was with last night?"
"Red hair, in blue robes? Aye, what about her?"
"Do you know where she lives?"
"Sorry, me friend, I know not. Did she not tell you?"
Cydric shook his head. "Does she come around here often?"
"In truth, young sir, I believe she is new in town herself. You
might try the inns, like the Panther or the Serpent, or Sandmond's."
Cydric thanked him, gave the money to Simon's monkey Skeebo, and
left carrying the bowls of stew. He had not traveled very far when a
man bumped into him from behind, causing him to drop the bowls.
Cydric watched as the man continued on without so much as an
apology. Keeping his temper, Cydric hurried after the man and tapped
him firmly on the shoulder. The man spun around.
"You have just caused me to lose my lunch," said Cydric,
pointing to the spilled stew.
The man shrugged. "You should watch where you walk next time,"
he said, and turned to leave.
Cydric grabbed his shoulder and forced him around. "I think you
owe me for the cost of the meal," he said.
The man shook off Cydric's hand and drew his sword. "I said,
watch where you walk next time!"
Cydric's hand flew to his left hip and found nothing there.
Silently cursing the loss of his sword, he drew his sundagger instead.
"I think you owe him for the meal," said a female voice.
Cydric looked to his right and saw a cloaked woman holding a
loaded crossbow. She was pointing it straight at the man's head.
Walking closer to the man until she was a little beyond the
sword's reach, the crossbow woman said, "Please pay him now."
The man hesitated. The crossbow woman raised the weapon to her
shoulder and placed her finger on the trigger. The man swore, dug
out a handful of coins, flung them at Cydric, then stalked off.
"Are you all right?" the woman asked, lowering the crossbow.
Cydric nodded and sheathed the sundagger. "I appreciate your
help, but I think I would have been able to defend myself."
"With only a dagger?" The woman grinned. "Either you are a very
good fighter, or the dagger is magic."
"Both," Cydric returned the grin. He told her his name, and the
woman introduced herself as Kittara Ponterisso.
"I am pleased to meet you, Miss Ponterisso," Cydric said as he
pressed her hand against his cheek.
"Call me Kitty," she said.
Just then Cydric heard someone call his name. Looking back over
his shoulder, he saw Corambis hurrying toward him. He waved and
turned back to Kittara.
"Pleased to meet you as well, Cydric Araesto. I must go now, but
I hope to see you around." She turned and melted into the crowd.
Cydric started after her, but just then Corambis arrived,
looking slightly breathless.
"I saw what happened, Cydric. Most rude of that fellow."
"Did you see the woman with the crossbow? She forced him to pay
for the stew."
"Ah, yes. Very nice of her to do that. Did she tell you her name?"
"Kittara Ponterisso. Ever hear of her?"
The Sage shook his head. "Can't say that I have." He glanced at
the spilled stew, which a pair of cats were happily lapping up, and
said, "Why don't we have lunch at an inn?"
Still feeling a little uncomfortable about the incident with
Thuna, Cydric declined Corambis' proposal that they eat at
Belisandra's, and suggested that they go to the Inn of the Hungry
Shark instead. The Sage pointed out that it was better to face up to
the situation and resolve it rather than avoid it. Cydric
reluctantly agreed, and they headed off to Belisandra's Tavern.
Belisandra herself seated them and took their orders. A few
minutes later, Thuna came to the table and apologized to Cydric for
her improper behavior. He readily forgave her and suggested that
they forget that it had ever happened.
After Thuna left, Corambis said, "Do you recall the friend that
I met back there at the docks?"
Cydric nodded. "Yes, why?"
"That was Kandevoll, the jewel merchant. He happened to mention
that you were in his shop this morning, looking at betrothal rings."
"Yes... I believe I was there," Cydric replied cautiously.
"He also said he heard you whisper the name 'Lysanda'. That
wouldn't be Lysanda the King's niece, now would it?"
"Um, well, perhaps there are two Lysandas in the Kingdom,"
mumbled Cydric.
"Aha. Something tells me, Cydric, that you are not the
freewheeling adventurer that you seem to be. Perhaps you will tell
me what you really are."
Cydric looked up from his mug of ale. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, Cydric, that so far you have not told me a single thing
about yourself. Why is that?"
Cydric took a long sip of ale before answering. "Very well. You
are right, I was looking at a betrothal rings for Lysanda."
"I am sure that you did not come all the way to Dargon just to
look for rings. A young noble like yourself could find better
jewelry in the capital."
"I told you, I am here because of my vision. And--" He paused,
and looked Corambis in the eye. "And you think that I am a noble?"
The Sage chuckled softly. "I suspected it from the moment you
introduced yourself. I used to be King Haralan's astrologer many
years ago, and I never forgot the way the courtiers announced
themselves whenever they came to me for a horoscope. You sounded
just like one of them, even though you looked like an outlander."
Cydric said nothing for a long moment, then sighed and said,
"You have me, sir--I am indeed a noble. I suppose you want to know"
everything about why I am here."
"Hoho, indeed I do! Please begin, at the beginning, eh?"
Cydric drained the last of his ale before speaking. "My father
is Khysar Araesto, Duke of Pyridain and Treasurer to King Haralan.
Ever since I was young, my father wished for me to follow his
trade--to become the next Royal Treasurer. I grew up learning the
ways of the treasury, though I really had no interest in it. I
wanted to be like Sir Talan Shalk, the Captain of the King's Guards."
"Ah, the famous soldier-adventurer, eh?" said Corambis.
"Yes, but I knew my father did not approve of that sort of life.
Even so, I convinced Captain Shalk to teach me what he knew. Under
him, I learned how to use a sword, how to survive in the forest, and
other things that I would need to know when I finally left Baranur.
"About a year ago I made my decision to leave. I had planned to
join an expedition to the Skywall mountains, but I had fallen love
with Lysanda and for her sake I did not. But I never stopped
thinking about leaving the city, about venturing to other lands. I
tried to convince Lysanda to come with me wherever I eventually
decided to go, but she was too used to civilization and implored me
to stay in the city.
"And then the visions started. I realized that this was the
time; I truly had to leave. It was very had to part with Lysanda,
but I knew that if I did not go I would never find peace. So I wrote
a letter to Lysanda, packed my things, and left the castle in the
middle of the night. I traveled with a caravan for a time, then made
my way to Dargon alone. The rest you know."
"But why did you not tell me you were of nobility?" asked
Corambis. "In my experience, traveling royals usually like to make
themselves known as such."
"I turned my back on that sort of life when I left the King's
castle, and I have tried to act in the manner of the common folk;
but, as you have guessed, it will take some time for me to forget my
court protocol."
Thuna arrived and served up their orders: steamed fish for
Cydric, a plate of cooked vegetables for Corambis.
"Well, Cydric, it seems that you have sacrificed a great deal
just to find out the meaning of your strange vision. What will you
do after you learn its meaning?"
"That all depends on what happens when we travel to this other
world. Are you sure the journey will be safe?"
"Passing through the Archway will not be dangerous. But after we
arrive at our destination, I cannot know what will happen to us."
"Perhaps if we knew, we would not want to go," mused Cydric.
"Now Cydric, you are not afraid, are you?" Corambis asked,
looking at the young man with mild amusement.
"I do not fear going; it's returning that I am concerned about."
"Well, Cydric, you are right to be concerned, but I shall make
certain that we return safely. And now, eat up, for we have quite an
adventure waiting for us."
They continued their meal, and when they had finished, Cydric
and Corambis left the tavern.
-Carlo N. Samson
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME NINE NUMBER TWO
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
*Treasure 3 John L. White
Date: 112387 Dist: 494
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Greeting. Apologize for lateness of issue. Promise that the next
issue will be more prompt. Plug stories in current issue. Plug
stories in next issue. Welcome new subscribers. Close.
Actually, I could try to pawn the lateness of this issue on the
fact that the Dargon Project had a minor contradiction come up which
had to be addressed, but the truth is that I procrastinated bringing
it up to the authors, so it's still my fault. O well. This time I
also have to apologize for the size of this issue, although THAT I
can slough off onto someone else's conscience!
Two items of news to report. Firstly, the procurement department
is having difficulty obtaining the prizes for the SF writing contest
(see last issue's announcement). I am hoping to purchase the prizes
soon, and I hope that many of you are considering entering a short
story. The other item of news is that although WISCVM is shutting
down effective December 15, FSFnet should be able to get through the
replacement local gateway, and I forsee no interruption of service
to our internet subscribers.
But, this editorial must be kept short and sweet. The next issue
will be out very soon ("No, *really*!"), and will contain a good
mixture of Dargon and non-Dargon works.
-'Orny' Liscomb
Je'en
"To marriage!"
The toast was heartily echoed by those around the table, and all
lifted their flagons and drained them. Congratulations came from all
over the taproom of the Inn of the Panther causing Kroan to beam
brightly and toss appropriate replys back.
Je'lanthra'en leaned back against the wall and thought there
must be something in the air. Just a month or so ago, she, Cefn and
Kroan had attended the gypsy wedding of Maks and Syusahn, who was
none the worse for her imprisonment in the Emerald Hand. Je'en
remembered the ceremony with fondness, all barbaric splendor and
exaggerated pomp and solemnity. The party afterwards, which had
lasted a good three days, was wild enough to make up for the almost
staid wedding.
And now, her brother was engaged to be married. The lucky lady
was named Anorra. She was the daughter of a widower baker and was
due to take over the family business. Kroan and Anorra had met over
a shipping dispute six months ago, and it was love at first sight.
Je'en was quite happy for her brother. She had met Anorra, and
they got along famously. Anorra was a small woman with long brown
hair and a wide, expressive face, full of energy and life, and
already a better baker than her father, who insisted he was proud to
be leaving the family business to her. Anorra and Kroan made a
beautiful couple, and Je'en echoed the toast again in her mind.
Cefn asked, "Why did you set a date so far away? Three months is
a long time to wait, isn't it?"
Kroan said, "I wanted Mother and Father to be here, and it's a
long way from Derenten to Dargon. I got their return letter just
last week saying when they would be able to get here. As soon as I
knew that, I talked to Anorra and we set the date. It's..."
Je'en broke in with, "Wait! Mom and Dad are going to be at the
wedding? Wonderful! Its been so long since I've seen them." Her
smile faded after a moment, and she said, "Oh, no."
"What's wrong?" asked Cefn.
"My parents don't know about my accident, or that I'm not a bard
anymore. I was meaning to tell them, but I just haven't gotten
around to it. So, they probably won't even recognize me as I am now."
Kroan said, "Well, actually, they do know. I told them when I
wrote about Anorra. They know everything: the accident; your
retraining; and the adventures you've had here in Dargon. They both
send their regrets, and wish you good luck in your new life. I'm
sure that they will be very happy to see you again at the wedding."
"Oh, uh, thanks, Kroan. I'm glad they know now, and I'm looking
forward to seeing them again." Je'en let the topic be turned to
wedding plans, then dropped out of the conversation. She slouched
back in her chair and turned her thoughts inward.
She summoned up a mental image of herself just as she saw
herself every day in the large piece of polished silver she used for
a mirror. It was as complete and detailed as a painting: her bardic
training had sharpened her powers of recall, and she was quite adept
at seeing concrete images in her mind.
She looked at the picture of herself, clad in a comfortable
leather tunic and breeches that went into knee-high suede boots. She
still bore the marks of her 'accident' more than three years after
the incident: a dark ribbon circled her throat to hide the scar
there; her right hand hung uselessly from a black-wrapped wrist near
the hilt of her sword, right-hung within easy reach of her good
hand; and, most visible, the silver half-mask that hid the marks on
her face. She presented a unique, mysterious figure, one that
belonged in fantastic adventures that, perhaps, a bard would tell.
Then, she did something she seldom did. She called up an image
of herself as she had been before the accident. No scars, no masks,
Leaf-Killer on her left hip and Soft-Winds hanging at her back. She
set the picture next to her present-day self, and compared the two.
The one that went bare-faced was the one her parents would be
expecting despite Kroan's letter informing them of the events of the
past three years. Briefly, Je'en wondered what she would look like
now, without the mask. But she found herself backing away from the
thought hurriedly. The silver mask had become a badge of her new
life to her, and to cease wearing it was unthinkable.
As she sat comparing the two images, she began to feel strange.
At first, she couldn't identify how or why. Then, as it got worse,
she was able to describe the sensation - it was like someone or
something was pressing on her mind. It took a few more moments to
realize that the sensation was almost familiar.
Instinctively, she began pushing back, concentrating on holding
her mind together and resisting the intrusion. As soon as she
started to resist, she felt the pressure lighten and then vanish.
The pressure had barely vanished when Je'en felt someone nudge
her arm. She opened her eyes and sat up with a startled 'Huh?' that
caused the others at the table to laugh.
Cefn said, 'Wake up, sleepy head. Kroan has to get back to work
and I thought we should toast him once more." The cowled man lifted
his flagon and said, "To Kroan and Anorra - a long, happy, and
profitable life!"
Je'en reached for her mug of ale to join in the well-wishing.
She found it difficult to get a grip on the thin handle of the mug,
but finally she closed her fingers around to and raised it off of
the table. As soon as she did so, she knew something was wrong. She
felt the odd pull in the wrist, the pain, and then the splashing
noise of ale sloshing all over the table.
She focused on the mug, and then on the faces of her friends
around the table. She noticed that they were all staring at the mug
dangling from her hand in shocked disbelief. She started to say,
"Sorry..." but stopped when she realized why they were staring. She
finally realized that the mug was dangling from the fingers of her
right hand!
Kimmentari
An ornate stone corridor shapes itself out of the greyness as
she steps from the between-ways into the hallway outside the
quarters of the man once known as Kyle BlueSword. She senses the
pain emanating from the room before her, and she knows its cause.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, she walks into the room and sees Morion
writhing in pain on the bed. His arm throbs fiercely red in her
ihr-sight, revealing the fact that the perenidth has invaded his
body as far as his elbow. She can also trace the poison with her
sun-sight, which reveals the greenish cast of the skin on his arm.
Concern and guilt flood into and over her as she watches by both
ihr- and sun-sight the poison advance quickly up Morion's arm. She
walks across the room to him, and feels something break under her
heel. Awareness comes to her that she has crushed the egg-focus,
which will make closing the gate that much harder.
Before she reaches the bed, she sees consciousness fade from
Morion's body, but she can also see that his life force hasn't
slackened its fight against the drain of the perenidth.
She stands next to Morion's now still form, and tries to examine
the things she is feeling. She feels concern because she likes the
fierceness of spirit of this fast-liver, and she does not wish him
pain. He attracts more than her curiosity, and she has been hard
pressed not to think of him ever since their first meeting. Now, her
concern shades to fear; fear that she might be feeling what was the
bane of her race - hoftanau, the fire love. Only a fast-liver could
inspire the fire love in the slow living, slow feeling hearts of her
people. When that emotion was ignited, it was usually fatal. That
was where the guilt came from. She wasn't sure that her last warning
to Morion had been cryptic according to the pattern of Thyerin's
Dance, or if she wanted to avoid the destructive force of hoftanau.
Now she must decide whether to save Morion or to let the poison
do its work. She reviews the last glimpse of the pattern of the
Dance she had been given by Thyerin and tries to puzzle out the
meaning of the threads that govern this part of the Dance. It is
difficult. Finally she gives up - the strands are too tangled - and
attempts to make the decision on her own.
She doesn't have time to agonize, though. She can see that the
poison has almost reached Morion's shoulder, with tendrils pushing
ahead of the mass of the evil substance, almost as if it is eagerly
searching for the man's heart. She knows that he doesn't have much
time. If the perenidth reaches Morion's heart, she won't be able to
work fast enough to stem the flow of the poison throughout his
entire body. If that happens, he will be lost forever, his body dead
and his immortal self trapped in the other-space from whence the
demon-poison had been drawn.
She looks into Morion's tortured face and decides. She kneels
beside the bed and takes Morion's arm in her hands. As she prepares
herself for the effort it will take to battle the perenidth, she
feels the presence of Thyerin in her mind and she sees a part of his
Dance made clear. She sighs with relief as she sees her strand and
Morion's entwined and continuing beyond the scope of the Dance. She
has made the right decision.
She turns back to her task. Placing her hands about his
shoulder, she concentrates to place a barrier within Morion's flesh
that the perenidth cannot pass. She first makes sure that all
vestiges of the poison are on the arm side of the barrier, then she
begins to force the barrier, and with it the perenidth, back down
and out of Morion's arm. It isn't easy. The perenidth seems almost
to fight back, to resist being expelled from the body of its victim.
She struggles tenaciously until finally Morion's hand cups a small
pool of the vilest looking fluid imaginable, much more than could
have been stored within the tiny egg.
She relaxes for a moment, gathering her strength for the final
effort. When she feels herself ready, she again concentrates on the
barrier that now protects Morion's hand from having the fluid
re-enter it. The barrier, invisible to sun-sight but barely, bluely
visible to ihr-sight, closes around the perenidth, sealing it in a
bubble. The bubble begins to rise, floating slowly up from Morion's
hand. When it is a safe distance away from him, she begins to force
the bubble to shrink. This, in turn, forces the demon-poison back
through the gate to where it came from. When the bubble disappears,
she turns her energies to closing and sealing the gate that the
egg-focus had housed.
When the gate is permanently closed, she slumps back and closes
her eyes, nearly exhausted. But, she knows that there is more to do.
The perenidth had been removed from Morion's body, but the damage it
did while it was there must still be repaired.
Wearily, she opens her eyes and tries to guage how long it will
take to properly heal the fast-liver. She estimates at least three
weeks of deep, healing sleep should suffice, which will leave very
little time to deliver the circlet. As she worries, she sees a
possible solution in the pattern of the Dance. The King of the land
that Morion calls home will celebrate the anniversary of his birth
just a few days before the deadline. Such an event should bring
enough power-users together that, with her help, they may be able to
find a way to send the circlet in time.
She decides to leave speculation for later. She thinks that
Morion will know more about who will likely attend his Monarch's
36th birth anniversary. She needs to start the healing sleep soon,
before the damage increases and destroys their chances.
She arranges the still slightly suffering fast-liver more
comfortably on the bed, and then settles herself next to him. She
places her hands on his temples and tries to communicate directly
with his mind. She finds it easy, and pleasurable, to read his mind
but she must go deeper. She probes for the healing centers of his
brain, and finds them. She stimulates them to increased effort and
ties the energy generation areas of her own body in to his to
provide the necessary building and healing energies. She feels the
drain, and allows herself to fall into the same healing sleep as
Morion. Now, even should she wish it, there is no way to prevent
hoftanau between them.
Ka'en
Ka'lochra'en kissed Gillin one last time before giving her a
hand up onto her horse. He stared after her as she rode back home,
and reflected that she was probably the best thing to come out of
this, his latest assignment.
Ka'en had come to this northern corner of Baranur when he had
heard news on the grapevine that one of the border Barons of Duchy
Dargon was looking for someone discreet to do a job. Ka'en's pockets
were nearly empty, so he decided that he would look into the venture.
Ka'en had travelled to the Barony of MountainSpur in the guise
of a minor, unlanded noble name of Lord Kennet'. It had taken some
convincing to get Baron Kayden, the man looking to hire a thief, to
believe that he was suited to the job. It wasn't as if Ka'en had a
detailed history of past accomplishments to expound on, especially
since most of his best work had yet to be detected. Ka'en had been
forced to extract a few choice items from the Baron's personal
treasury to convince the man that he had the necessary skills to do
the job.
So convinced, the Baron had confided in Ka'en. Kaydin intended
to annex the lands of his neighbor, Baron Rombar. Rombar had
insulted Kaydin some years before by refusing to allow his daughter
to marry Kaydin's eldest son. To get even, Kaydin intended to depose
Rombar by discrediting him and having him and his family removed as
rulers of the barony by Clifton Dargon himself, acting as the due
representative of the Crown of Baranur. The method of discrediting
was devious and complicated. Ka'en's part involved some very
important documents stored in the very lowest vaults of Dargon
Castle. The ones Ka'en was to steal were both the Primary Charter
for the Barony of Fir Lake, and the High Charter for Duchy Dargon
itself. Baron Kaydin would provide a doctored version of the Primary
Charter of Rombar's Barony that would remove Rombar's family from
the Barony. Taking the High Charter to the Duchy was a little
insurance on Kaydin's part since without that specific piece of
parchment, Clifton could, legally, be removed from the Duchy as
easily as Rombar from his Barony. Kaydin intended to force Clifton
into supporting him in his claim to the land of Fir Lake when the
Barony was disolved.
It was all just too much politics and legalisms for Ka'en's
tastes, but he agreed to do the job. One of the convincing arguments
was Kaydin's youngest daughter, Gillin. There was a strong mutual
attraction between them, and Ka'en had recently begun having
thoughts about settling down. Gillin was pretty, intelligent, and
excellent company. Ka'en hoped that she wouldn't mind moving away
from MountainSpur, since he refused to live anywhere that there was
danger of him being exposed as a thief and Gillin's father certainly
knew who he was now.
Ka'en cleaned up the little glade wherein he and Gillin had said
good-bye, repacking his bedroll and the now severly depleted bag of
rations he had brought along for his trip to Dargon. Fortunately,
the Ducal city wasn't more than four days away and Ka'en was sure he
could make the remnants of his food last that long. Besides, it had
been well worth wasting the time and food to say farewell to Gillin.
Well worth it.
Ka'en spent a week researching a way to infiltrate Dargon
Castle. Baron Kaydin had offered a few suggestions, but no real help
in getting him near the secret vault. The details were up to Ka'en.
It didn't take him long to decide on a course of action once he
had explored all the possibilities. He had even been given a tour of
the Castle in his masquerade as Lord Kennet'. He had determined that
there was no possible way for a guest or resident of the castle to
penetrate the dungeons - there were just too many guards. So, he
decided to be a guard.
Given enough time, it was conceivable that Ka'en could have
become a Castle Guard by the normal route. But he didn't have the
three years or so that that would take. Instead, he would have to
fake it. And the first order of business was to make a copy of the
Castle Guard's uniform.
The uniform was a simple one. The Guards wore a black
thigh-length tunic over black trousers that went into black
knee-high boots. Silver and gold bands added color at the neck,
cuffs, tunic hem, side seams of the trousers, and the saddle of the
boots. A sash of silver and gold triangles was fastened to the right
or left shoulder by a pin of the Baranur Star. Rank was displayed
within a small red square on the chest. Additional ornamentation was
provided by small black buttons bearing a gold caltrop at strategic
places on the outfit.
Ka'en didn't want to buy enough fabric at any one store to lead
an inquisitive mind to link the purchase with an extra guard at the
Castle. So, he searched the second-hand stores for cloth, either in
old clothes or in bolts, and for the various decorative elements he
would need.
He was in a slightly seedy but well stocked little shop
bargaining for a child's show cape made of cloth-of-gold that he
could cut up for the sash, when he heard the door open. An
almost-familiar voice said, "Mergant, did you get in any....Oh, I'm
sorry, I didn't realize you had a customer. I'll wait until you're
through. Pardon me, m'lord."
Ka'en turned to look at the person who had spoken. He was sure
he knew the voice, but when he saw the speaker, he was just as sure
that he was mistaken. He didn't know any left-handed women who wore
silver masks, of that he was definite.
Ka'en was concluding his business with the shopkeeper when the
woman stepped up to the counter next to him and said, "Excuse me,
but aren't you Ka'lochra'en?"
Ka'en turned and stared into the eyes that were partially hidden
within the mask, wondering how this woman knew him. It was rare that
he went by his contracted name in Baranur, much less his full name.
Finally, made slightly uneasy by the blankness of the mask, he said,
"That depends to whom I'm talking."
"Of course, you don't recognize me. How could you, after all,"
said the woman. "I looked quite different the last time you saw me
in Derenten. I'm your second cousin, Je'lanthra'en."
"By the Blood of Argan, you are!" Ka'en finally recognized the
voice, the figure, the bearing, and even the set of the jaw. "What
happened to you, Je'en? You're not a bard any more?"
"Oh, its a long story, Ka'en. Much too long to tell without a
tankard of ale to ease the telling. But, no, I'm not a bard anymore.
I am an adventurer along with my partner, Cefn, who is a wizard. Why
don't you come down to the Inn of the Panther tonight, and we can
talk then, okay? Good. I'll be there around dinner time and after.
See you then."
Ka'en took the cape he had just purchased and left the store as
Je'en asked Mergant about some special lanterns for which she was
looking. He wondered what had happened to Je'en. She was so changed.
The mask, her voice, the strange bracer she wore on her right hand.
An adventurer, eh? They could be problems. At least the only
adventurers that Ka'en had ever dealt with had been problems. He
wondered if her presence in Dargon would complicate his business.
Blood
Moonlight filters into a shuttered and dark shop through warped
boards and air vents. The silvery light glints off large glass jars
filled with herbs and potions revealing the shop to be an apothecary.
A shadow among shadows moves slowly and cautiously. It inches
its way over to the jars and, after a pause to be sure it is alone,
it begins to fill several cloth bags from the large glass jars.
Suddenly, its movements lose their fluidity, like a marionette
whose operator has just sneezed. An elbow strikes and dislodges one
of the jars and it crashes to the floor, shattering. The shadow
freezes, and then, under control again, begins to hurriedly complete
its mission.
The owner of the shop, who lives on the second floor, has been
awakened by the noise. He comes down the stairs armed with a large
club. The shadow seeks a way out, its mission now done, but the
stairs are closer to the door that it is.
The owner opens a shopfront shutter, flooding the tiny shop with
moonlight, and catches sight of the shadow, formless and dark no
more. Light glints off of a silver mask, the owner gasps out,
"Je...", and a sword weilded sinisterly slides between ribs. As the
owner slumps on the stairs, the shadow closes the shutter, wipes its
sword on the owner's nightrobe, and slips stealthly out of the shop.
Cefn
"So, where is Je'en, anyway?" asked Ka'en.
Cefn said, "I don't know. She's usually here by dinner unless
she has something else to do, and she didn't mention anything to me.
Still, she has been acting strange lately.... I'm sure she'll be
around eventually. Could you explain again, Ka'en, why the middle
part of your name isn't the same as Je'en's if you're related to her?"
As Je'en's cousin tried to explain the complexities of southern
family trees and their special naming conventions, Cefn wondered
with more concern than had been in his voice just where Je'en was.
If Kroan hadn't recognized Ka'en when he entered, the poor man would
be sitting in a corner wondering where his relative was. It wasn't
like Je'en to invite someone to meet her at the Panther, and then
not show.
Ka'en's dissertation was interrupted by the bells on the door,
and a few shouted greetings that indicated that Je'en had finally
arrived. When she finally reached their table, Cefn noticed by her
manner that she was a little distracted. She said hello to her
cousin, appologized for being late, and yelled her dinner order -
"The usual!" - to the cook. She took her seat, and joined Ka'en in
trying to explain the name thing.
Cefn listened with far more interest now, but eventually the
conversation returned to Kroan's coming marriage. Cefn retreated
from the discussion for the same reason he had tried to side-track
it earlier: the topic made him nervous.
Yet, his mind refused to let him just forget the word. He tried
to deflect the thoughts of being tied for a lifetime to one person
with thoughts of Je'en and her increasingly odd behavior. But, that
tactic didn't work, because Je'en was the reason that the thought of
marriage disturbed him. Perhaps not marriage itself, but rather what
went with it: love. Cefn was even more disturbed by love than
marriage, and thinking of Je'en in that context just made him even
more nervous.
Cefn had been in love once, long ago while he was still an
apprentice. The relationship had lasted for almost a year before it
disintegrated messily. The breakup also resulted in the destruction
of their partnership, which had almost been worse than the breakup.
Now, Cefn was feeling the beginnings of what could well be love
for his partner Je'en. And he didn't want anything at all to happen
to their friendship, which was why thoughts of marriage made him
nervous - he had recently been daydreaming of spending the rest of
his life tied to Je'en.
Conversation soon turned to the celebration of the King's
Birthday three days hence. The celebration in Dargon would be token,
with the Court Ball held by Duke Clifton being the most lavish
demonstration scheduled to take place. Je'en and Cefn had an
invitation, and they discussed what they would wear to the event.
When Cefn offered to wangle Ka'en an invitation, too, the young man
declined politely, saying that the atmosphere would be far to
rarefied in the Ballroom for him to be comfortable.
Eventually, Kroan had to leave as it was getting late and he had
work the next day. As Kroan left, Ka'en also took his leave. Cefn
expected Je'en to stay with him for a little while, but she rose
from the table directly after her cousin and bade Cefn farewell very
distantly. Cefn looked after her as she left the Inn, and wondered
what had gotten into her lately.
Feeling uneasy, Cefn bought a bottle of wine and went home. He
activated the golden globes he had had installed in the town house
he had purchased and made sure that all of the windows were properly
sealed. He then removed his protective cowl and hung it on a peg by
the front door. He took the bottle, got a glass and his cards, and
went to the study to do a reading on Je'en to relieve his uneasiness.
He shuffled, cut, shuffled again, and was ready. The first card
turned over was the Twelve of Swords reversed. Trouble from the
start. He swiftly layed out the rest of the Bent Star, the frown
deepening on his face. When the layout was complete, he filled his
glass, drained it, filled it again, and drained most of it. Then, he
looked at the layout again. Nope, it hadn't improved.
It was one of the worst yet non-commital readings he had ever
seen. It indicated danger - disaster, even - all around, but it
couldn't identify the source. Every bad card or position had shown
up in that reading, but in such a way that it told him little.
Topping off his glass again, Cefn reshuffled the cards. It took
some time before they felt right, and when he layed them out he
found out why - the entire layout was, card for card, the same as
the first one.
Eyes wide, Cefn sat back in his chair and drank from the bottle,
leaving the glass on the table. He had never heard of an exactly
duplicated layout actually happening before. He wondered what it
meant and whether Je'en would survive the forces gathering around her.
Emissary
Tanandra en'Elerch lifted the simple brass door-knocker and
hesitated a moment. As she finally let it fall to strike against the
shiny plate it was hinged to, she wondered what it would be like to
see Cefn again. It had been so long since the last time...
She waited for several minutes before taking the knocker in hand
again, but as she did so, she could hear noises just inside the
door. Hastily stepping back, she composed herself and waited for the
door to open.
When it finally did open, there was a moment of silence before
Cefn spoke. "It's... good to see you, Tanandra. Come in, please."
Tandi wished she could see inside the cowl that Cefn had to
wear. She couldn't quite fathom the tone in his voice, and she was
sure that if she had been able to see his face she could have
interpreted it.
She stepped into the entry hall of Cefn's town house and turned
as he shut the door. With a gesture, the single candle lantern that
had been shining in the little hall went out, and the golden globe
at the ceiling took over illumination duties. Cefn removed his cowl
and hung it on a peg by the door, then led her into his study.
Tandi took in the scene in the study while Cefn asked her if she
wanted anything to drink. She noticed the spread of cards on the
table, and even though she knew little about their meanings (she
hadn't chosen to study them), she could tell that the layout was a
bad one. She also noticed the bottle on the table, and wondered at
it since she knew that Cefn didn't do much drinking at home.
As Cefn handed her a glass of cider, he asked, "Well, how have
you been, Tandi?"
Before answering, Tandi took a good look at Cefn. She decided
that time had treated him well - he still looked as good as when
they had been ...apprentices together, if not better. She also
realized that she still has some deep feelings for him which
suprised her; she thought she had left him behind all those years ago.
Firmly pushing her uncertain feelings out of the way, she
recalled the reason she was visiting Cefn. She set the glass down
and placed her forefingers and thumbs together, forming a crude
circle. She hummed a low note, and the space within that circle
began to glow with a swirling green-blue light. She said, "I have
come on business from the Council, Cefn."
The blue-eyed mage's smile of welcome vanished at the sight of
the sigil that the swirling light had formed between Tandi's
fingers. Cefn said, "I no longer serve your masters, Tandi. You are
wasting your time."
Tandi had expected this reaction, and was prepared. Sternly, she
said, "The Elders never acknowledged your debt as paid. You
performed a great service for the Council when you finally
eliminated the last followers of Jhel and the Sword of Cleah. Even
so, the services they have rendered you have not yet been repaid."
Before he could interrupt, she continued, "The Council has
detected certain experiments into the Forbidden Art. They lay to you
the task of finding who is learning the Art and stopping him. There
is every indication that the experimenter is Vard."
Cefn paused a moment, pondering the situation, before answering.
He said, with a forced calm that Tandi could see through with ease,
"I cannot help. I...I am otherwise occupied. Something is wrong here
in Dargon. There is a threat hovering over my partner,
Je'lanthra'en. She's been acting strange lately - out of character.
I must stay and help her - after what I have already put her through."
He turned away, but not before Tandi read the love in his face,
and the pain of that secret. She reflected that going around with
one's face hidden by a magically dark cowl didn't give one much
reason to learn to control one's facial expression. Cefn probably
didn't even realize how open his face was. She felt the remnants of
her own love crumble in the face of his deep feelings.
Sadly but forcefully, Tandi said, "Cefn, the Council has
empowered me to order you into this; even to lay a gorfodd on you -
they knew you would resist. But, I don't want to force you. Listen,
I know what Je'en has been through. You were monitored during that
mission, as were the events you set in motion. But, she has survived
admirably. She redirected her life without any help at all, which is
remarkable considering the loss she sustained. She will be able to
cope with whatever awaits in her future.
"Cefn, you are the only person currently available for this
mission. The others are all elsewhere, or not of sufficient ability
to deal with someone able to delve into the Forbidden Art. Please
reconsider. This IS important. You know the possibilities of an
adept of the Art. Remember Ciraledwen."
In the silence that followed, Tandi knew that he was
remembering. The story of the most infamous Elder in history was an
early lesson, and one that was drilled into every student of the
Council. Ciraledwen had, through study of the Art, become able to
reanimate whole armies of the dead - an invincible force. The only
limit to her power had been the number of lives she could tie to her
focus - humans enslaved to her will body and soul, and used to
infuse the corpses with artificial life. It had taken a tremendous
combined effort of the normally reclusive Elders and all of their
students to finally breach the shields she had built to protect
herself and destroy the evil Ciraledwen.
When Cefn finally turned back to face her, Tandi could see the
struggle he was undergoing on his too-expressive face. The concrete
threat of a practicioner of the Forbidden Art had to be balanced by
the vague threat against his partner and love.
Finally, he decided. He said, "I...I cannot." His resolve firmed
as he continued, "Je'en is more important to me than a vague threat.
You are easily powerful enough to go against Vard, if he is truly
involved and his name wasn't used just to try to lure me into this
mission. After all, you have been under the tutelage of the Council
for all these years since I left. You must be far more powerful than
I by now.
"Please understand me, Tandi. I will not go of my own free will,
and I cannot allow myself to be forced by either you or the council.
It's been good to see you again, Tanandra. Good bye."
Cefn turned away again and went over the the table where his
bottle still sat. Tandi watched him pour another glass full and
drink half of it in one gulp. Sorrowfully, she began to concentrate
on the sheet of light filling the circle still formed by her
fingers. The identifying sigil had been given to her by the Elders
of the Council, and with it had come a latent spell, a gorfodd, or
compulsion. It was far more powerful than one she could cast
herself and (so the Elders hoped) more powerful than Cefn could break.
As she concentrated on the sigil, the light that formed it began
to change from green-blue to red-purple. She watched the spell focus
as it strengthened. She considered Cefn's suggestion that she go in
his place. She had offered herself to the Elders, a fact that Cefn
couldn't know. And she had been rejected as not able enough. True,
she had spent the years since Cefn had gone out on his own with the
teachers of the Council but she still was not as powerful as Cefn.
It wasn't her fault. She just didn't have Cefn's ability. Not
everyone could master the forces of magic to the same degree, and
she just couldn't do as well as some. Certainly not well enough to
combat someone able to delve into the forces required to master the
Forbidden Art.
The spell was ready. Cefn hadn't turned around yet - he was
filling his glass again. Tandi said, "Cefn, forgive me but I was
ordered." And, with a Word, she released the spell.
Cefn may not have turned around, but he must have suspected
something. He whirled at the sound of her voice, and Tandi gasped at
the sight of the hoop he held between his hands. He stretched it to
about three feet in diameter, the silvery strands threaded across it
actually weaving closer together as the hoop grew. By the time he
faced her, the hoop was a shiny mirror held before Cefn's head.
The purple-black sphere of the gorfodd spell struck the
hoop-mirror and bounced. Tandi gasped again when she saw that it had
been perfectly reflected, and would strike her. Before she could
react, the spell hit her, and she felt the cold tingle of the
compulsion magic settle over her body and mind. She immediatly felt
the compelling need to go find the person practicing the Forbidden
Art. It was like a physical presence inside her, forcing her to
move. Its little voice whispered to her, 'Get moving, find the man!'
As she turned to leave, she heard Cefn say, "Tandi, I'm sorry! I
didn't mean for the spell to return to you. Will you be all right?"
She opened Cefn's front door, knowing that he couldn't follow
her because of the moon- and lantern-light on the street. She called
back, "Of course I'll be fine. Good bye, Cefn. Good bye." She didn't
close the door behind herself, hoping that that tactic would gain
her enough time to get away. Now that she had taken the gorfodd, she
wanted no help or hindrance to her mission. She would find the man,
and she would destroy him, all by her self.
She didn't even hear the other tiny voice in her mind, the voice
of her reason, saying, "I'm dead if this quest succeeds."
Morion
He awoke feeling totally disoriented, almost as though was in
two places at once. Slowly, almost painfully, he sorted out the
sensations and realized first that he wasn't dead. He wondered why,
considersing the vivid memory of the pain the poison had caused him.
Morion could still feel slight twinges from his arm, and it hurt to
close the hand that had held the tiny, lethal egg. Of course, he
couldn't account for the general stiffness of the rest of his body
by the effects of the poison - if its effect had reached that much
of him, he wouldn't be around to notice the results.
Then he realized that he wasn't alone on Kyle's bed. He looked
at the sleeping form of the strange blue haired woman who had called
herself Kimmentari and realized that there was now a rapport between
them that had been instrumental in saving his life. Somehow, he knew
things about Kimmentari that he couldn't possibly know - things even
lovers wouldn't tell each other. And he knew that she was
helplessly, perhaps fatally, in love with him.
The first stirrings of returned feelings propelled Morion off
the bed in fear and confusion. How could he possible be in love with
such an alien creature? He had never even heard of her kind before.
He...he just couldn't really be in love, could he? She was
beautiful, in an exotic way, and she had saved his life. Still...
Thoughts came to him, memories and dreams. They weren't his,
weren't even human, but they were entrancing. He saw Thyerin, the
god Kimmentari's people worshipped, and the Dance he laid out as a
pattern for his followers. He saw what hoftanau meant for one of
Kimmentari's race, and how deeply the fire love had already burned
into her. The thoughts were remnants of the healing bond that had
followed her ridding his body of the poison, not actual mind to mind
contact. But, Morion remembered the instant of his waking and
seeming to be in two places at once. And he knew that if someone
could know him on so intimate a level as to have actually been in
his mind, and they still cared or loved him, he wouldn't refute that
love. And, he knew that he loved Kimmentari.
He looked for a long time at the silken-clad body of the alien
woman, then reached out tentatively to touch her shoulder. As his
hand touched her, he felt a brief reprise of the joined sensation
and she opened her eyes. He stared into the deep red of her eyes,
willingly getting lost in their depths. He settled slowly onto the
bed, bent over, and lightly kissed his saviour on the mouth. Her
response was slow and hesitant, as if she didn't know how to
respond. But soon, as their mental rapport re-established itself,
her reactions took on more passion.
Several hours later, Morion again awoke to the now familiar two
places at once feeling. He looked up into Kimmentari's ruby eyes
where she was leaning over him staring at his face. He wouldn't have
minded taking a few hours more to get to know his love even better,
but Kimmentari laughed at his thought with a sound like silver
bells, and said, "There will be time enough and more for that, my
love, when we have danced our part of the Dance done. Or have you
forgotten your mission here - the circlet?"
In fact, Morion had done just that. It took a moment for him to
recall just how he had ended up where he was: the challenge by Kyle
BlueSword, meeting Kimmentari on the road to Belliern, the fight in
the village square, Kyle's story of possession, Morion's task to
deliver the crystal circlet to his former pupil Je'lanthra'en, and,
finally, the tiny poisoned egg that had been the revenge of the
demon-thing that had possessed Kyle.
"Souls and swords, what day is it, anyway? How much time do I
have to finish my task?"
"Calm yourself, my love," said Kimmentari. "My thread has been
joined to yours in this Dance - the task of delivering the circlet
has become mine as well. This day is AvansDay of Harvest, just nine
days from the deadline."
"But, I...we'll never be able to get to Dargon in nine days,
that is unless you..."
Kimmentari smiled as she said, "I cannot move over such great
distances any faster than you, my love. Alone, my magic cannot solve
the problem. But I saw something in Thyerin's pattern that might help.
"Just six days from now, your King Haralan will celebrate his
six and thirtieth year of life. As I understand it, this is a cause
of much celebration, and many people will gather in Magnus to help
him commemorate the event. Among those present, there are sure to be
enough persons skilled in the shaping of Power to enable us to
devise a method to deliver the circlet in time. It seems that we
should be able to reach the Crown City before the celebration, right?"
Morion said, "That depends on just where this citadel is. Or,
will that 'lens' thing that Kyle used still work?"
"Its power has dissapated with the passing of the demon from
this plane. We shall have to use more conventional means of
transportation, I'm afraid. Still, I think we can make it. We have
no choice, really.
"To be sure, we should leave as soon as possible."
"Surely a little more...rest...wouldn't hurt?" asked Morion.
Kimmentari laughed again, and answered, "Well, maybe not a
little more...," and kissed him.
Near sunset of the day before the King's Birthday, Morion and
Kimmentari rode into Magnus on wild horses she had called out of the
forest around Kyle's citadel. The ride had been long and hard, and
they had made it in just five days by leaving an hour before sunrise
and riding for an hour after sunset every day. That didn't leave
much time for sleeping, much less other nighttime games, but their
mission was serious. Morion's rapport with Kimmentari had given him
as much of an understanding of Thyerin's Dance as he could grasp,
and he saw what the Dance had planned out for Je'en if she didn't
receive the circlet in time: full mental possession by a
power-hungry wizard.
Morion pondered what to do when they arrived in Magnus. It
wouldn't be easy to put Kimme's plan into practice: unless very
powerful, those persons able to harness the Power seldom made it
generally known that they could, as magic-use wasn't (in general)
looked upon with much favor. Morion no longer had the contacts he
once had in the Crown City. He had been away too long. He thought of
just going to the Castle with the vague hope of meeting some of his
old military friends when he hit upon the perfect solution. It
wouldn't be very nice to put an extra load on Coridan, since he
would certainly be having a busy day as the Falcon Herald at an
official Baranur function, but the young man was the only person
that Morion was sure to know at Court.
He decided not to intrude on whatever last minutes of peace
Coridan was likely to be having this celebration-eve, and he took
Kimme to the Inn he stayed in whenever he was in Magnus. They made a
noticeable pair as the warrior and the alien woman rode through the
streets. At the Inn, Kimme drew some long stares, but the presence
of Morion prevented any overt hostility her strangeness might have
precipitated. The Inn had changed hands since Morion's last visit,
but its quality hadn't suffered in the exchange and he and Kimme
spent a very restful night making up for all the shortage of rest
they had had on their ride.
Morion and Kimme set off to the Castle early the next morning:
so early that the kitchen of the Inn hadn't yet opened for
breakfast, forcing the pair to leave without eating. Despite the
hour, there were a good number of people up and about making
preparations for the Celebration Parade that wouldn't even start out
from the Castle until high noon. It was dark enough in the pre-dawn
gloaming that Kimme received no undue attention. Morion was careful,
however, to go out of his way to stay out of even the fringes of the
Fifth Quarter - he had no intention of risking his life for a few
less minutes walking time.
Magnus was a huge city. Morion knew that it had no competition
for the title of Largest City of Baranur. It could hold an infinite
number of villages the size of Tench, and even cities the size of
Dargon or Endeirion would vanish two or three times worth within the
limits of Magnus. Morion and Kimmentari had several miles walk (not
including the detour), and the sun was just beginning to peek over
the horizon by the time they reached the outer wall of the Crown
Castle itself.
The walk around and around the rings surrounding the Castle was
as tiring as the walk from the Inn, and the sun was well up into the
sky by the time Morion and Kimme reached the entrance to the Castle
itself. More than an hour later, after bullying his way through more
minor court functionaries than he could count, Morion finally found
himself in the reception room of Coridan's quarters. He made
personally sure that a page had been sent to summon Coridan before
allowing himself to relax and calmly await the Herald's arrival.
After what seemed like days but was only about half an hour,
Coridan appeared. It took a moment for Morion to be certain of that,
though - the young Herald was dressed in a plain brown tunic and
leggings, dress more suited to a page, or rather a house-squire
because of his age. As Morion rose to greet him, the question must
have been on his face because Coridan, after glancing down at
himself and smiling, answered, "I am dressed like this because it
makes it easier to spy. While most of the castle staff know me on
sight, we have almost doubled the number of servitors in the castle
for the celebration, and most of the new staff don't know me from
the king. So, I go around and make sure that things are getting
done, and nothing is getting stolen. The guards are looking out for
that sort of thing as well, but it makes me happier to see to some
of it myself.
"Besides, you should hear the staff gossip when they think no
one is listening! I get more news in this disguise than all of the
king's spies can ferret out. Why, I just heard that Lady Merritan
had been seen...
"Sorry, Lord Morion. I forgot myself, please forgive me. Now,
what brings you here with such urgent business, and who is your
lovely companion?"
Morion said, "Master Coridan, allow me to introduce you to the
Lady Kimmentari, a highborn of the Araf. My Lady Kimmentari, I
present to you Master Coridan, Falcon Herald of Baranur."
Coridan and Kimme bowed to each other, then Kimme stretched out
her hand, and Coridan properly kissed it in greeting. Morion could
see that Kimme's strangeness fascinated the herald - the young man
could hardly tear his eyes away from her when he said, "The Araf? I
don't believe I've ever heard mention of them. Where did you meet
her, Morion?"
Kimme answered, "My people are a very secretive race who live in
tune with the Dances of Thyerin. It was one such dance, that of
Ahar'yKinel, that crossed the paths of Morion and myself and which
brings us here."
Morion continued, "I met Kimmentari on that quest you brought to
my door so long ago. She appeared out of the rain one day as I was
going to meet Kyle's challenge, and told me about Belliern. She also
said that there was a further purpose in my meeting Kyle beyond
freeing him from the demon that had possessed him and protecting the
villages of Baranur from his ravages - namely, that I retrieve a
crystal circlet from his citadel and deliver it to one of my former
pupils, Je'lanthra'en.
"When I had defeated Kyle, she appeared again, got the dying
Kyle to explain what had happened to him. Then, she reminded me of
my secondary mission and tried to warn me to be careful. I went to
Kyle's citadel by the same means that he had used to get in and out,
and eventually found the circlet. But the demon that had possessed
him had also laid a trap for anyone going after the circlet. That
trap almost killed me, and would have if not for Kimme's intervention.
"The healing sleep she had to put us into wasted more than three
weeks of the time before the deadline established by the pattern of
the Dance to get the circlet to Je'en. That deadline is just two
days hence: far too long to get to Dargon even by the fastest mode
of transport available. And so we came to you, because Kimme had an
idea about how to get the circlet to Je'en without us traveling
there. Kimme?"
"I know an enchantment that will enable us to send the circlet
by magical means to Je'lanthra'en," said Kimme. "But to send the
artifact so far will require far more effort than I, alone, can
muster. In fact, it will take at least a score of human power-users
to put forth enough effort to get the circlet to Dargon."
"And," said Morion, "I decided to come to you for help, because
I figured that you know all of the magicians and sorcerers in the
Kingdom, or at least who would know them. If you will help us, it
will save valuable time in gathering enough people to power Kimme's
spell. So, will you?"
Coridan took his time pondering the story and what help he might
possibly be. He believed it - Kimmentari's appearance alone gave all
the credence necessary to Morion's tale. But magicians were mostly
reclusive, and wary of letting knowledge of their abilities get out.
In some parts of the kingdom sorcery wasn't as frowned upon but
here, in the Crown City, magic was looked down upon except where it
was always beneficent, like the healers. For some, if the fact that
they were users of magic became known, it would destroy them and
their businesses. So Coridan thought long and hard before finally
agreeing to help.
A discussion of details kept Coridan from his duties for a
further hour. It was finally decided that a message would be given
discreetly to all of the 'power-users' (as Kimmentari put it) that
Coridan knew of to meet at Coridan's rooms in the last hour of the
day. Coridan would also distribute the message to the few people he
knew that would have a broader acquaintance with users of magic. In
all, Coridan assured Morion and Kimmentari, there should be well
over a score of people to aid in the conjuring.
The time between Coridan's leaving and the arrival of the first
of the magic users late that night was occupied by three things for
Morion and Kimmentari: eating (first, a large breakfast, then a
moderate lunch not too long after the breakfast, a dinner at about
the proper time, and intermittent snacks, mostly as the evening wore
on and there was little else to do); preparing for the enchantment
(which consisted of Kimme listing the things she and the others
would need, and Morion sending pages looking for the items so listed
in what, at times, amounted to a treasure hunt all across Magnus for
the more esoteric needs); and, by far the most pleasurable pass-time
for the pair, just being together. What with all of the travel and
worry of the past days, the two hadn't had much time to be alone
together. Of course, they were more tightly joined than was humanly
possible for a couple under normal circumstances: Morion could still
feel the resonances of Kimme's mind within his own when the
conditions were just right. But it was still nice to just sit and
touch and talk at times.
It was after midnight when Coridan arrived in his apartments and
announced that there would be no one else coming. He joined Morion
as the only other non-participant in the room over next to one wall
where they would both out of the way, and watched the thirty-seven
users of power, directed by Kimmentari of the Afar, begin the ritual
that she had explained to the first few arrivals, who had then
instructed those who came later.
The ritual was taking place in the largest of the rooms
belonging to Coridan, which had been cleared of furniture as part of
the preparation that Kimme and Morion had engaged in earlier.
Cushions on the floor, and two chairs against the far wall were the
only non-magical trappings left in the room. The 37 magicians were
arranged in three patterned rings around Kimme. Within the inner
ring where Kimme sat slightly off center was a forked candle stick
mounted with a tall red candle and a much shorter purple one. The
red candle had come out of the castle's stores, but the making of
the purple one had taken much time and many of the strange
ingredients the pages had been forced to hunt for.
When everyone was seated comfortably, Kimme said, "The object of
this conjuration has been relayed to each and every one of you. Most
of the detailed effort shall be handled by me, as I have the best
knowledge of the enchantment required, and I have as accurate a
mental picture as is possible of the target, one Je'lanthre'en, a
former pupil of my Lord Morion. The rest of you are to concentrate
on the two candles before me. Try to keep both of them in focus, but
of the two, the shorter one is the more important. I shall start a
chant to get us all in rhythm - from there, each of you use whatever
method you prefer to pool your power around the candles.
"Is everyone ready? Then, let up begin. Hmmmmm..."
Morion watched as the 37 magicians began to chant and sway.
Slowly, they all began to speak and move as one. When they were as
attuned as they could get, Kimme eased herself out of the chant-meld
and began to conjure. She huddled over the silk pillow that bore the
circlet. The pillow contained even weirder things than did the
purple candle, and it was from those strange stuffings that Kimme
was attempting to produce what she called an awyrdyn - a creature of
another plane that could be bound to this one for a specific
duration, such as 'until the completion of a given task'. The
necessity of the pooling of powers was that it was draining to open
a planar gate (which was the function of the pillow and its
stuffings), and even more draining to bind the creature so summoned
to its task (in which the purple candle would aid). Kimme and her
kind were strongly steeped in the useage of the power, but she
needed to be sure that both the gate and the bond lasted long enough
to get the awyrdyn all the way to Dargon safely with the circlet. It
wouldn't help the spell's effectiveness any that the clearest
impression/image of Je'en that Kimme could get from Morion's mind
was very vague and could almost as well be applied to any of Je'en's
family at least by the criteria that the awyrdyn was capable of using.
Time seemed to slow down for the two watchers. So little was
happening, and what was was so boring. Coridan almost nodded off
several times - but then, he had been up since very early and it was
very late. Morion had had enough rest that he was able to resist
closing his eyes, but the sameness of the ritual almost hypnotised
him into unconciousness at least as many times as Coridan. A rough
estimate of the time told Morion that more than half an hour had
passed before he finally noticed the faint blurriness that was
hovering like a small cloud around the small pillow.
After rubbing his eyes to be sure that they weren't playing
tricks on him, he began to pay close attention to what was
developing on and around the circlet. The wavering cloud thickened
until it almost blotted out the pillow and circlet, both visible as
wavery outlines within the form of the wraith-like thing formed
around them. It was vaguely human in shape, but there was no detail
to its body - it looked like a wax shop mannequin before it's been
sculpted to look a little more natural.
The chant began to speed up a little as Kimme began the second
part of the ritual, that of impressing the task on the awyrdyn, and
she started drawing power faster. The red candle had burned rather
rapidly until it was the size of the purple candle, at which point
both began to melt at about the same rate (which was faster than a
normal candle would melt). As the purple candle shortened, the
awyrdyn seemed to grow darker in shade, from the milky translucence
it began as to a deeper and deeper violet. Adding color to its form
didn't help its definition, though - in fact, making it easier to
see was definitely disturbing. When it was indistinct, its
formlessness could be accepted. Now that it was fully visible and
purple, the utter lack of features was unnerving.
As the ritual continued, signs of fatigue began to show among
those supplying the power for it. Sweat beaded the brows of most,
and some were dripping from the exertion. A few of the marginally
talented who had come only to show off their ability were seriously
straining to keep up with the rest - they would have dropped out,
but they all knew what that would do to the rhythm that had been
built up.
Finally, both the red and purple candles were little more than
stubs in the candellabra. Kimme uttered a command that grated on the
ears of all who heard it - a decidedly unpleasant sensation
especially from one whose voice was normally so music-like - and the
awyrdyn began to rise to the ceiling of the room. The circlet rose
with it, held within its body somehow. Of the pillow that had held
the circlet, there was no sign. When the wraith-thing had vanished
from the room, Kimme gave another, more pleasant command, and the
chant stopped even though no one present could understand the
language she used. The candles also extinguished themselves, and
there was silence in the room for almost half a minute, until one of
the magic users moaned loudly and collapsed.
Quiet chaos reigned in Coridan's room as the overcome magician
was taken away to be tended and the other power users filtered away
to rejoin the celebration below. Finally, only Morion, Kimme, and
Coridan were left in the room. Coridan said, "Did it work?"
Kimme, who looked tired but not exhausted, said, "It should
have. There was enough power present, and enough time to prepare the
enchantment properly. But I have not been able to see whether this
will work within the weave of Thyerin's dance, so we can only hope."
Morion said, "Thank you, Coridan, for letting us use your rooms
for this, and for all your help in gathering the people we needed to
make it work. Do you think there are any free guest rooms we could
sleep in? It's a long way back to the Inn..."
"Don't even think of moving from this room, you two. You have
done enough for one day, and you'll take your rest right here. You
know where the bed is - use it. I have duties elsewhere that I have
shirked to be here to watch your Lady work. I have to get back to
them now, so go ahead and sleep. And don't worry about me - if I
need a rest, I can find places more suited to a busy and single man
than to a couple who want to sleep for hours. See you in the morning
- or rather, later this morning. Pleasant dreams."
As Morion lay letting sleep overcome him, arms around Kimme who
was already asleep, he wondered whether Kimme's enchantment would
prove effective. Finally, he decided that it had to - there was
certainly nothing he or she could do about it now anyway. Time to
stop worrying about his old mission, and start thinking about his
future with Kimme at Pentamorlo. With those pleasant thoughts
running through his mind, he fell asleep.
Theft
Je'en stood in front of the mirror, a battle going on in her
mind. Her body trembled from the effort she was putting into the
fight. Her left hand was locked, white knuckled, on the edge of her
mask, and much of the battle going on was over how to move that hand.
The room she was in was one of the lesser guest rooms in Dargon
Castle. Sounds of merriment came faintly to her from the Ball in the
High Court, and from the smaller celebrations that had been brought
to some of the rooms in the guest wings. She was alone in the room,
and no one knew she was there, which was as the thing in her mind
commanded. The thing that had forced her there, and that was trying
to force her to remove her mask.
The thing - the presence - in her mind had been gaining strength
ever since that day that she had learned of her parents coming to
Dargon for Kroan's wedding. It had finally been able to force her
into Abernald's Apothecary just a few nights ago. Abernald had been
killed that night. She wasn't quite sure that she had done the
killing - she didn't remember. Perhaps someone might have slipped in
through a door left open by her to do it. But she had a sinking
feeling that the deed had been done by her - or the thing in her mind.
She knew that Cefn was worried about her. She had been aware of
his concern for a long time, but the thing had enough control of her
mind to force her not to react. She turned aside his questions, and
simply ignored him when he got too insistent.
He had put on a good show of normalcy earlier that day when he
had arrived at her house to escort her to the Ball. They were almost
normal together. But she knew what she had in the satchel she
brought, and had a vague idea what the thing intended for her to do.
She knew that the Ball would be far from normal for her.
Somewhere around the 10th hour of the night, she broke away from
Cefn at the command of the thing in her mind. She had been covertly
eyeing all of the unattached males at the Ball, as per instructions,
and had selected the perfect specimen for her deception. When she
left Cefn without a word of explanation and latched onto her choice,
she saw the hurt in Cefn's stance - she had become very adept at
reading her partner in ways that didn't involve the face (which she
seldom saw much of). His hurt hurt her, but she had her orders, and
she didn't seem to be able to disobey them.
The young knight, resplendent in his green jeweled belt and
golden spurs, was much flattered by Je'en's attentions. He willingly
let her lead him around, especially when she led him away to what
she said was her room. As soon as they were alone in the empty room,
Je'en slipped from her belt pouch one of the small spheres she had
made from the things taken from the Apothecary. It broke properly
when dropped, releasing a fast-rising cloud of white powder that
soon had the knight sleeping peacefully on the bed.
Je'en then slipped unnoticed out of that room, and made her way
to another. She slipped into dark clinging clothing from her pack,
and donned a hood. And then came the moment when she stood in front
of the mirror fighting the presence in her mind's command to remove
her mask. Everything she had done at its command so far she hadn't
been able to resist, no matter how repellent to her. But removing
her mask was too much of a violation of her self. She had to fight it.
The presence again commanded her to remove the bright silver
mask. It was easily recognized, and hard to hide. Je'en again
refused. It was her strongest link to her new self, and without it,
she felt she would just be a songless bard with a maimed right hand.
The presence insisted, and Je'en could feel the pressure on her mind
increasing until she could no longer bear it. With a satisfyingly
final gesture, her left hand moved away from her face, bringing the
mask with it. A casual toss relegated the silver object to the
shadowy corners of the room, where it was forgotten.
The once again fully controlled Je'en pulled her hood down over
her face, hefted her satchel, and slipped out of the room, heading
for the depths of Castle Dargon.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Je'en stood before a huge door
in the deepest and oldest part of Dargon Castle. Few people knew
about the sub-dungeons she now stood in, or that they had been built
long before the Castle itself had. The somewhat faded Dargon Crest
painted on the vault door before her covered, but did not well hide,
the original markings on the door - markings in the runic style of
the Fretheod Empire.
Six people normally stood guard around this most secret vault.
All six had been taken care of by the dust in the spheres as easily
as all of the other guards Je'en had passed on her way down. She
walked up to the next obstacle in her path and examined the series
of locks that bound the vault closed. From a separate pouch in her
satchel, she removed a small wineskin that was filled with another
special mixture. Placing the nozzle in the largest keyhole, Je'en
gently squeezed the fluid into the locking mechanism. When the
wineskin was empty, she stepped back and waited.
Soon, thin white smoke began issuing from the keyhole. Je'en
still waited, until the smoke turned black, then ceased. She went
back over to the vault door and lightly touched the handle. Finding
it hot, as expected, she used the wineskin to protect her skin as
she pulled the door open with ease. As it came open, a grainy grey
powder began to leak out of the bolt hole - all that was left of the
locking mechanisms.
The vault itself was huge, but mostly empty. Along the wall
opposite the door was a small locked cabinet and there were some
shelves on the left hand wall that bore some decrepit antiques, so
poorly maintained that there was no telling what they had once been.
But Je'en wasn't interested in what was in the vault - she was
looking for what was under the vault.
In the very center of the vault's floor was an ornate inlay of
what seemed to be a compass rose, save that the four main points
were lettered in runic Fretheodan, and they didn't point in the
normal directions. Je'en didn't even notice this, but went to stand
on one of the lesser points. She gave the passwords that would open
the vault-within-a-vault, three nonsense syllables in Low
Fretheodan. The words came to her from the presence in her mind, and
she repeated them out loud. When the last echo had died, a rumbling
began. Slowly, the main axis of the 'compass' began to rise, bearing
with it the treasure Je'en had been directed to retrieve - the map
to the hiding place of the keseth, the key to unlock that hiding
place, and the skull of the only person who knew how to get by the
traps guarding that hiding place.
Another Theft
Ka'en changed into the Castle Guard uniform he had pieced
together after entering an empty guest room as close as he could
find to the servant's wing of the Castle. Getting into the Castle
hadn't been as difficult as he had feared - he still retained some
of the sneak-thief skills his first master had taught him.
He had spent as little time as possible at the Ball itself,
mostly from fear of meeting his cousin and her friends and being
recognized. He hadn't accepted their invitation to go to the Ball
with them because it would have complicated his mission to have to
alibi himself to them when he vanished. He put the finishing touches
on his disguise and slipped out of the room and down into the cellars.
Once into the under-levels of the castle, Ka'en began to walk
purposefuly through the hallways, as if he were on an important
errand. He came to the first set of stairs leading into the dungeons
proper and was astonished to see the posted guard lying on the floor
next to the portal. He knelt next to the prone man and noticed a
light dusting of fine white powder on and around him. A touch to the
side of the throat assured Ka'en that the man was just sleeping even
though he was breathing so shallowly that he seemed dead to the
casual glance. Ka'en wondered exactly who and what had happened to
the man as he continued onward and downward.
By the time he reached the second sub-level, which was as far
down as most people thought the Castle went, Ka'en was getting
annoyed. Someone had preceeded him into the depths of Dargon Castle
and without a shread of the subtlety that he had taken so long to
insure. Each and every guard Ka'en had passed had been lying on the
floor, covered in white powder, asleep. It was a crude but effective
way to gain access to the lowest levels of the castle and it made
Ka'en's guard disguise utterly useless.
He entered the foundation levels of the castle quietly and
cautiously, wary of whoever had drugged the guards since they could
still be down there. The age and style of the architecture he passed
through was lost on him - he didn't have the experience to recognize
ancient Fretheodan ornamentation or construction techniques nor the
concentration to spare even if he had the knowledge. He began to
hear noises from up ahead, strange sounds like conversation but not
in any language he understood. He finally came to the end of the
hall he had been following and saw the open vault door, the vault
that was his own reason for being here this evening. He saw the
small vault within the larger vault that held the papers he had been
hired to procure; he saw the shelves on the walls with their
strange, incomprehensible contents; and he saw someone dressed in
black standing on the design in the center of the floor and watching
a portion of that design rise slowly into the air.
When the hidden crypt had fully revealed itself, the person in
black pushed back his - no, her - hood and squatted down to retrieve
the contents. It took Ka'en a moment to place the familiar face, but
when he finally recognized Je'en (the scar threw him off for a
moment), he gasped involuntarily, realizing that she must have been
the one to drug the guards. He wondered what was so valuable about
the contents of the hidden crypt that would draw Je'en to steal them.
Je'en heard Ka'en gasp and whirled and straightened with a grace
and fluidity that again astonished Ka'en. He knew that she was now a
warrior but to see the skill in her stance and bearing proved what
he had been told. She scanned the room looking for a weapon, since
she hadn't brought her own. Her eyes fell on one of the antiques,
and she dashed over to it. Drawing it left-handed, she continued her
dash right over to Ka'en. When he saw the murder in her eyes, his
instincts overcame his confusion, and he drew his steel to meet her.
But Ka'en was a thief, not a warrior. He could defend himself
against the types he was likely to meet in his job, but not against
one who made a living by the sword. Also, there was the fact that
Je'en was family to restrain his reactions. On her part, Je'en
wasn't pulling her blows for any reason, and Ka'en wasn't even sure
that she recognized him at all. He parried like mad, and tried the
few disarming tricks he knew, but Je'en's skill was too great. After
only a few minutes of frantic battle, she slipped her borrowed blade
deep into her cousin's side.
Ka'en knew intense pain and his blade clattered to the floor,
his body following it seconds later. His wound bled freely, and
Ka'en could feel the warm pool growing against his side. He watched,
too weak to protest or call for aid, as Je'en calmly pulled a bag
from her satchel and filled it with the three objects from the
hidden crypt. Then, she put the bag back away and walked over to the
vault door, without even a glance for her cousin and victim.
The blood that drained from Ka'en's side also drained his
strength. He tried to pull himself after her, but he could barely
even move his arms, much less his whole body. And then something
happened to assure him that he was on his way to death. Just as
Je'en reached the vault door, there was a faint *pop* and a
beautiful silver and white circlet appeared, hovering about three
feet off the ground. It wavered back and forth between Je'en and
Ka'en, but she didn't even notice it and kept walking. When she
turned the corner to head for the stairs, the circlet seemed to make
up its mind. It drifted quickly over to Ka'en and settled gently to
the floor right in front of him. His efforts to touch it to see if
it was real sapped the last of his strength, and he fainted dead away.
Mystery
Cefn was getting ready to leave when the guards came to get him.
He had only stayed as long as he had because of a conversation Kroan
had gotten him into with a visiting Countess - he had managed to
forget about Je'en's peculiar behavior until Margreth had been
called away. He was on his way to say good bye to Kroan when a man
and a woman dressed in the uniform of the Castle Guards came up to
him and asked him if he would come with them. Puzzled but not
worried, he followed them as they led him down into the cellars,
then the dungeons, then the sub-levels, and finally to a part of the
castle he had never known about, a part obviously older than the
rest. They had passed little groups of guards and other castle staff
clustered about apparently sleeping guards on the way down, and
there was a much larger congregation of guards and staff on the
lowest level of the castle. Cefn was lead through the confusion of
people and into what appeared to be a huge vault. He noticed the
strange contents as he was lead through it and over to another
cluster of people near one wall.
One of his guides said, "Sergeant Hammin, here is Lord Cefn as
you requested."
A woman rose from the cluster of people and smiled. "Greetings,
Lord Cefn. We seem to have a little problem here. None of the Castle
healers can be reached right now, and this man is very near death. I
was wondering if you might be able to help him pull through so that
we can find out just what went on here?"
As Hammin was speaking, the cluster of people broke up revealing
to Cefn the bloody body of Ka'en. He immediatly stooped down and
made sure that Je'en's cousin was still alive. Cefn wasn't a healer
- his talents didn't run in that direction. But he was good with
artifacts, and he made sure that he kept some healing crystals on
his person for emergencies. He quickly fished in his belt pouch and
drew out three long green rods. He carefully rearranged Ka'en's body
so that he could get to the wound, and touched the first of the rods
to it. It began to glow, and the blood stopped oozing from the
wound. When the rod began to shorten as if it was being absorbed
into Ka'en's body, Cefn grasped the hilt of the sword firmly and
drew it out of the wound. The first rod was soon gone, and Cefn used
his knife to cut away Ka'en's tunic from the wound. Then, he applied
the second and third rods one after the other. As each rod was
absorbed, the wound closed more and more, and Ka'en's color improved
from the deathly pale of heavy bloodloss, to an almost healthy (in
comparison) slightly wan.
By the time the last rod was gone, Ka'en had begun stirring. The
properly fatal wound in his side had been reduced to a bad slash and
nothing more. Enough of his vital fluids had been replaced that he
was in no danger of death - at least from his wound. From the looks
of the guards, though, Ka'en had better have a good reason for being
in the vault wearing a makeshift guard's uniform.
Cefn left Ka'en to the care of Hammin for a moment, and went to
examine the crypt that stood open in the center of the vault. He
looked in the holding tray and saw that it was empty. He examined
what he could see of the mechanisms, but could tell little save that
they were very old and very well made. He could sense a subtle magic
around the crypt, but it wasn't a strong enough impression to
determine type or purpose.
His attention was drawn to a knot of people around one of the
sleeping guards, who did not seem to want to wake up. Cefn went over
to where the guard lay, and noticed for the first time the white
powder that covered him and the wall and floor around him. Searching
carefully, he produced shards of what seemed to be unnaturally
brittle wax. He brushed his finger through the powder, and sniffed
it. Sleeping dust. He isolated the main ingredients in his mind, and
realized that the most important one could only have come from
Abernald's - the shop whose owner had been killed not long ago after
a break in. He told a guard what would act as an antidote, then went
back to check on Ka'en.
Je'en's cousin had recovered even further as the healing
elements of the green rods continued to do their work even inside
his body. Ka'en was sitting propped up against the wall, drinking
from a wineskin someone had brought with them. Cefn checked him over
again to make sure that he would be alright, and then Sergeant
Hammin asked him just what he was doing dressed as a guard in the
most secret vault in Dargon.
Ka'en circumvented the direct question by telling them instead
about how he had seen Je'en open the hidden crypt and how she had
attacked him and left him for dead, taking the contents of the crypt
when she left. No one had even known that the crypt existed, and no
one knew what signifigance the scroll, key, and skull might have to
anyone. Then, Ka'en told about the appearance of the circlet. Cefn
examined it as he had the crypt and again found faint but unreadable
traces of magic, both on it and in it. From what he could tell,
though, the magic he could sense on it was whatever had been used to
make it appear in the vault. The magic within the circlet was like
nothing Cefn had ever sensed before though if there had been more of
it he might have been able to figure it out.
Cefn eventually managed to talk Hammin into letting him go after
Je'en. He reasoned with her that he had more experience in chases
like this would be, and that he had another motive for finding her -
Je'en didn't normally go around stealing things that no one else
even knew existed. Something strange was going on, and Cefn wanted
to find out what, and help Je'en out of whatever trouble she was in.
Ka'en had more difficulty getting himself out of trouble, but he
hadn't even taken anything after all. When Hammin pronounced him
free, he stated that he wanted to help Cefn help Je'en. They left
the Castle together, both trying to figure out how to find Je'en.
-John L. White
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME NINE NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
Waiting Here For You Steve Boyko
It Slid Ron Trenka
*The Edged Tool Jim Owens
Men Shall Have the Stars Carlo Samson
Wiring Jim Owens
Date: 121487 Dist: 521
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Well, with the end of the semester and the approach of
Christmas things start getting hectic, and FSFnet is no exception.
We are rapidly approaching the deadline for submissions in the
FSFnet cyberpunk short story contest (as outlined in Vol09N1), and
hopefully we'll have one or two entries by the end of the month. I
am still negotiating to purchase the prizes, which will (hopefully)
be a book of Geiger artwork, and a poster print of Geiger artwork.
Those of you unfamiliar with the name might recall that he did the
preliminary artwork for the movie "Alien", among other works.
Due to the shutdown of the WISCVM gateway and the opening of a
local gateway at MIT, the YALEVM-CUNYVM link has been absolutely
saturated of late. This is the reason why some of you may have
received two copies of the last issue. It was originally sent on
11/23/87, but due to the large file queue it was purged and most
readers did not get their issues until I re-sent the issue last
weekend. Apologies to all for the confusion.
And speaking of confusion, what happens when you have a machine
which allows people to subscribe to FSFnet, but never sends out
issues? I recently discovered a list of people who had subscribed to
an FSFnet list on a LISTSERV which hadn't received an issue in
nearly two years! I hastened to request that the list be shut down,
and invited those users on the list to be added to the main
distribution list, which many have since done.
And that brings us to another topic, and that is this issue's
distribution. As you can see, we have broken the 500-reader barrier
with over 460 BITNET readers and over 50 internet subscribers! And,
of course, this doesn't include people who get issues from local
lists or newsgroups, servers, or other second-hand methods. I must
thank everyone who is spreading the word about FSFnet. And, as
always, a warm welcome to all our new readers. This issue is a
particular treat, and I hope you all enjoy it. We have a Dargon
story by Jim Owens, and several excellent short stories and poems
from BITNET authors. I'm sure that you will find it a pleasant
change from the standard fare.
And, finally, one last comment. For some time, I have found
myself in the most remarkable position of not having to ask for
submissions. However, with the distribution of this issue, I find
that we are again in need of material. If you are an amateur writer,
please feel free to send in original stories, articles or poetry. If
you are interested in writing stories for the Dargon Project, please
so notify me. And, of course, all readers are encouraged to write a
story for the cyberpunk SF short story contest. As mentioned in the
very first issue of FSFnet, it cannot function without the support
of its readership in the form of letting other people know about
FSFnet and making contributions. Please get in touch with me if you
would like to submit an article to FSFnet.
-'Orny' Liscomb
When the call came I took heed,
To fight within this hour of need,
I said "My lady, I must go"
"To find and slay our deadly foe."
To which she said, "Take care, my dear,"
"Within my heart you're always near"
"I'll be waiting here for you,"
"I'll be waiting here for you."
My heart was heavy, my sight was dim,
Aboard the ship with men so grim,
To recover that which was our own,
Within my heart her love still shone;
As I watched men live and die,
I recalled our last goodbye:
"I'll be waiting here for you,"
"I'll be waiting here for you."
We knew our cause was just and right,
Our foes' hearts were black as night,
On and on the battles raged,
Our lives and more were being waged;
For months we fought for every hill,
And yet her words echoed still:
"I'll be waiting here for you,"
"I'll be waiting here for you."
While deep within our foes' domain,
A war did end our good king's reign,
Cities sacked and temples burned,
To death and ruin we returned;
We slew them all with sword and steel,
And deep within I knew for real:
"I am coming back for you,"
"I am coming back for you."
And after foes were all laid down,
I traveled back to my home town,
To find it burned down to the ground,
And my love nowhere to be found;
The people came and said, "Be brave,"
"Your lady she lies within her grave,"
"She waited here for you,"
"She waited here for you."
It Slid
The car sat under the tree, its occupants basking in the silence
and the illusion of privacy.
The man clasped the breast of his shapely companion in a
passionate embrace. She responded with a moan as her hand slid
between his thighs. She knew that she should be home with her
betrothed, yet the passion of this stranger was more than her will
could resist.
The smell of sweat from the lover's bodies filled the interior
of the car as the two twisted and turned in an ancient dance that
man had performed since he fell from the branches of the Tree of Life.
In the darkness, a shadow stirred. It lifted It's hideous head
and paused, as if listening for something in that accursed darkness.
A faint voice drifted through the heavy air and It heard. It moved
It's hellish frame toward the voice and the voice grew stronger,
more demanding. Soon, a spot of dim, flickering light appeared in
that world of eternal night. It moved nearer and the voice boomed
inside It's horrid skull.
"Come, for it is I who beckon", the voice said. "I have a task
and a sacrifice for you."
And It slid through the gate.
"It was his fault", she thought, as the stranger's manliness
slid inside her. "If he paid more attention to me than those old
books I wouldn't need this."
Their bodies moved in a rhythm that followed an unheard tune.
Their moans grew louder as their senses became aware, every nerve
alive, sensitive to the slightest touch.
And It slid.
Her moans became screams of passion, then screams of fright as
It's horrible head came crashing through the windshield and fixed
It's toothy jaw over the head of her lover. Her screams, mingled
with the tossings of her lover's dying body, formed a morbid scene.
Then she was alone.
And It slid.
In a small room, surrounded by ancient tomes and scrolls, a man
leaned over a ball of crystal and watched.
A smile stole across his face as It left the car and moved into
the night. The face moved closer to the crystal and watched the
naked and hysterical form of his wife as she looked at the blood of
her lover smeared across her belly and chest, felt the warmth of his
blood on her face, tasted the saltiness of the blood on her lips.
The man looked past the wrecked car to where the blackness clung
to It's body, as It headed toward the gate It had been summoned from.
"She will learn", he said sadly.
And It slid......
-Ron Trenka
The Edged Tool
The Edged Tool: The Metal
The street was basically empty, unusual for any street in
Dargon. Most streets were usually filled with people, going about
their business. Some were almost impassable. This street, however,
had only one person on it.
Levy Barel walked crisply down the cobblestone. His staff made a
tap each time he set it down on the rock. He was whistling quietly .
He was on his way to the house of Cavendish, an old friend of his.
There he planned to eat supper, and, if the evening ran pleasantly
enough, possibly even spend the night.
He was passing one of Dargon's many alleys when the sound of
voices drew his attention. He looked sideways down the alley, and
what he saw stopped him in his tracks. In the alley were four men.
One, obviously a foreigner, had his back to a wall. The other three,
swords drawn, were facing him. The foreigner had his hand on one of
his two swords, but had not drawn.
Levy hesitated. From the looks of the three natives, he could
guess what was going on. Alone in a strange town, the foreigner was
an easy target. Levy could not conceive of the stranger as being in
the wrong. At the same time, cutthroats did not earn their title
through good deeds, and a second murder came easier than the first.
He put one foot forward, toward the confrontation, and then stopped,
uncertain.
"Help him."
Levy looked around. He saw no one else.
"Help him!"
Levy leaped forward. He ran full tilt towards the group.
"Hey! Hey!" Levy yelled as he ran. He had no sword, no armor,
only a small knife that was buried under his travelling clothes. He
wondered what he would do when he reached the thieves. "Hey!"
The four men turned and looked at Levy. Under any other
condition, the flapping cloak, awkwardly held staff, and bug-eyed
expression would have been hilarious. Instead, however, the three
ruffians took to their heels and fled.
Levy slowed down to a walk. He and the foreigner watched as the
thieves disappeared out the other end of the alley. Then they looked
at each other.
The stranger was shorter than Levy, and yet still had a good
presence to him. He was wearing a long tunic under a heavier
overcoat. Judging from the foreign make of the other's clothes, it
was obvious that he came from a land not much warmer than Dargon.
"Are you all right?" Levy asked.
"Yes. We did not hurt each other." The other looked to the far
end of the alley, where the cutthroats had fled. He then looked back
at Levy. "Thank you for helping me. I... appreciate it." The other
gave a short bow. He spoke as if he was still learning the language.
"It was...nothing." Levy thought back. Who's voice had
admonished him to aid the stranger? There had been no one else around.
"Who are you?" At the question Levy looked back at the other.
"My name is Levy Barel. Who are you?"
"My name is Ittosai Michiya. I..."
"Let us get out of this alley." Levy interrupted. "Please. Come
with me."
Ittosai paused. He was still not used to the west's strange
ways. Finally he relented and followed Levy. The two reached
Cavendish's house without further incident.
Cavendish welcomed Ittosai warmly. It didn't take Levy long to
realize that Cavendish not only knew Ittosai, but that Ittosai was
on his way to Cavendish's house when he had been attacked.
Over supper Levy learned many things. He learned that Ittosai
was on a self-imposed exile from his country, something Ittosai felt
some embarrassment over. He learned that Ittosai had only been in
Dargon a few months, and that Lord Dargon had commissioned Ittosai
and Cavendish to record all Ittosai could remember about Bichu, his
native land. Cavendish thought it wonderful that he could take a
break from his dull court records, and while Ittosai would not admit
it openly, Levy knew that it was an opportunity to get his feet
under himself in a strange land.
Levy spent that night at Cavendish's house, and, at the scribe's
insistence, the next night as well. Levy had contracted a room at a
local inn, but the innkeeper refunded some of the fee, and both
parties were satisfied. Ittosai had been living with Cavendish as
well, and Levy found himself in a strangely furnished room that he
knew he had once slept in, but that now looked like it was in
another country. It was neat, however, and so Levy didn't mind much.
The second morning Levy was packing his horse up for the trip
home. He had come to Dargon to buy gold and gems to make into the
golden articles he fashioned for a living. The stones were worth a
lot of money, and even though Levy's inheritance would be great,
Levy's father was not dead, and so Levy had worked long for the
money. He was tightening the last knot when Ittosai startled him
from behind.
"You are leaving now, yes?" Levy turned to see Ittosai dressed
in heavy traveling clothes.
"Yes. I have to get back to my village. Are you leaving also?"
Ittosai shrugged. "I have recorded enough for Lord Clifton
Dargon. He has rewarded me, and I... can now go." He held up a
bulging leather sack for Levy to see.
"Where are you headed?" Ittosai had told Levy that he knew no
one outside of Dargon.
"I know not. I was wondering... a companion, you would like?
Someone to travel with? I would be honored to go with you." Ittosai
was smiling confidently.
Levy smiled back. He had been dreading the lonely trip home, and
would be happy to have a partner. He told Ittosai so.
"Good! We can leave now then!" Ittosai ran around the corner of
the house, and returned a moment later leading a huge horse loaded
with twice as much baggage as Levy had ever carried in his life. "Is
that all yours?" Levy stared at the bundles.
"Yes. Most it came from Bichu, my home land. Don't worry, I know
to pack."
Levy nodded hesitantly, and then the two started off.
The Edged Tool: The Forging
Levy stooped near the fire. He stirred the broth carefully,
trying not to slosh any into the fire. The scent was good, and it
was bubbling fiercely. He and his travelling companion, Ittosai
Michiya, had stopped for the evening. They had stopped early,
several hours before dark, so that they could replenish their
depleted supply of water and meat. Ittosai set out to catch some
birds, and Levy had set up camp. When Ittosai didn't return soon,
Levy searched out a small creek and filled their water bottles. He
found Ittosai cleaning his catch when he returned.
As they cooked the fowl and ate them, along with generous
helpings of week-old stew, they discussed Ittosai's plans.
"...want to see much...as much... of your land as I can."
Ittosai paused to take a bite of stew. He had discovered that the
technique of using a wide spoon didn't differ as much from the
technique of the chopstick as he had originally thought. The stew,
on the other hand, was something he would need time to get used to.
"I think that's a good idea. I have seen much of it myself. It's
beautiful, for the most part. Some parts are wild and uninhabited.
Some parts are wild, and inhabited." Levy chuckled at his own humor.
Ittosai gave Levy a puzzled look. "Please...What do you say?"
"Some parts of Baranur have bands of men, thieves, murderers,
robbers. Others are cities, like Dargon, only in the warmer south.
They can be very rough. I am careful not to go where I know I might
get into trouble."
"No man will trouble me. I will...dee...defend? Defend my honor.
I will make my ancestors proud." He patted the swords at his side.
Levy looked at him. "You seem awful sure of yourself. It doesn't
pay to depend on yourself for too much. No matter who you are, there
is always someone or something you need to fear."
"I fear no one." Ittosai finished his supper, and stood up. He
dusted himself off and walked off to clean his bowl. Levy watched
him, then shook his head and finished his own meal.
The next morning they continued on their way. They had been
traveling for four days already, and that afternoon they came into a
small village, one just big enough to have an inn. There they bought
more food, and continued on. A few miles out of town they left the
main road. Levy explained that this path would take them south
toward his village. Ittosai continued with Levy, although he was no
longer as talkative as he had been before.
That afternoon they paused in a clearing in the woods. It was
one obviously used by travellers, and there was running water
nearby. Levy topped off the bottles while Ittosai busied himself
with a flute he was carving.
Levy returned after a few minutes. He was carrying the two
bottles on either end of his walking stick. He set the jugs down,
and threaded the stick out from the handles. He stood up, and saw a
man step out of the woods between Ittosai and himself. He called out
to Ittosai, but even as Ittosai stood up another man followed the
first out. Within a few seconds, the two found themselves surrounded
by a dozen armed men.
Ittosai watched the intruders approach. He rested his hand on
the hilt of the sword his uncle had given him. Perhaps this would be
its first real use. Five of the men formed a rough half-circle
around him. The rest surrounded Levy. They all carried drawn swords,
but the ones confronting Ittosai stopped just out of his reach.
Levy watched as Ittosai surveyed the situation. The five men
confronting Ittosai seemed content to stand their ground, as did the
ones Levy faced. Ittosai was not made of similar material however.
He had never been taught to take the defensive.
The first man never even moved his arms. Ittosai killed him on
the draw. The next man took a defensive stance, but failed to take
into account his foe's longer blade. The remaining three stepped
back, forcing Ittosai to pause to realign himself. He then once more
pressed the attack. He dropped the next with a belly cut, and
stepped into the fourth. Their swords struck once, and then Ittosai
whirled and cut down the fifth, who was trying to come in from the
side. He then turned once more to the fourth one, who was standing
with his sword outstretched. Ittosai saw the other's eyes flicker
for an instant, and stepped in with three quick blows, the last of
which cut almost all the way through his opponent's body.
Ittosai pulled his sword out quickly, but before he could
straighten up completely he felt a massive blow on the back. He fell
to the ground, something pinning his lower body down. He quickly
levered himself up with his right arm, and swung his sword up behind
him with his left. It connected, and Ittosai felt blood spraying the
back of his neck as the weight rolled off his backside. He tried to
get up, but discovered to his horror that his legs didn't want to
respond. He looked up at the rest of the people in the clearing.
They all just stood there, none moving. Ittosai reached behind
himself, and felt down his spine. In the small of his back, his
fingers encountered something hard. He grabbed it, and pulled. It
came out, and he suddenly felt very weak. With trembling muscles he
held the bloody knife up to his face. It fell from his weakening
fingers, and a moment later his right arm also gave way, dumping him
across one of his victims. As he watched, the others turned away, to
consider their other captive, Levy. Ittosai saw Levy, head bowed,
forehead resting on his hands, which were clasping the top of his
staff. Then the other men obscured Ittosai's view of Levy, and a
moment later Ittosai closed his eyes.
"Ittosai. Ittosai. Wake up. Ittosai."
Ittosai opened his eyes. Levy was staring down at him. When Levy
saw Ittosai's movement, he smiled, and extended his hand. Ittosai
grabbed it, and felt himself being pulled to his feet. He looked
around. He was standing on the edge of a mound of gore. Bleeding
bodies littered the clearing. Ittosai put his hand to his back, but
while he had no problem finding a small slit in his cloak, there was
no corresponding hole in his skin.
"When I saw that ruffian knock you down, I was worried. I
started praying that you would be all right. I guess you just got
the wind knocked out of you, though." Levy seemed unconcerned about
the carnage behind him.
"I... but...no..." Ittosai was severely confused. He looked at
his hand, felt at his back, and looked around once more. "What did
you do?"
"Me?" Levy was surprised. "I didn't do anything." He surveyed
the clearing smoothly, almost casually. "I'm not a fighter. I can't
give anyone life, so why should I take it? My god fights for me."
Ittosai stared; at Levy, standing there in true sincerity; at
the bodies littering the ground; at his hand, which no matter how
many times he put it to his remembered wound, would come away dry.
Ittosai numbly helped Levy drag the bodies into a large pile in
the center of the clearing. Levy considered the pile for a few
minutes, and then walked over to the fire. He grabbed a burning
branch, and with Ittosai's help proceeded to burn the bodies. Once
the fire was going properly, Levy and Ittosai packed up and hurried
away from the stench. All the while Ittosai was running the matter
over and over in his mind, and every time his hand would wander to
the small of his back.
They made camp well after dark. Levy once more dug out the stew
pot, and heated up its well churned contents. Ittosai declined his
offer of the pungent food, and watched as Levy ate it with obvious
relish. Finally he could take it no longer.
"Did I die?" Ittosai wasted no words of introduction.
"Huh?" Levy stopped in mid-bite.
"Did I die? Did I ..." Ittosai fought for a word. "Did the man
kill me?"
"You're here, aren't you?" Levy was looking confused now.
"He knife me!" Ittosai was loosing his mastery of the native
tongue as he grew more and more excited. "Here! He knife me!" He
turned and showed Levy the tear in his clothes. Levy examined the
blood-stained tear carefully, and the skin underneath.
"Maybe he did. Maybe you did die, or something. But you're alive
now. If you died, and are alive now, then my god didn't want you to
die. If you didn't die, well,..." Levy paused, looking for a good
answer. "...Well then he still doesn't want you to die. Maybe he
wants you." Levy looked thoughtful, then turned back silently to his
food.
Ittosai considered this. His religious teaching had not involved
the worship of any particularly large deities. The idea of a god
powerful enough to save a life was new to him. He silently left
Levy, and retired to the privacy of the shadows.
Levy watched him leave. He had not explained to Ittosai how he
had prayed for deliverance, and how when he opened his eyes all his
enemies were dead on the ground. Nor had he ever told Ittosai of the
voice he had heard back in Dargon, urging him to go to the aid of a
foreign stranger. He pondered his own words. They had come out
clumsily, but suddenly he saw a greater meaning in them. Of course,
in the dark, after such a frightening experience, it was easy to
assign meaning to meaningless things. Such speculation was best left
for the morning. Levy sensibly finished eating, and went to bed.
The next dawn found Ittosai returning from a small stream,
having finally washed off the previous day's dried gore. He once
more looked neat, his blades at his side. He stepped into the
clearing, and was shocked to see a man once more step into the
clearing with Levy and himself.
Ittosai's reaction was blindingly fast. His blade whistled as it
arced through the air. The stranger's reflexes were faster, however.
Ittosai's blade screamed harmlessly off a steel bar clamped to the
other's forearm. Before Ittosai could recover from the follow-though
the intruder had grabbed Ittosai with a grip like iron.
While the two struggled, Levy ran up to the pair. "No! No!
Ittosai! Stop! Captain Koren! Stop!"
At the sound of the name, Ittosai paused, as did his opponent.
Sure enough, when he really looked at the man, Ittosai recognized
the captain of Dargon's city guard. The two released each other.
"Many pardons, please. I did not know." Ittosai returned his
sword to its sheath and gave a short bow.
Captain Koren smiled as he stepped back and ran his fingers
through his hair.
"It's all right, my friend. After your little encounter
yesterday, I'm not surprised you're a little edgy."
Levy and Ittosai stopped at Koren's mention of the fight.
"How did you know we had an encounter yesterday?" Levy looked
suspiciously at Koren, who was grinning broadly.
"I was following that group. I caught up with them just after
you left. I followed your tracks from the pyre. Who else could it
have been?"
"Did the bodies all burn completely?" His secret discovered,
Levy was his usual businesslike self.
"I don't know. They were still burning when I left to follow
you. What a stench!"
"Why were you following them? Is Dargon so quiet you can track
down mere road toughs?"
Koren paused for a moment, then spoke. "You're a trusted fellow.
Lord Dargon has uncovered a plot against his life. These men were
somehow linked. We think they were waiting for his death, so that
they could come in and pillage the city. There are other groups to
the east as well. They all seem to somehow know that there is a plot
going on."
"Preying on the dead." Ittosai broke his silence. He was
secretly smarting that Koren had deflected his blow so easily, and
at the same time grateful that he had not killed the man. To add to
his turmoil, someone was trying to kill the man who, up until a week
ago, had been his lord and master. "What will you do now?"
Koren turned to Ittosai. "Actually, I think that depends on you.
I was thinking as I followed you. I'm alone on this mission, and I
know that you are loyal to Lord Dargon, Ittosai. If you can handle
fifteen armed cutthroats, alone, I think you might be a good person
to have with me. Lord Dargon set you free to go, didn't he?"
Ittosai nodded, willing at least temporarily to allow Koren to
believe him to be a greater fighter than he was.
"Ittosai was planning on seeing the lay of the land, Captain
Koren." Levy looked to Ittosai as he spoke. "I was thinking of
taking him to see my village. Of course, it's Ittosai's decision."
The two looked at Ittosai. He pondered for a moment. He could go
with Captain Koren, and help the man who had helped him when he
needed help, or he could go with Levy, who seemed to think that
there might perhaps be some purpose to Ittosai's wanderings. Ittosai
thought back to the things his father had taught him, of destiny, of
karma, of the world of the spirit. He looked up through the branches
at the rays of light streaming from the sun.
"I would be of little use to you, Captain Koren. I do not yet
speak your language that well, and I would be ... obvious? in a
crowd. I will go on with Levy."
The Edged Tool: The Honing
The sun was shining brightly when Levy stepped out from among
the trees, and looked down on his house, a small square set in the
midst of a golden field. He smiled broadly. No matter how
interesting, there was no place that could make him feel like that
tiny building made him feel.
A moment after Levy stepped into the light, another person also
stepped out. This person also looked out at the small house, but his
mood was far from happy. He was remembering the large, beautifully
decorated mansion he had grown up in. It was now many hundreds of
miles away, and Ittosai Michiya, as this man was called, was not
likely to see it ever again. Ittosai Michiya was an exile.
Levy and Ittosai crossed the remaining distance to Levy's house.
Once there they unpacked the horses and let them go. The two then
carried their baggage into the house. Ittosai looked around the dark
interior. The dim light seemed oppressive, as had much of the last
two days of their journey. To Levy, though, the dim light was the
quiet stillness of home. He promptly started to set the usual
household proceedings back in motion, lighting the fire, setting a
pot on to cook (the same pot of stew as during their journey), and
drawing water from the well. At first, Ittosai shunned to do what he
considered to be slave's tasks, but soon realized that he had left
his exalted status back home in Bichu, his homeland.
They hadn't been there long when there came a delighted shriek
from the doorway. Levy turned around just in time to catch a fair
haired young girl as she flung herself at him.
"Levy! You're home!" She gave him a bear hug, accompanied by
much happy squealing. Even Ittosai was forced to smile at such an
enthusiastic homecoming.
"You almost knocked me over there! Yes I'm home! Home at last!
How's everyone? Mother? Father? The farm? What's happening?" The joy
of seeing a familiar face shaped Levy's face into a big grin.
Ittosai noticed that there were two young men standing in the
door. They looked so much like the girl he realized they must be
related. He also saw in them a clear resemblance to Levy. Levy
noticed them also, as they stepped into the room.
"Kane! Kine! How're you doing?" They both stepped in to give
Levy a hug as well, although in a more restrained manner than their
sister. Levy turned to Ittosai, one hand around each brother and his
sister looking over his shoulder.
"Ittosai, I want you to meet part of my family. This is Kane,
Kine, and Kara, the triplets in our family. They're two after me, in
order of birth. Folks, I want you to meet Ittosai Michiya, my
travelling partner from across the sea."
"Hello. I'm Kane." Kane stepped forward, as did his brother.
"I'm Kine."
Kara came around from behind Levy and stepped right up to
Ittosai. Before he knew what was going on, she gave him a kiss, and
then leaped out the door. "Let's go tell everyone Levy's back!" The
four men watched her bound through the grass, then looked at each
other. Kane and Kine smiled at Ittosai's startled expression, and
then waved and followed their less restrained sister out. Levy
watched them go, then turned to look at Ittosai.
"Well? What do you think?"
Ittosai rubbed his cheek where Kara had met him. "I..interesting."
The two resumed unpacking, while Levy proceeded to tell Ittosai
all about his family, for about the fourth time. It wasn't long
before heavy footsteps could be heard outside.
"Levy!!" The call sounded like a bull getting ready to charge.
It was followed by a great bull of a man. He snatched Levy
completely off his feet in a hug, then held him up at arms length
for a better view. "You almost look like you've grown! I'd better
watch out, or you might get bigger than me!" From the size of the
man, Ittosai doubted it.
As he was lowered to the ground, Levy turned to Ittosai.
"Mattan, this is Ittosai, my travelling partner. He's from a country
called Bichu, across the sea." Mattan stepped up and clapped Ittosai
gently on the shoulder. "Wellmet, Ittoshi. Will you be staying long?"
Ittosai looked up at the behemoth before him. "I .. do not know."
Mattan turned and clapped his hand against Levy's shoulder,
almost knocking him down. "Ma's throwing a party for you. She's been
planning it almost since you left. At dark, at the house. O.K.?"
"Yes. I'll be there." Levy knew better than to turn down his
mother's party. Not only would he miss a great time, but he'd never
live to see the end of it.
"Good! Bring Ittoshi, he'll like it." With that, and a wave,
Mattan also walked off. Ittosai wondered briefly how often he would
hear his proud name so badly mangled, then turned once more to his
unpacking.
After unpacking Levy stepped outside and called the horses. Both
came running at his call. With Ittosai's help he loaded the gold and
gems he had bought in Dargon onto the horses, and then he and
Ittosai started towards the village proper. Once there they were
again met by many people happy to see Levy. Ittosai noticed,
however, that there wasn't as many happy faces along the streets as
Levy had said there would be. The two made their way to the smithy,
where Levy was apprenticed. The smith was a wide fellow, with a wide
face and an equally wide smile. Levy endured yet another bruising
embrace.
"Well, it's about time you got back! I've missed the extra arms!
We've got a lot of catching up to do before winter comes!"
"Yes, I can imagine." Levy looked around the shop. Everything
looked much like had seen it last, although there were the few
inevitable changes. He looked back to the smith. "I've heard they're
throwing me a party tonight. Were you invited?"
"But of course! You know your family! It's no fun unless
there're a few hundred people there!" Levy and the smith both
laughed at that, although the smith didn't laugh long. "Well, I'll
let you have the rest of the day to get caught up. I'll see you
after sunset." With that he turned back to his hearth.
Levy and Ittosai returned to Levy's house. They continued to get
Levy's house back in order, checking the fences, finding Levy's two
cows, and finally drawing more water. Ittosai tagged along, feeling
out of place. While drawing the water, Ittosai spelled Levy after a
bit, something for which both were grateful. He worked quietly for a
while, and then turned to his host.
"I wonder." Ittosai said that like a question. "Why is there no
woman in your house?"
Levy looked up from where he was sprawled in the grass. "I don't
know. I suppose it's not from lack of opportunity. I guess there's
just been too much else to do. I never had time to catch one, or to
chase one long enough for her to catch me." He grinned at that, and
Ittosai did too, after thinking about it for a moment.
Ittosai pulled up the bucket. He was about to dump it into the
basin, like he had the other bucketfuls, when he noticed that the
water was suddenly muddy.
"Levy."
"What is it?" He got up, and walked over to look into the
bucket. Frowning, he took it from Ittosai and dumped it onto the
grass. He then carefully dropped the bucket back down the well,
noting how long it took to fall. The frown on his face deepened when
he realized it had dropped basically all the way to the bottom. He
pulled it back up, and grimaced when he saw how muddy the water was.
"Looks like someone's used my well recently. It never gets this
low this time of year." He and Ittosai stared down into the black
hole for a moment, and then Levy shrugged, and turned away. The two
of them carted the water into the house, changed clothes, and
started off for Levy's parents' house.
By the time Levy and Ittosai arrived the party was already well
underway, as a well planned welcoming party should be. Levy spent
almost two hours introducing Ittosai to all his family, relatives,
neighbors, and general well wishers. Never had Ittosai been so
confused and bewildered in his life. Any social event he had ever
been to was dignified and restrained. This party was anything but
restrained. There was dancing, singing, wrestling, eating, drinking,
talking, and laughing, all at the same time. It wasn't long before
Ittosai found a nice quiet spot in the shadows where he could just
sit and watch.
Levy, on the other hand, couldn't have sat down even if he had
wanted to, and he didn't. After being away for almost three months,
and living in a strange and sometimes hostile city, he was glad to
get back to a place where he didn't have to watch his back, his
step, and his wallet all at the same time. He danced wildly with
every pretty girl, including his sisters, he wrestled with all the
young men, except Mattan (daring he might be, but he wasn't
suicidal), he ate and he drank and he even sang a song for the
crowd. He talked with everyone about everything, he greeted even the
people he didn't like, and it was only when the crickets went to
sleep and the people started to leave that he finally sat down to
catch his breath. It was only then that he realized that he didn't
know where Ittosai was. He looked around, then got up and started
searching. He finally found him, sitting on a bench talking with Eli
Barel, Levy's father and town Elder.
"... thought to try distilling it. We've always liked it the way
it was." Eli looked up as Levy approached. "Ah! Levy! I hope you
feel sufficiently welcome now, if you didn't before."
"I always feel welcome here, Father." Levy sat down next to his
father. "What were you talking about?"
"Ittosai here was telling me about what they drink in Bichu. He
says our beer is water compared to it." Eli smiled at the foreigner,
who was drinking some of that water out of a wooden mug.
"It is. But that's because here it flows like water, while in
Bichu it is rare stuff. Ittosai told me that Bichu is a crowded
country." Ittosai nodded in assent.
"Yes, it is true that here we don't go thirsty." Eli's face
darkened at that word. "Or at least we haven't yet. But that time
might soon come. Levy, there's something I want to show you. Come."
Levy and Ittosai followed Eli through the dark. They walked down
a well worn path as it led down a fairly steep slope. Suddenly the
dirt gave way to water worn rocks. Strangely enough, though, there
was no water flowing over them.
Levy stood on the dry riverbed, his hands on his hips.
"It's not right for the river to be dry at this time of the
year, is it?" Ittosai could hear concern in his voice.
"Nor is it right for wells like yours to have nothing but mud in
them. Ittosai told me what happened. So far our well still has
water, but further north wells are empty, and the drought moves
further south each day. The crops still need water, at least for a
few weeks yet, and if this keeps up we are going to be hungry and
thirsty this winter."
"Could you not send someone north? To find the problem?" Ittosai
tried to make out Eli's expression in the dark.
Eli's voice was flat as he answered. "I did. I sent two men
north, first Jorden, son of Jesh, then Eli, son of Tharah. Neither
have come back. They were to have been gone only three days. It'll
be two weeks tomorrow."
The night was quiet for a several minutes. Finally Levy spoke.
"Ittosai. Do you wish to stay, or do you want to go with me?"
The Edged Tool: The Use
Levy and Ittosai left at first light. They took with them their
horses and as much food and water as they could carry. Levy knew
that it could always be unpacked if necessary. They followed the
riverbed, walking right up its middle. At first Ittosai felt nervous
about this, having once seen a man carried away by flood waters, but
he soon realized that the river would not be dangerous unless there
was a heavy rain, and there had been none for weeks.
Soon they left all houses behind. They started to see some of
the effects of the lack of water. Weeds, which normally clotted the
shallows of the river in these uninhabited parts, now matted the
shoreline with their dry stalks. Occasionally, in the deep pockets
of the riverbed, the two travelers found flattened corpses of fish,
dried by the fall sun. Nightfall found the pair camping without a
fire, fearful that any spark might ignite the dry leaves that were
falling from the dying trees. The next day at dawn they continued
north. By noon they found themselves forced to travel single file,
as the river narrowed down to a stream, a brook, and then finally
gave way to what had been a marsh. Here Levy and Ittosai stopped for
the night, again without a fire.
The next day they started moving northwest, as that was the
direction that Levy thought looked the driest. His judgment seemed
good, as they were soon moving through what was rapidly becoming a
desert. Trees stood almost leafless, their foliage lying at their
feet, most of it still bearing traces of green. The only animals
they spotted were dead, the rest having left for better feeding. As
the two continued north, they approached some small hills. To their
surprise, when they reached these hills they found them to be green
and living. Strangest of all, the dividing line between the dead
land behind them and the green trees ahead of them was as thin as a
thread, running around the base of the hills.
Ittosai watched while Levy studied the area. After a few minutes
of walking around looking at things, Levy walked back to Ittosai.
"The answer to this whole problem must lie at the base of these
hills. There has to be a reason why these hills mark the boundary
between this desert and living ground. I'm going to walk around this
hill westward. I want you to walk around the hill eastward. We'll
meet on the other side. If you see anything unusual, remember where
it is, so you can show me. Understand?"
Ittosai nodded. Levy took his horse, and started west. Although
he didn't say it, Ittosai felt that somehow Levy was on the wrong
track. Levy seemed to be trying to find a reason why one area had
water and another didn't. To Ittosai, the question was not one of
differing characteristics, but of change. Why would an area that had
an abundance of water suddenly become practically a desert? To a
person of Ittosai's upbringing, a change of state could only be
brought about two ways, either by human or divine intervention.
Therefore Ittosai waited until Levy was out of sight, and started to
climb the wooded slope.
To Ittosai's way of thinking, he needed to see the whole problem
to understand it, and the only way to see an entire hill was from
the top. Ittosai climbed boldly, his eyes focused on the slope up
ahead. He made no effort to be quiet or inconspicuous. The slope
started out easy enough, but soon the way became steep, and Ittosai
was forced to tie his horse to a tree and leave it. Ittosai
continued upward, pausing occasionally to check his progress. It was
only when he was close to the top that he realized that he could
hear sounds from above, sounds that did not belong in a forest. He
slowed down, and started to try to be quiet. Like any warrior from
his country, he managed very well.
As he neared the top, he could see that there was a large
clearing at the crest of the hill. Only the tall trees prevented the
bald spot from being dramatically visible. Through the trees Ittosai
could see figures moving about. As he drew close to the open space,
he could see that the clearing was littered by large, stone ovens.
While he watched, men busily forged swords, knives, and spearheads
over bright fires. It wasn't until he had been watching for a few
minutes when he realized that the fires were not producing any smoke
at all. Not only that, but there was no wood or charcoal nearby to
fuel the fires.
While Ittosai crouched in the shadows, he became aware of a
commotion approaching. It soon resolved itself into a group of men
carrying buckets. Guarding them, and hustling them on their way were
two soldiers carrying spears. While Ittosai watched, they approached
the men working at the hearths. The men with the buckets relieved
the others, who were herded back the way the others came. It was
then that Ittosai noticed the guards watching the smiths. The
newcomers took their buckets, and poured water from them on the
fires. To Ittosai's shock, instead of the fires going out, they
burned hotter! It was then that he realized where all the water was
going. It was somehow being used to fuel these fires!
While Ittosai watched, another group of men approached. These
were led by two men. One was garbed in thick leather and metal
armor, and carried a long sword. The other wore nothing but a cloak
over his shoulders, despite the cool fall air. He had a detached
look to him, as if he were not actually part of the group, but was
merely walking in the same direction. The armored one, however, was
angrily remonstrating him. The group finally stopped halfway between
Ittosai and the nearest forge.
"Here, wizard. Make me one here." The military one pointed at
the ground firmly.
The wizard lost some of his detached look, and regarded the
other coldly. "Here? Another? You already have enough. Why do you
need another?"
The armored one's face grew red, and his expression showed rage.
"I'm not asking you if I need another, I'm telling you to make me
another, HERE!"
The wizard's expression grew suddenly stern. "You are telling
me? With a word I could wipe out this entire, pitiful band of yours,
and you're telling ME!?!"
The armored man was taken back a bit. "We need another spring,
so that we can fire more furnaces. Is that a good enough reason?"
There was a moment of silence. "I suppose so." The wizard took a
step towards Ittosai, and the group fell back. Ittosai gripped the
hilt of his sword. Somehow he could feel evil here. As he watched,
the wizard made a motion, and mumbled a word. Suddenly a fountain of
water burst out of the ground. With a shout, soldiers prodded slaves
with buckets forward. They started hauling the water away. The
armored man stepped up to the wizard and started to thank him,
albeit rather stiffly. After a few moments, however, the spring
faltered, and then stopped all together.
There was silence as the wizard stared at the spot of mud on the
ground. From all over the clearing there came cries and shouts. The
wizard made the motion again, and repeated the word, but only a
furtive bubbling rewarded him.
"What's wrong? Why'd it stop?" The warlord was angry, yet fearful.
The wizard looked around wildly. He waved his hands through the
air, as if feeling for something. "I don't know. It's almost as if
we've drained all the water we can from this area."
The soldier grabbed the wizard by the cloak. "If we don't have
water, we won't be able to make enough weapons to take the city when
Dargon dies!"
At the mention of the man who had helped him, Ittosai felt a
strong and sudden urge to act. He had no ideas, no plan of attack,
but the urge was just too strong to resist. He stepped into the
light, drawing his sword. All around there was an abrupt silence.
Suddenly Ittosai felt alone, and sickeningly directionless. The
urge that had pulled him from the shadows had left him, and now he
felt empty. Remembrances of the fight on the road came to his mind.
Unlike then, he now felt naked and unprotected. For the first time
in his life, Ittosai realized his own inadequacy. He was one man,
alone, with two hands clutching a thin piece of steel. Facing him
were over a hundred armed and armored men, desperate, and skilled in
battle, with an unknown power on their side. The wizard started to
wave his hands in a menacing fashion, and as he started to mutter
strange words, the war lord drew his long blade and stepped forward.
Ittosai started to make the standard attack, but fear paralyzed him.
The small of his back started itching where the rough had struck him
from behind, and Ittosai had to fight an urge to turn and run.
"Throw down your sword."
Ittosai felt a chill cover his body. The words had seemed to
come from inside his own head.
"Throw down your sword!" The words were more insistent.
Unbidden, Levy's words came back to Ittosai's mind: No matter
who you are, there is always someone or something you need to fear.
In a moments inspiration, Ittosai realized that, in the native
tongue, the word 'fear' could also mean 'respect'. All his life he
had been drilled in respect: respect for his elders, respect for his
betters, respect for his enemies. Now he realized that there was one
more being in the universe he needed to respect, and possibly
respect as he had never respected anyone before.
Instantly his terror vanished. He straightened his back, and
reversed his grip on his blade. Lifting his face skyward, he shouted
in his own tongue: "I give my blade to you!" With that he flung the
sword point first into the ground.
The moment the blade struck the ground shuddered. The tremor
soon grew into a quaking that made it hard to stand. Yells and
shouts could be heard over the awesome rumbling. Men were running in
two basic directions: the soldiers inwards, towards the center of
camp, and the slaves outward, for the safety of the woods. The small
group in front of Ittosai fell back.
"Take your sword up again."
Ittosai obeyed, and pulled the blade from the ground. The small
hole the sword had made suddenly grew into a fissure that raced
around the clearing, surrounding the army's camp. Its natural
cohesiveness gone with the ground water, the soil turned suddenly to
a dry fluid. With a horrible noise, everything inside the circle
made by the crack in the earth suddenly disappeared, swallowed by
the earth. Ittosai was knocked to one knee. Within moments, what had
been an army camp was suddenly a bare, brown, expanse.
When the shaking stopped, Ittosai stood. He still held his sword
in his hand. He dusted it off, and sheathed it. He then turned, and
walked down the hill.
At the bottom he met Levy, who was understandably shaken by the
tremor. He was even more shaken by what Ittosai told him. To make
matters worse, men started stumbling out of the woods. Within
moments there was a crowd of hundreds of freed slaves. To Levy's
surprise, among them were Jorden and Eli, the two men from the
village. Before they could finish telling Levy their story, however,
dark clouds covered the sky. The group hastily headed for one of the
other nearby hills, fearing mudslides if they remained near the
shaken mount. By the time they reached the far slopes the ground was
already almost too soupy to traverse.
It rained for two days. The third day the sun came out, and by
noon the men were sweating even with their shirts off. They started
back, making their way around the swamp. They reached the creek, and
found it full and muddy. The next day they were forced to walk
through the woods beside the swollen river, although by night the
water was no longer brown. By the time they reached the village the
river ran crystal clear, and they found children playing in the
flow. Elder Eli welcomed the freed slaves. The ones that had been
taken from their homes were given food and clothes, and seen off on
their way back, and the truly homeless were offered lands and a
place in the village. Levy was again greeted enthusiastically, and
this time Ittosai was not allowed to remain on the outskirts of the
celebration.
It was raining again several days later when Ittosai left Levy's
house for the last time. He checked to make sure he had packed
everything, and then carefully bowed to Levy and Elder Eli. Levy
then gave him a last embrace.
"You're welcome here forever, as are your children, and their
children." Eli had to shout a little to be heard over the rain.
"Thank you, Elder Eli." Ittosai turned to Levy. "I thank you,
Levy. I think now... I mean, now I know there is a meaning to my
wanderings.
"I've learned as much as you, Ittosai. Take care." They clasped
hands once more, and Ittosai turned his horse, and started to ride.
-Jim Owens
In the beginning Apollo achieved the moon
Next Viking landed on Mars;
And in the future, very soon
Men shall have the stars.
When the solar system is all explored
And men seek new adventure,
To the stars they shall all turn toward
And embark on this newest venture.
In ships that surpass the speed of light
They shall cross interstellar spaces,
And find new worlds at the end of their flight
And colonize alien places.
But when the Earth is dead and gone
Throughout the galaxy humans still roam;
And to the edge of the cosmos wander on
And call the stars their home.
Wiring
Bradley noticed something strange about the place the moment he
stepped off his ship. That wasn't unusual, however, for all new
planets are strange. He'd seen many new planets, and therefore took
the strangeness in stride.
Bradley strolled casually over to the depot, enjoying the warm
breeze and sunny sky. He walked into the obligatory rental office
and rented a small craft. While he waited he scornfully examined the
young man who was serving him, observing the neat uniform, the
cosmetic smile, the polished hair and face. Sucker, he thought. They
already got you trapped, just like they almost trapped me, wound up
in the lair of respectability. He almost considered offering the
young man a 'ride', but thought better of it. No telling what the
laws are like on this world, he told himself. No sense in getting
picked up for 'kidnapping'. Taking his keys, he strode out to get
his flitter.
He passed row after row of glistening craft, all neatly
arranged, all dreams of conformity. He slowed after a bit, and
started to check the numbers painted on the sides of the cars
against the number stamped on his keys. It was soon apparent that
his car was obviously the last one on the lot. Typical bureaucratic
screwup, he fumed. Making me walk all the way out here...
He got to the end, and there was his car. Totally unlike the
others he had passed, this one was old, rusty, decrepit, broken
down, in short, just the kind of car one would never expect to find
in the kind of a world he had seen so far. He looked at the key
ring. He was not surprised to see a small, sticky patch on the
backside of the tag, just the kind of spot left by a 'CONDEMNED'
sticker when it accidentally falls off. He considered returning the
rings for a new set, but rebelliously decided not too. He didn't
want to get too used to the idea of conformity.
Several minutes later he was cruising down the super highway,
relaxing and enjoying the ride. He had a day or two to spend here,
before he was supposed to rendezvous with a buyer at a nearby solar
system. I'll sightsee for a day, see what trouble I can get into,
spend the night, and be on my way, he told himself. Not that there
looks to be much trouble to get into around here, he chuckled to
himself. At least the car's reasonably functional, even if it is a
little dinged up. Any damage to the machine was mostly superficial.
It had no viewer, or even a radio, indeed it even lacked an
antennae, but it was comfortable, and required little effort to
drive. Bradley looked out the window while he reclined in the plush
seat, his right pinkie handling the wheel.
As he drove towards what appeared to be a big city, he examined
the other cars. Must be a holiday, he thought, lot's of people on
the road. Each car held from one to eight people, in what seemed to
be a rather normal distribution. He pondered this, reflecting on how
there were usually many more cars with only one occupant than there
were cars with multiple occupants. He made a quick (but
representative) survey, and found that just as many cars had eight
occupants as had one. Strangely enough, there were many cars that
had several adults packed in with two or three children, rather than
the usual father-mother-kids type of arrangement. Another thing he
noticed was that all the cars had these large whip antennas
protruding from the roofs. He tried to find one that didn't, but
even on that crowded expressway there wasn't a single one to be
found. He pondered on that little piece of information for a bit,
before his attention was distracted by the approaching city.
Bradley had been to many cities before, but none quite like this
one. All the buildings were clean and spare in their design, totally
unlike the mad mixes usually found in large cities. As he entered
the city, he also noticed that the closer the buildings were to the
center of the city, the taller they got, effectively giving the city
a rounded, domelike skyline. All nice and neat, just like a city
park, he thought. Perfectly planned, flawlessly executed, just like
a ballet. I'll bet they even die on time around here. Bradley
considered for a moment that there might just be some advantages to
an ordered life, and then snorted. Too dull, he told himself, no
life. It was in the middle of this thought that he glanced down from
the bridge he was driving on, and saw the wreck.
The car was completely totalled. Smoke and fumes poured out of
the engine compartment, and nothing moved inside. Bradley's heart
started thumping, and he fought to control it. He had seen death
before, just not recently. Get a grip, Bradley. People buy it all
the time. They'll even get you one of these days. Then, as he
watched, another car veered off a nearby road. It's movements were
purposeful and direct, not erratic, as it jumped a concrete bank and
slammed into the damaged car. It was followed by another, and then
by a large truck. Finally a sports car swerved off the bridge just
ahead of Bradley, vaulted the guardrail, and fell easily one hundred
feet to land exactly on top the smoldering pile. With it's impact,
the whole heap burst into flames.
Suddenly Bradley felt afraid. Not the kind of fear you have when
you realize you forgot to turn your taxes in, or when you realize
you left you wallet in your other coat, but the kind of fear that
forces all the breath from your lungs, and causes your testicles to
crawl up into the pit of your stomach. He looked around wildly. All
around him the people in the other cars sat, stonily ignoring the
accident, him, and the whole world in general. Bradley let out a moan.
"Something is definitely wrong here," he said, his voice
breaking. He searched wildly for an off-ramp. Finding one, he cut
across four lanes of traffic to reach it. He slid down it, and made
a left at the intersection at the bottom. He pulled into the first
driveway he saw, and up to the door of a large tower.
Leaving his car parked in the middle of a large curving
driveway, he rushed through a set of glass doors and into a large
lobby. There was only one person in the lobby, a woman standing
behind a desk, wearing a pink outfit with a tall hat. He rushed up
to her.
"Miss! Miss!" Bradley staggered up to clutch her desk. "You've
got to help! Please!"
"Yes? How can I help you?" The girl's smile didn't waver at the
sight of the wild-eyed man panting in front of her.
"There's been an accident! Cars, a couple of them! And a truck,
too. All mashed together! And burning!"
"Yes?" She continued to smile, as if Bradley were discussing the
weather.
"You gotta call the authorities, or something! It was terrible!
They just ran right into each other! I mean, one wrecked, and then
the others ran into it, just Bam! like some big crashup derby, like
they were just a bunch of..."
Bradley looked at her bland, smiling, face.
"Just like they were a bunch of toys." Bradley stared at her,
fear once more welling up in his gut. He thought back to the
freeway, to all the cars, moving neatly along, all with their...
Suddenly he leaned forward, and with a broad sweep of his arm,
knocked the receptionist's hat off. His arm also brushed her head,
mussing her hair, but still she beamed on. Bradley cautiously walked
around the desk, his eyes never leaving her. She watched him come.
He leaped forward, grabbing her by the arm and twisting her around.
There, plastered against the back of her neck, was a thin, flexible
steel wire. He grabbed it, and pulled. It came out easily, trailing
a thin cable, which was slick with blood. He stared at her in horror
as she turned, still smiling. He backed away from her, then turned
and ran.
He raced out of the lobby, and leaped into his car. Without
looking back he gunned the engine. It responded smoothly, hurling
him down the drive. As he approached the road, however, he slowed.
He looked back toward the tower. There was no one in sight. Bradley
sat, panting. Am I going nuts or something? he asked himself. People
don't have wires in them, no matter how much alike they look. They
may act like a bunch of robots, but that doesn't mean they are
robots. He considered. Maybe I'd better go back and check things
out. He turned back around to take the wheel, just in time to see a
man in gardener's clothes reaching for the door handle. Bradley
didn't need any more convincing. As the door opened, Bradley kicked
it with all his strength, sending the gardener flying. Bradley then
shut the door, locked it, and sent the flitter flying into traffic.
Almost immediately Bradley saw a sign directing him to the
freeway. When he turned down that road, however, he suddenly found
himself circling a large, round park, with a fountain in the center.
Everything was green and beautiful, with children running around
with balloons, and parents walking strollers. Then he saw that the
fountain pool was filled with a dozen or so men and women, in
business clothing, calmly swimming laps.
"That does it. I'm out of here." Bradley swung the car towards
the outside of the traffic circle, looking for an exit. It wasn't
until he had made two full revolutions that he realized that the
road that he had take into the circle had suddenly and totally
disappeared. If that weren't enough, though, he suddenly noticed a
commotion in the park. As he watched, all the swimmers stood up, and
began to walk towards him, spiralling outward towards the edge of
the park.
He made a quick search of the control panel. It was sparse,
but...there. He reached down and grabbed a large lever.
"You can't fool me! I've seen too many different vehicles not to
realize that this isn't just a ground car!" Bradley shouted to no
one visible.
Lifters in the stub wings whined as the flitter lifted off the
ground. It cleared the ground clutter easily, and Bradley turned the
flitter toward the landing area, accelerating as he went. He watched
anxiously as he flew, but there appeared to be no pursuit. Once at
the landing port, Bradley set the flitter down right beside his ship
and leaped out of the car before it even stopped. He franticly
activated the port lock, all the while closely watching the nearby
ground attendants as they repaired a nearby ship. The door was just
starting to open when they suddenly dropped what they were doing and
turned to face him. They took a step toward him...and then the port
was open, and he was inside, slamming it shut.
Once inside his own ship he finally felt safe, or at least
safer. Sensors showed no one else on board. For once the stench of
thousands of accumulated man-hours didn't annoy him. He leaped up to
the conn before the first blows started to fall on the side of the
hull. Bradley wasted no time with trying to raise the tower. He
activated the emergency flight mechanism, and strapped in.
The launch pinned him to his seat, but his overhead view unit
showed him the view below. As he rose above the plain, he saw long
lines of flitters streaming toward the spaceport. Try and catch me
now, suckers! he thought, the acceleration not permitting him to
actually talk. As the ship rose higher, Bradley could see the city
laid out below, then the plain it was built on, and finally hills
surrounding it. Shining objects, arranged regularly around the city
on the surrounding hills, caught his eye. Were they towers? Once
free from the clawing atmosphere, the ship started accelerating in
earnest, making its heated rush for the stars. Bradley's eyes
started to fog. Before he finally blacked out, however, he thought,
or perhaps hallucinated, that he saw, moving in the hills far below,
large shapes, carrying large boxes, each with a large rod, or
antennae, protruding from its end.
Little Orf got up from where he was hiding, behind the dirt
mound. Across the model city from him, Tad did the same.
"Aw, what'd you do that for? I wasn't gonna hurt him!" Orf
adopted that whine he always did when he was begging.
"Whaddya mean? I thought he was yours!" Tad's facial tentacles
showed surprise.
"It wasn't mine." Orf looked at Tad. Tad looked back at Orf.
Then they both looked up, at the small point of light fading into
the sky. Then they both turned and ran home.
-Jim Owens
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TEN NUMBER ONE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
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)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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
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
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
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
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TEN NUMBER TWO
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
*Treasure 4 John L. White
Date: 020688 Dist: 527
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Greetings, all. This issue is dedicated to the conclusion of
John White's "Treasure" series. This epic series of stories began in
the summer of 1986 with John's first Je'en story, "A New Life", and
continued with several other tales, leading up to the four-part
concluding tale "The Treasure". The "Treasure" stories have appeared
in issues Vol07N5, Vol08N2, Vol09N2, and concludes here in Vol10N2.
I definitely suggest that anyone who isn't up to date on John's
works go back and request the back issues. I would like to express
my thanks to John for contributing this huge collection to FSFnet,
and my hopes that he will continue to produce fiction for FSFnet.
As you may notice, this is a particularly large issue of FSFnet,
however it was necessary that I fit the conclusion of "Treasure"
into one issue. For our new readers, this is most definitely not a
typical issue. This will be the last issue of FSFnet entirely
dedicated to one story, and all future issues will contain several
shorter installments rather than one large one. And those of you who
have kept up with the Je'en storyline are in for quite a treat!
-'Orny' Liscomb
Tandi's Quest
Tanandra wearily folded her "acquired" bedroll after yet another
night without sleep. The rising sun provided enough illumination for
her to prepare a meager meal - the rations she had acquired along
with her bedding were nearly gone. She sat facing south-east while
she ate, looking deeper into rising foothills. Her goal was near,
somewhere among those hills. That was part of the reason she had
been sleepless for the past six nights: the nervousness of actually
facing someone with enough power to delve into the Forbidden Art -
the magics that could bring the semblance of life to a corpse. The
other reason was the brand in her mind that led her to this place -
the magic of the gorfodd that had been intended for Cefn, but now
forced her ever onwards. She would have quit this insane course had
she been able, but the geas wouldn't let her.
The brand flared briefly and somewhat painfully and Tanandra's
confidence tried to slip even lower. The normally constant burning
throb that led her to her goal would at times flare into a higher
intensity. Something about the magic that created the brand told her
that each flare indicated an increase of the ability of the one she
pursued. She fervently hoped she reached that person soon, since
what little power she had of her own was fast being eroded by
sleepless nights and exhausting travel.
Little more than three hours had passed when Tandi was led off
the game trail she had been following. So weary was she that she
didn't even realize the change until she came to a narrow crack in a
sheer hillside. The brand urged her to follow it, and she was barely
able to comply by turning sideways, inhaling deeply, and squeezing
painfully at times through.
She came out of the narrow way into a very dreary tiny valley.
She knew she had reached her destination for two reasons. First, the
brand was now flaring so brightly in her mind that she was sure it
could be seen behind her eyes. And second, the demi-castle built
into the far wall of the valley could only belong to a reclusive
person - perfect for someone who would dare to venture into the
Forbidden Art.
Adrenalin pushed back her fatigue, and she dropped her
no-longer- needed pack behind a rock then worked her way carefully
closer to the walls of the castle. It had not been constructed for
defense, and looking around, Tandi could see why: there was no easy
way into the valley. Each side of the dell was sheer and high and,
unless there were any other small cracks like the one she had pushed
through, they were unbroken. No armed force of any size could
penetrate to threaten those walls.
The gate was at least 10 yards wide and half as high. A tall,
thin tower rose to either side, too thin to actually house even a
single sentry. Carved in fanciful runes over the lintel of the
gateway was the name "Aahashtra". One of the pair of doors was open
halfway as if in invitation. Behind the almost ornamental wall was
the castle itself, or at least as much of it as wasn't carved into
the hill that rose behind it. The builder had taken the only
non-sheer wall of the valley and had integrated the castle into the
rolls and folds of the rising hill. Towers sprouted from several
points along the box-like main building, as well as from odd points
along the hill. Shorter turrets and balconies filled up more wall
and hill spaces, and in places the hillside was augmented by
out-thrusting rooms. It looked like a mad-man's maze, and Tandi was
(for once) glad of the brand that would show her the way through it.
Drawing all of her strength together, she cast upon herself her
best spell - that of maximum non-detection. She was very proud of
the spell, which was less exhausting than full invisibility but more
complex. Of course, it was also not as effective as invisibility: it
simply placed about the subject an aura of unnoticeability which
could deflect all but the most intensely directed search. It was
perfect for moving through crowded streets (if someone bumped into
you while you were non-detected, they might curse or apologize and
then forget about you) or slipping past even the most alert guards.
As she neared the gate - the only way she could see to get into
the castle without more help than she could summon - she grew ever
more uneasy. She could feel her own power-reserves draining far more
rapidly than they should and she could only hope that she would be
able to maintain her spell long enough to reach and stop her target.
How she intended to stop him she wasn't sure, but she was
unconsciously fingering her belt knife as she slipped along the
outer wall.
She reached the edge of the open gate, and peered cautiously
through into the courtyard. It seemed empty so, still nervous, Tandi
made a dash for the castle's main door. As she crossed the sandy
pavement of the courtyard she felt a tingle run through her. She
wondered briefly about an alarm of some kind, but she was certain
her spell could divert the abilities of any alarm, magical or
otherwise, she had ever heard of. (She was partially right - the
alarm rigged in the courtyard was almost fooled. But the owner of
Aahashtra had devised his own type of alarm and it was like nothing
Tandi had ever seen before. It didn't quite detect her presence, but
it was able to warn the reclusive conjurer that something was wrong.)
She should have been warned by the fact that the front door was
unbarred. Even in the wilderness, secluded in a tiny valley, it was
suspicious to leave one's front door unprotected, especially when
the gate was also open. But Tandi had other things on her mind, like
sustaining her spell (which was growing harder and harder), and the
distraction of the brand almost pulling her toward her target, so
she didn't even notice the easy access she gained into the castle.
And that was her downfall.
Her non-detect spell was useful against trap-doors and other
such devices, but it couldn't do a thing about a simple illusion.
So, when the brand led Tandi across the large reception hall and
down the only corridor that led off it, she was delivered right into
one of the simplest traps that the owner of Aahashtra had set - a
pit covered by the illusion of a floor. The fall wasn't far, but
Tandi hit her head as she went down, and was knocked unconscious.
She awoke strapped to a table in a laboratory. The gorfodd brand
burned in her mind with a painful intensity and she struggled with
her bonds as it goaded her to eliminate the source of that pain. She
heard sounds around her, voices talking and chanting, but she was
too concerned with the driving geas to take the time to concentrate
on what was being said.
And then the pain was gone. As if it had never been, leaving not
even the memory of it to torment her. She felt the cancellation
spell fade away around her, and looked up at the one who had freed
her from the gorfodd.
The man standing before the vertical table was known to her. The
Elders had been right. The experimenter into the Forbidden Art was
Roharvardenul, once a pupil along with Cefn and herself. But Vard
had always been a troublemaker, and a duel between Cefn and Vard -
an activity proscribed by the masters - had gotten the latter
evicted from the college. It was his specialization in control
magics that had earned Vard the mistrust of all in the college -
such knowledge could only be used for ill, and the masters had tried
to discourage Vard from his research into that avenue of magic. But
the man had disobeyed, vowing to become the most powerful wizard
ever when he was forced from Tarenha Isle.
"And what brings little Tanandra into my demesne, hmm?" asked
Vard. "I don't think you need to answer," he continued. "I could
tell from the parameters of the spell I just cancelled. You have
come to stop me from learning the Forbidden Art. How noble. How did
the Council manage to rope you into this? I recognized the magics of
several of my old foes in the gorfodd you bore - it was very
powerful. But it was also the most formidable magic you have ever
borne, not that you could actually use it, and now its gone. How did
they think that a compulsion would help you defeat me? Fools!
"Actually, they've helped me more than they could imagine. I'm
almost ready to move into the final stages of my research and I
actually need some help for this. Come and let me show you how far
I've gotten."
Vard turned and walked over to the far side of the laboratory
and the table Tandi was fastened to followed. She wondered if it
were being pushed by someone she couldn't see, or if it moved by
magic. Her senses were so ravaged by her recent ordeal that the fact
that she couldn't detect any magic about the table didn't mean there
wasn't any.
Vard stopped in an area cleared of all but a book-stand and a
low pedastal. The table jockeyed itself up next to him in such a way
as to allow Tandi full view of both objects. On the book-stand was a
large, iron (or was that lead?) bound tome with red leather covers
and spidery black lettering. And on the pedastal was a lump of black
crystal that had a sickly-glowing purple core. The sight of that
lump made her almost violently ill and she was deathly afraid of its
purpose, knowing the legends of the Forbidden Art.
Vard gestured proudly and said, "Behold, the first mivorn amulet
to exist since Ciraledwen the Great!"
Tandi winced to hear that evil Elder given such an exalted
title. What she had feared was true - that lump of black stone was a
mivorn amulet, used to sustain the undead creations of a
practitioner of the Forbidden Art by draining the life-force of
those fused to it. And she began to realize just what Vard had
planed for her.
"It has taken me long to create this amulet," Vard said, "and
long to attune myself to it once created. But now I am ready to put
it to its fullest use, and for that I need a source. You, my dear
Tanandra, are to be my source. I don't intend to use the Forbidden
Art for conquest, at least not at the moment, but I do need to
resurrect someone to further my world-conquest plans and you should
last more than long enough to see me to that end. Now, to link you
to the amulet..."
He opened the book and flipped through the pages until he found
what he was looking for. Reading from the page he had turned to, he
began to chant in a language that hurt Tandi's ears even though she
couldn't understand a word of it. A sick feeling began to grow in
her stomach as she tried to summon to her aid any magic at all. But
either from something Vard had done or plain and simple exhaustion,
she couldn't find even the barest trickle of power to fuel the few
and simple spells she could think of. She was trapped and nothing
could save her from Vard's schemes.
The chant rose to a harsh peak, and Vard reached down for
Tandi's arm. He released its bond with the flick of a finger and
pulled her arm, palm first, toward the amulet. The mivorn began to
glow a brighter and slimier purple as Vard continued to chant. With
a three syllable invocation, Vard pressed Tandi's palm hard against
the crystal. Immediatly, she felt a shard of the amulet break off
the mass and burrow like something alive into her flesh. It burned
worse than the gorfodd brand had for a few moments, then it stopped.
Vard released her hand and began to wind down the chant. Tandi
looked at her palm and wasn't surprised to see in its center a lump
of the black crystal. She could feel its presence within her hand
and arm, and she tried to pry it out like she would a splinter but
it wouldn't budge. Vard glanced over at her when his spell was
finished and laughed at her antics. He said, "It cannot be pried
from your body, little one. I could withdraw it, and I might when
I'm through with you if there's anything of you left. So be nice to
me or I'll use you all up!" Vard's mocking laugh rang in her ears as
she continued to try to rid herself of that black crystal tap on her
very lifeforce.
Je'en's Task
Je'lanthra'en made her way from Dargon Castle with no trouble at
all. The guards she had drugged would sleep for several hours yet,
and she had a few of the sleep-balls left in case she met anyone in
the upper levels of the castle. But she made it out of the castle
and across the causeway with not a single encounter.
Her horse was where she had left it, already fully provisioned
for a long journey. She secured her treasure-pouch among the
saddlebags, mounted, and rode away from Dargon, heedless of the
lateness of the hour. She had a mission to complete and she couldn't
put it off.
Once she was miles away from Dargon and any hope of capture, the
compulsion set on her by that presence in her mind eased up and she
was able to think again. And for the first time since the attack she
realized just who had been on the other end of that sword. Inwardly,
she cursed and wept for her cousin Ka'en, whom she believed dead.
She didn't stop to wonder what he was doing in the vaults, she just
railed against the presence in her mind that had forced her to
silence the person who had discovered her theft.
There was, at that time, enough left of Je'en free in her mind
to do that. But just a few days later the mental hold was so tight
on her that she had no thought but unswerving loyalty toward her
master. She rode swiftly, taking only the minimum rest necessary
each night before continuing on in her mission. This way she made it
to those same foothills in far less time than it had taken Tandi
even accounting for her horse.
She abandoned the animal when she came to the crack. She knew
the words that would widen it so that she didn't have to squeeze
through as had Tandi. She walked boldly into the valley, through the
open gate labeled Aahashtra, and across the courtyard which had its
alarm turned off temporarily since the owner knew that Je'en was on
her way. She passed through the front door and the reception hall
but ignored the only hallway evident. Instead, she went to the wall
bearing a mosaic of a hunting scene and pressed the downed stag's
eye. The whole mural swung back, admitting her to the interior of
the castle.
With knowledge so automatic it seemed her own, Je'en threaded
her way along the maze that was Aahashtra and to the rooms that the
owner called his own. Before she got there, however, new orders
arrived and she changed direction. Back down, over, up, then down
again, and she came to the laboratory. She walked over to the man
standing by a book stand, knelt, and offered him the only thing she
had taken off her horse when she freed it - the sack containing the
treasure from the crypt beneath Dargon Castle.
"Ah, my slave, you have arrived," said Vard. "Just in time, too.
I have been so anxious to try out my new source that I was ready to
rob a grave for a subject. But here you are with the things I need
to conquer the world. And I can start with this skull right here."
He had emptied the bag onto the bookstand and, ignoring the key and
the map, he was holding up the skull as if it was some long lost
friend. "You may stand over there, Je'en, while I prepare to revive
this poor man trapped so long ago by his master."
Je'en obeyed, and took the opportunity to look around at the
lab. The only comparison she had was to Cefn's lab, and this one was
both larger and more impressive. But it was evident that most of the
recent activity there had been in the corner with the bookstand and
the pedastal that bore some kind of ugly, evil stone on it.
Vard had removed the extraneous objects from the bookstand and
was leafing through the pages. He had just found the right one when
a small man came in leading a woman by a chain attached to her
waist. She didn't look well - she was thin unto gauntness, with
circles under her eyes and stringy hair that might be quite pretty
if washed and combed. Her tunic and pants seemed made for someone
three sizes larger, and they were dirty and torn. She was constantly
rubbing at something on her right palm, paying attention to nothing
else around her.
Vard looked up and saw the woman, and smiled evilly. He said,
"Ah, Tanandra, finally I have a use for you. Take your place, please."
The woman listlessly stood between the bookstand and the
pedastal, then sank into a cross-legged sitting position, her right
hand open and palm up on her knee. Je'en could see the lump of black
crystal that pulsed there in time to the purple light within the
ugly rock on the pedastal.
Vard said, "Qrun, take this skull and place it on the floor next
to Tanandra. Then you may go." The small man complied, then left by
the door he had come in by. Looking around to make sure he had done
everything necessary, Vard took a satisfied breath and began to chant.
Je'en had been with Cefn while he cast his magics, but never had
he used so painful a language to listen to. Je'en shivered where she
stood and would have followed the small man out had she been
permitted. But Vard had given no such order, so she was stuck
watching and listening.
The rock began to glow brighter and to pulse in rhythm to Vard's
chant. Tanandra's hand clenched around the rock in her palm but
didn't obscure it. She began to grimace as well when a thin purple
thread crept from the small stone toward the skull. At the same
time, a much larger lance of purple light was connecting the big
crystal to the skull. When the two lines met the skull, it too began
to glow. Vard's chant grew in volume, and to Je'en's horror flesh
began to form over the skull. She watched as, with increasing speed,
the skull she had taken from Dargon was restored to the body of a man!
Ka'en's Search
It took Ka'lochra'en far less time to lose his patience than it
did the glacier-calm Cefn. So it was that Ka'en had been pacing and
fretting for more than a week when Cefn finally lost it.
Unfortunately for most passersby, when Cefn lost his patience,
people noticed!
Ever since the day Je'en had disappeared after robbing some
hidden crypt within the secret vault beneath Dargon Castle, Ka'en
had followed the mage around as they both tried to fathom what had
happened to her and where she was. Ka'en's first urge, to ride out
and follow her, was put aside by Cefn. He had said that Je'en had a
long head start on them, and could be anywhere in almost any
direction by then. His first action had been to return to his house
and play cards.
Actually, Ka'en knew foretelling cards when he saw them,
although he had never seen a set like the one Cefn used. He got to
know them well, however, because the mage spent the whole night
using them, all to no effect. All Cefn would say was, "Something's
blocking them. The twelve of swords, Je'en, is crossed by the Prime
of Staves every time. Beyond that, there is no pattern, no
similarity in any of the layouts I do. I cannot reach her with these."
So they had tried every method of divination available within
the precincts of Dargon. Every palm-reader, every amateur
card-layer, bone-spiller, and tea-dregs-diviner in the city. Not one
could tell them anything. Only one in six had the true gift, a fact
that Cefn made sure to ascertain quickly. He never stinted with the
money they demanded, but he knew when he was getting truth and when
the fortune-teller was just giving them air.
It took a week and more to visit all of those who promised a
reading of the future that existed in Dargon. It was at the last of
these that Cefn lost his temper. It was in a dock-side tavern that
both Cefn and Ka'en met with the palmist. Ka'en had sensed that the
man was a fake from the first, but as usual, Cefn gave the man a
whole gold crown to read his palm.
The thin, shifty-eyed man across the table from them looked at
the crown as if it were a dead fish, although Ka'en was sure there
was a glint of avarice deep in his tiny eyes. With a pass of his
hand, the gold piece vanished; a simple prestidigitator's trick that
might impress some, but not a real mage like Cefn, or a real thief
like Ka'en. Besides, thought Ka'en, I could do it better and with
more coins.
The palm reader took Cefn's left hand and peered intently at the
deeply creased palm. He studied it for several minutes, muttering to
himself and tracing the various lines, folds and creases there.
Finally he straightened up, took a deep breath, and began to
propound on what he had seen of Cefn's life in his palm.
Ka'en listened wearily to what he had heard many times before.
Very little of it was true, but there were several schools of
palmistry, and those with similar training saw the same things in
the same palm, true or not. Ka'en thought very little of palmistry,
and very little of divinations, but Cefn believed and he was paying.
The thin man had finished describing Cefn's past life, his
character and his intelligence, and began to answer the question
that the mage had asked. He used a different part of Cefn's palm to
illustrate the recent departure of a dear one. He pointed to three
tiny lines crossing what he called the 'relationship line' and said,
"These indicate that the one you have lost has run away with another
man. I can see herein that your loss is deep, but I cannot see where
your loved one has gone - his life is no longer reflected in your
palm. My advice is to forget him and concern yourself with new
relationships." The palmist leered sideways at Ka'en, who reacted to
the insult by reaching for his knife. But Cefn reacted faster and
far more violently.
The mage stood and easily pushed the heavy table away from
himself, pinning the palmist in his chair. When he spoke, Cefn's
voice was so full of anger that even Ka'en backed away a pace. "How
dare you tell me such lies! The one I am searching for was not a
man, and she left with no one! You and your kind will say anything
for a copper." Cefn was gripping the table with glowing hands, and
Ka'en thought he could detect a bit of smoke curling up from around
them. He also noticed that there were little flashes of light
beginning to show through Cefn's robe. The mage continued, "I've
been all over this city and all I've gotten from the likes of you is
fanciful tales of kidnapping, or runaway lovers, or visits from
gods. I'm sick and tired of lies! People like you should be banned
from the city limits for deluding innocent truth-seekers!"
Cefn lifted his right hand from the table to point at the
palmist, leaving a charred handprint behind. His hands were glowing
brightly, the flashes beneath his robe were growing more frequent,
and Ka'en thought he could detect a faint haze rippling the air
around the mage. Ka'en tried to draw Cefn's attention to what was
happening, but the mage was too caught up in his anger to listen.
Cefn continued, "All I want is the answer to a simple question.
I don't care why she left, I don't care what caused her to steal
those things. I just want to know WHERE JE'EN IS!" With the last
word, he slammed his fist down on the center of the table with
cataclysmic results.
The fire burned down the bar, and a good portion of the wharf.
No one was injured - the rantings of the wizard had cleared the bar
of all other patrons, and the two people with the wizard had been
rescued by him shortly after the fire began. The ships moored at the
wharf had cast off from the dock and had survived unharmed. The
bucket brigades formed hadn't been able to save the bar, but the
supplies sitting out for on- or off-loading had been swiftly moved
into a nearby warehouse. A fire break and constant watch had saved
the warehouse and contained the fire to just the immediate area.
There had been no mistaking the wizard who had started the fire
- a man who always wore an unnaturally dark cowl is easily
recognized. So when the captain of the City Guard arrived at Cefn's
door, he found the entry hall filled with chests, each chest filled
with gold and gems. The restitution was readily accepted and both
Cefn and Ka'en avoided prison.
Ka'en sat with Cefn in the taproom of the Panther later that day
trying to figure out what to do next. He was just about to suggest
that they try to track Je'en out of the city along a week-old trail
when a young boy walked in the door. He stood looking around for a
moment, then hurried over to the table where Ka'en and Cefn sat.
"Are you Wizard Kevin?" the child asked. Cefn nodded, and the
child handed him a folded piece of paper sealed with red and blue
wax. He said, "An old lady asked me to deliver this to you. She said
to meet her tomorrow after sunset in the first traveller's rest
clearing along the west coastal road. She said that the paper would
convince you to come."
Ka'en watched Cefn break the wax seal and open the folded paper.
He either took a long time reading it, or he was disturbed by what
it said because he just sat there seeming to stare at it (Ka'en
couldn't tell which - it could be difficult to be teamed up with a
man whose face you couldn't see!). When he realized that the mage
wouldn't be replying to the child, Ka'en said, "When did you get
this paper, son?"
"Yesterday, 'fore nooning, in the market. She gave it to me and
told who to give it to and what to say. Said 'do it tomorrow to give
me time to prepare'."
"Does 'meet tomorrow' mean today, since you got the message
yesterday?" Ka'en was worried that they would miss the appointment
as sunset was in an hour or so and the first traveler's rest was at
least half a day's ride away.
"Naw, don't worry. The old woman, she said, 'say just what I
tell you to, and assure them that I mean for us to meet the day
after next'." The child beamed and stayed right where he was. Ka'en
realized that the urchin was hoping for a little something for
delivering his message so well. Smiling because he knew that the
child had surely been already paid by the old woman, Ka'en reached
into his belt-pouch and withdrew his coin purse. He fished around in
it and came out with the smallest coin he possessed.
The child took the coin, gulping when he recognized it. He said,
"Thank you, good sirs. And luck to you, too." Then he turned and ran
out of the room in case the over-generous Ka'en should change his
mind. Still smiling, Ka'en turned to Cefn and asked, "So, are we
going to meet with this woman tomorrow or not?"
Startled out of his reverie, Cefn said, "Um, yes. Yes, I think
we should see her. We'll set out before noon tomorrow. See you
then." He rose and left, leaving the paper on the table. Ka'en,
curious, picked it up and read it. It was filled with words, but he
could understand only the few at the top of the page. They said, "I
know of the one you seek, and if you agree to meet me I think that I
can find her for you. Below is some information that should convince
you I am of the Gifted." There followed the strange words that Ka'en
couldn't puzzle out, and the note was signed "Madame Zeefra".
They set out after noon the next day, but they still reached the
travellers' rest area almost an hour before sundown. They set up
camp and waited for the gypsy to arrive.
Shortly after sunset, a brightly painted wagon was drawn into
the clearing by a pair of very black horses. The driver of the wagon
was a middle-aged man dressed in the manner Cefn recognized as
belonging to the Rhydd Pobl. He knew it was unusual for one of those
roaming people to be this far north so late in the season, but here
he was.
The man on the wagon paid no attention to the two already
occupying the clearing, but went about feeding and watering his
horses, situating the wagon just so within the clearing, and
starting a large fire next to it (ignoring the fact that Ka'en had
already started a modest blaze near their own tents). By the time
the gypsy's camp was fully set up, it was full dark, and Ka'en began
to wonder if the wagon truly held this Madame Zeefra, or if the
gypsy just happened to be passing through.
The man went into the wagon for a moment, and came back out
carrying a bow and a quiver. He vanished into the forest quietly and
quickly, and Ka'en wondered if all gypsies arrow-hunted by night.
When the man was gone, a light sprang up within the wagon,
showing through the curtained window in its side. Both Cefn and
Ka'en rose from where they had been sitting and went over to the
wagon. Ka'en knocked on the door over the tailgate and called out,
"Madame Zeefra?"
The door opened, revealing the perfect picture of a gypsy
fortune teller, metalic, be-coined headdress and all. She didn't
look at all old to Ka'en, just weathered and experienced. Kind of
pretty, too. She said, "You are the wizard Cefn, and you the thief
Ka'lochra'en. Come inside and we will see if we can find your lost
Je'lanthra'en."
Shaken to the core by the woman's naming him thief, Ka'en warily
followed Cefn into the wagon. It, too, presented the perfect picture
of such a place - small, but with enough room for the three of them
to be comfortable, cluttered with odd, mystical things as well as
the everyday necessities of life. Ka'en wondered what relation the
wagon-driver had to the woman, and if they both slept back here.
Zeefra settled herself behind a table, throwing her very black
hair off her shawl-covered shoulders with a gesture that set her
multiple bracelets clinking musically. She spread her beringed
fingers on the ivory tablecloth and said, "Give me your hand, mage."
Hesitantly, Cefn offered her his hand palm up, and Ka'en tensed,
fearing a repeat of the day before. But Zeefra turned his hand over
and closed it between her two, then closed her eyes as if seeking
something that lay within her.
She said, "It is as I sensed. The one you seek, this Je'en, is
beset by strong forces. She is not herself, and is thus protected
from most scrying and divination methods. That is why you have had
no success within the city in finding her.
"However, there are ways older than anyone in Dargon even
remembers. But my people keep our heritage alive, and we have ways
both simpler and more powerful than many others."
She released Cefn's hands and reached beneath the table. She
brought out a bowl filled with sand, and a smaller, cut crystal bowl
that was empty. Reaching again, she produced a roll of very thin
parchment. With one of her rings, she cut a square from the roll
large enough to cover the tabletop.
She turned to Ka'en and said, "You are blood to this Je'en,
right? Give me your left hand." Ka'en extended the indicated hand
and was suprised by the power of her grip. She briefly clasped his
hand as she had Cefn's, eyes closed, then 'humphing' in a pleased
manner, she used the same sharp ring to slice a long cut across his
palm. He cried out and tried to pull away, but he couldn't free
himself. She held his hand over the crystal bowl and let it bleed
freely therein. When a small pool of blood covered the bottom of the
bowl, she placed an odd smelling pad of cloth over the wound she had
created and closed his fist around it to hold it in place. She
released his hand then, and began sifting sand from the large bowl
into the smaller one, slowly filling it. Ka'en, spooked, sat back
nursing his hand and watched as she lifted the small bowl with one
hand, and stirred the contents with the other until the sand turned
a pale shade of pink, crooning softly the while.
When the blood was thoroughly mixed with the sand, she poured it
out into her hand, the entirety of the bowl fitting neatly within
her single palm without spilling even a single grain. Setting the
crystal aside, she cupped the sand in both hands and held them above
the square of parchment and began to sing louder, spreading her
fingers to let the sand through.
Only, at first it didn't fall. Ka'en thought that it might be
caked by the blood even though it didn't really seem wet. It just
wasn't ready to leak out. As the gypsy's song continued, the sand
began to seep out, slowly at first and then faster and faster. Even
though the woman's hands didn't move at all, the sand scattered all
over the whole square, forming lines and patterns and two words in
simple and ancient runes that Ka'en knew because his first master
had used them to pass secret messages to his charges. The first word
spelled out Je'en as nearly as it could. The second word was
'keseth', but that word had no meaning to Ka'en.
By the time the sand had all fallen, the parchment was covered
with sand. Zeefra looked at the patterns, pointing to the words with
satisfaction but disapointed with the overall layout. She finally
said, "It did not work as well as I had hoped. The patterns say she
is to the south and east, but not how far, nor exactly where within
that general direction. Parts of this pattern seem blurred, as if
the tie just wasn't strong enough."
She looked first at Ka'en, and then at Cefn. Finally, she said,
"We'll just have to try again. I'm not sure that this will be any
better but perhaps your ties to this Je'en are stronger than blood,
Cefn." She picked up the square of parchment and poured the
once-again-white sand off it into a bucket on the floor. Ka'en saw
that the parchment had somehow leached the blood out of the sand and
into it, preserving the pattern of the sand on the cleared square.
Setting this first square aside, Zeefra cut another, placed it on
the table, and then took Cefn's left hand.
As the mage bled into the small bowl, Ka'en looked at his own
palm which had stopped hurting sometime during the sand-casting. He
was astonished to see that nothing remained of the wound at all -
the pad of cloth Zeefra had put on it had healed it completely,
without even a scar.
He returned his attention to the old woman to find her stirring
sand that was turning blue. Ka'en looked strangely at Cefn, then
went back to watching the 'casting.
It went as before, although the patterns were different - much
different. Four words were spelled out in runes, and a very detailed
map occupied the center of the square. The lines of the map glowed
with a pale blue light when the sand was brushed off, and Zeefra
seemed well pleased.
She said, "Excellent! These four words first - Je'en, as before;
the strange word 'keseth' as before; and the new words 'ugurth' and
'Vard'. And the map. Just what you will need. It indicates right now
exactly where Je'en is and where she is going." On the map, she
pointed to two dots glowing slightly brighter than the rest of the
markings. One was moving along a road, and the other was set among
some hills. "But, it is more than just a marker for Je'en. Take it
up, Cefn. It will show you exactly what route you need to take to
reach her." Cefn lifted the map, and the lines changed into a map of
the area around Dargon. The west coast road was highlighted, as well
as the Central road that led back to the center of Baranur. "With a
thought, you can turn it back to Je'en to monitor your positions
relative to each other. This is the most powerful use of the
sand-magic possible, and I have only ever heard of it happening
before. You must be favored by the gods to be given such a talisman."
Both Ka'en and Cefn thanked the gypsy profusely. Cefn tried to
get her to accept gold as payment for her help, but she said, "No, I
did not aid you for a reward. I helped you because my gift urged me
to, and to take a reward for that which came freely to me would be
wrong. Go, and know that just your thanks are enough for me - more
than enough. Why now my name will be passed down with all the others
for having created a sand-map!"
Ka'en and Cefn retired to their tents and fell immediatly asleep
as if drained by the evening's activity. The next morning, the wagon
was gone without a trace. As Ka'en ate his morning meal he watched
Cefn study the sand-map. And he wondered if they would be quick
enough to save Je'en from whatever drew her on - the moving dot was
very close to the one in the hills.
Vard's Travels
It wasn't easy communicating with the dead, as Vard found out
very quickly. The Forbidden Art hadn't been created as a means of
gathering information: it was obvious that the Fretheodan wizards
had had another, better means of resurrection at their disposal.
It took most of two days for Vard to learn how to get what he
needed out of the re-animated skull. It took another day to make
sure that the skull knew everything he needed it to know, which it
did. It remembered each and every trap from the mine adit to the
door of the final vault wherein was sealed the Yrmenweald. Now it
just remained for Vard to discover a way to get across the ocean
without taking the weeks it would to go by boat, not to mention the
time it would take to get TO a boat to begin the journey. With the
Keseth so close to his grasp, Vard was far too impatient to wait
that long.
The solution came from an unexpected source and unwittingly,
too. Vard was musing on how to proceed after getting the last
details of the location of the mine from the skull, and Tandi, much
wearied after being drained yet again to revive the skull, said
flippantly, "Why don't you just fly there?"
Ignoring the sarcastic tone in her voice, Vard took the
suggestion seriously. Fly. Of course, how simple. But how? Grow
wings on everyone? He had no such magic, at least none powerful
enough to carry him, Tandi and Je'en across the ocean. Then
something else must fly and carry them. What? First he thought of an
artifact. Did he have a flying machine in his vaults? He had Qrun
check even though he was pretty sure that he didn't. The box kite
that Qrun returned with didn't amuse Vard much, but he let it pass
for the moment. So, not a machine. Then, an animal. A bird. What
bird was large enough to carry three human beings and a load of
luggage? A rukh? They were said to have existed once, but Vard had
never seen one, nor had he heard recent reports of one. So, not a
rukh. But an idea struck him. Myths of large flying animals. A dragon!
Vard had no idea where to procure a live dragon even if any
still existed which he doubted. But he remembered purchasing the
skull of one of those giant flying lizards ages ago, and he could,
with his new-found skills, bring the skull to almost-life and have
it carry him across the ocean.
While he searched his treasure vaults for the skull, Qrun and
Eirul made preparations for the journey so that by the time Vard
found the skull everything was ready to go. Vard didn't know how the
effort to reanimate such a large creature would effect Tanandra and
he didn't want her giving out while they were over the ocean. He
intended to load the dragon and be away just as soon as it was once
again 'alive'.
It took everyone's efforts, including Tanandra's, to get the
huge skull out to the courtyard - it was twice the size of a man,
after all. Once it was in position and all of the provisions had
been brought out along with the mivorn amulet and the bookstand,
Vard began. Tanandra had been strapped to a chair since she had
rebelled at the idea of being used to fuel the rebirth of a dragon.
Je'en and the servants stood by the castle's front door, well away
from the powerful magic that would bring the lizard back to life.
The purple lines of light met in the dragon skull, and it began
to glow faintly. Vard's chanting continued, the light kept pouring
into the skull, but for the longest time, nothing happened. Then,
slowly results began to show. Just patches of scaly skin at first,
then a great cat-like eye was restored. A ghostly skeleton of the
rest of the body began to appear, filling the courtyard to
overflowing. No one noticed it when Tandi began to scream in mortal
agony, so enthralled were they by the emerging majesty of the
dragon. No one noticed that, as the dragon drew closer to life,
Tandi was drawing closer to death.
Cefn's Journey
Very swift horses, line-of-sight teleportation hops,
body-sustaining spells and day-and-night riding - Cefn used all of
the tricks he could come up with to speed Ka'en and himself toward
Je'en, but it just wasn't fast enough. The sand-map showed them a
day from Je'en who had been at her destination for three days. He
and Ka'en were studying the map when the dot representing her
suddenly shot at an incredible speed right off the page. Cefn was
trying to re-orient the map to her when a deep crashing sound like
thunder echoed out of the hills. It rolled swiftly towards them and
past, leaving them both shaken a bit. Cefn wondered if the sound had
anything to do with Je'en's means of travel away from them - it
certainly hadn't behaved like thunder, and there wasn't a cloud in
the sky either.
Cefn recovered himself and switched the sand-map's focus. He was
suprised to see that the map redrew itself in the shape of the
better part of the continents of Cherisk and Duurom. He could make
out the location of Magnus, the Darst range, and Dargon on Cherisk,
but he didn't know the names of any of the features of Duurom, only
that it had once been the seat of the Fretheod Empire. The speck of
light moved across Cherisk at a speed that Cefn could barely imagine
even from his guess of the scale of the map. It tended east by
north, and another glowing dot at the very edge of what the map
showed of Duurom seemed to be the moving speck's destination. Cefn
began to despair - there was absolutely no way he could imagine that
he could reach such a far away place in less than months!
He communicated his deductions to Ka'en and he agreed to push on
to Je'en's first destination in hopes that there would be something
there to help them. Cefn applied yet another sustaining spell
knowing that their bodies had already passed the safe limit of such
over-extension. They mounted up and rode, following the re-focused
map into the hills.
If not for the versatility of the sand-map, Cefn probably
wouldn't have ever found the nearly hidden way into the valley that
held Aahashtra. Fortunately, it was able to magnify its scale once
he and Ka'en were close enough to Je'en's original destination, and
with some careful study the tiny crack was found.
Cefn had been expecting Aahashtra, actually. The second
sand-casting Madame Zeefra had done had come up with the name 'Vard'
and the rune 'ugurth' and the connection was too clear. Ugurth was a
word that meant 'undeath' and linked Vard, his old foe, with the
mission that had brought Tanandra to him. He also knew that Vard was
very adept at controlling magics, which answered some very puzzling
questions about Je'en. It was odd that both quests, Tanandra's and
his own, had Vard as their targets. He knew that Vard had named his
hidden castle after the stronghold of the man that had caused the
Council of Elders to be formed. What he hadn't expected was its look
of total lifelessness. It was nearing dusk, but not a single torch
nor lamp shone - the entire castle was dark.
Cefn reached into his pouch and withdrew a magic-sensitive
device. He used it to scan the area between them and the outer walls
of the castle and found nothing but a faint background reading.
Motioning Ka'en to follow him, he crossed the open space in front of
the walls as quickly as possible, halting beside the open gate.
He scanned the area between the gate and the castle's front
door. His magic-sensing device picked up a very strong reading
across the entire courtyard, right up to the edge of the gate. He
could guess that it was some kind of alarm spell - at least that was
what he might have used in the same situation.
"Doesn't look like anyone's home, eh?" said Ka'en, who was
crouching behind Cefn wondering what was going on. Cefn said, "Looks
aren't truth, especially when there's a wizard involved. Take this
empty courtyard for example. It's actually one huge intruder alarm,
and we have to cross it to get any further."
"Can you break the spell - you know, cancel it out so we can
cross undetected?"
Cefn thought about the suggestion. It wasn't one he would have
thought of, but then, he knew more than Ka'en about magic and how it
worked. He cataloged what was in his belt pouch, and made sure that
he didn't have the tools with him to decode and reverse the spell.
His pouch was much larger within than without, but it wasn't of
infinite size so he had to choose carefully what implements to carry
and all-purpose spell-breaking tools were fairly bulky. He said, "I
don't have the equipment to do that, but I do have another way to
get across. How is your sense of balance?"
He had fished out of his pouch an L-shaped piece of white stone
and he placed the shorter arm to the ground, aiming the longer arm
at the front door of the castle. He began chanting the activation
magic and felt the short arm anchor itself into the ground. When it
was secure, the long arm began to glow brighter and brighter until
finally a bolt of light shot from it and struck the step before the
door, leaving a trail of light behind it forming a bridge less than
an inch wide across the trapped courtyard.
He didn't wait for Ka'en to ask questions, but stepped up on the
light bridge and paced lightly and swiftly across. When he reached
the door, he turned to see that Ka'en had followed close behind him,
walking as nimbly as he had done. When his partner was with him on
the doorstep, only slightly shaken, Cefn bent down and touched the
bridge, cancelling the spell with a word.
Ka'en had tried the door and found it open before Cefn could
check for further traps. Fortunately, there didn't seem to be any
and he followed the thief into Aahashtra. The entry hall was huge,
with highly decorated walls and only one corridor leading off of it.
Ka'en was already striding towards it, and Cefn shouted, "Wait! Come
back here."
When Ka'en had returned to his side, Cefn said, "Now look, this
castle belongs to a very powerful and devious wizard named Vard.
Among other things, this means we do not just go wandering around
aimlessly. There are bound to be traps galore in here. Let me lead
the way, and don't get impatient - it could take time to be sure we
are going in the right direction. Now, that corridor looks
suspicious, but its the only obvious way. Let us check it for
magical traps first...."
It was close to dawn by the time they reached the laboratory
that had seen Vard reanimate the ancient Fretheodan. Both Ka'en and
Cefn were exhausted from the trials of winding their way through the
halls of Vard's crazy castle, and Cefn's belt pouch was half as full
as it had been at the start of the adventure.
Sounds from the room ahead had alerted the pair that they
weren't alone in the castle. The light from the room had led them
there, and Cefn hoped to get some answers from the person in the
room. He edged up to the doorway, Ka'en on the opposite side of the
corridor and doing the same. He peeked cautiously into the room and
saw a short man sweeping the floor of what seemed to be a
laboratory. The room was very well lit, and Cefn didn't think that
anything but speed would catch the man. However, Ka'en was making
motions of sneeking in and capturing the fellow, so he signaled the
thief to go ahead and try.
Cefn was amazed at how easily Ka'en was able to use benches,
tables, and the few small shadows to hide his progress across the
lab. At times Cefn lost sight of him, and only found him again when
whatever he was hiding behind exposed him to the back of the room.
Ka'en got nearer and nearer, until finally, when the small man
turned around to rearrange a low table of equipment, Ka'en leaped
out and tackled him to the floor.
The small man was no match for the young thief, and by the time
Cefn crossed to the two, the man was firmly trapped beneath the
weight of Ka'en sitting on his chest, pinning his arms with his
knees. The knife at his throat further encouraged immobility.
Cefn hunkered down next to the pair and said, "Greetings, good
sir. Could you tell us whether Master Vard is at home, and if he's
not, where he has gone?"
"He is not here. That I can tell you, as you probably know that
already. Anything more I dare not let you know. My master would
punnish me severely if I did."
"Then we will have to use other means." Cefn reached into his
pouch again and withdrew a tiny slate-colored stone ring. He placed
it on the man's temple and twisted it a bit so that the serrations
on its side bit slightly into the skin there, causing the man to cry
out at the sudden pain. Cefn said, "I'm sorry to have to use this
device - it isn't subtle in forcing the truth out and will cause
pain in doing so. But my friend and I have neither the time nor the
patience to worm the truth from you - we must have answers quickly
and accurately. Now, tell us where Vard has gone and why!"
The device worked wonders, although Cefn wasn't proud of that
fact. The little man was in much pain by the time Cefn had learned
all he needed to know about Vard's recent experiments with cwicustan
and mivorn, his probings into the Forbidden Art, what he had done to
the two women he had ensnared, and what he intended on Duurom. He
offered sanctuary to the servant, who said his name was Qrun, in
return for the information he had given. When he learned that Qrun
had a wife also in Vard's employ - they were his only servants - he
extended his offer to both of them. He then had only one small
problem remaining: how to follow him across continents and oceans?
Ka'en's suggestion was the only idea he had. After Cefn had
teleported Qrun and his equally small wife, Eirul, back to his house
in Dargon, the thief had suggested that they simply teleport after
Vard. It had taken several minutes to explain to Ka'en that such
random teleportation was almost impossible. The person casting the
spell had to have exacting knowledge of the site he was teleporting
to in order for the spell to have any chance of success. He had been
able to teleport to his house because he knew exactly where his
destination was. There was almost no way to do the same now.
It was several hours before Ka'en picked up on the 'almost' in
Cefn's answer. In the meantime, they had wrestled with the problem
from every angle they could think of without coming up with anything
even remotely feasable. Then Ka'en said, "Wait. What do you mean
'almost no way'. 'Almost' isn't 'none'. What don't you want to admit?"
Cefn wearily said, "There is one very unsecure method of moving
from here to there in less than a month or more without knowing
exacting physical details - planar travel. But I cannot take my
physical body into the required plane, so it is useless to us."
"But you could go there and learn what you need to teleport us
there, couldn't you?"
"Well, probably. It should be possible to descend to the first
order for a long enough time to get my bearings. But I need rest
first. We both do - we cannot live on boosting magic for much longer."
"Check the map first," said Ka'en. "If Vard's undead dragon is
far enough from its destination, then we'll take a little nap." Cefn
unrolled the parchment of the sand-map and focused it on Je'en. The
swiftmoving dot that was Vard and his dragon was nearing the Duurom
coastline. A hasty estimation guaged the wizard less than two hours
from the hidden mine. Ka'en said, "We don't have time to rest now.
One more sustaining spell won't kill us, not right away at least.
Better get busy finding out how to teleport us to that mine."
Cefn hated what most people called astral-projection. The third
order of form was a chaotic place where corporeal matter couldn't
exist, but mental energy was virtually unlimited in any way. There
was still distance to be covered between the place where his body
lay in Aahashtra being watched over by Ka'en, and where Vard and his
dragon would land on Duurom in less than an hour. But if he wasn't
disturbed he would be able to get there and back in plenty of time
for Ka'en and himself to be there waiting to ambush the undead
dragon before it landed.
So he sent his astral-self speeding toward Duurom. He watched
with a slightly disorienting omni-vision as the roiling, cloud-like
nothing passed by on all sides at once and sped away behind him with
only a silver cord linking him to his unconscious body. Every once
in a while, he noticed little islands of pseudo-reality, places
created by mental energy as places of rest for those with the
education and ability to do so. He had thought about doing such, but
he didn't even really like the astral plane so the figured that
trying to rest on it wouldn't be very restful.
He sensed he had reached his destination and stopped his mental
motion. Then, concentrating fiercely, he projected his astral body
down to the first order of form, what passed for most people as
'reality'. He arrived at the mouth of the unsused mine and tried to
collect the information he would need to successfully teleport to
this location. It wasn't easy in his non-corporeal state, but
eventually he had the coordinates firmly in mind and he let himself
succumb to the slight tug of the silver cord trying to drag him back
to his body.
He was about halfway back to Aahashtra, well over the ocean and
nearing where Cherisk's shore would be on the first order when he
heard a sound. It was a soft, seductive chiming sound, startling in
both its beauty and its impossibility. Such things shouldn't exist
on the third order - supposedly they couldn't. Intrigued, Cefn
followed the sound, becoming more and more bound up in the lovely
chiming that grew louder and louder without hurting his mental ears.
The source of the sound was utterly unfamiliar to Cefn who had
studied much but not everything. There on an island of reality
amidst chaos sat a beautiful woman playing a three-racked set of
what looked like glass wind-chimes save that she was hitting them
with feathers to evoke their chiming sound. The woman was in
three-quarter profile to Cefn and he couldn't tell whether she was
clothed or not because of her long, golden hair draped artfully
around her body like a cloak.
There was no melody to what she played, just sound, beautiful
sound. She played and played, taking no notice of the audience she
had drawn. Cefn wanted to move around to get a better look at her
charms - er, instrument - but he found that he couldn't move. He was
then able to tear his eyes away from the woman, and he noticed other
astral-selves arranged in a circle around the instrument. Most were
very thin and pale, looking as if something was draining their
vitality away. Cefn gasped when he saw that most of the wraiths
circled there were missing the silver cord that tied them to life.
He realized that the playing woman was some kind of astral siren,
put here to gather food for some creature on the first order to feed
upon. It wasn't long before he felt a drain on his own very low
reserves, and he knew that he would have to get away soon, before he
too became part of this eternally captive audience.
He turned away from the woman - as much movement as he was
allowed. He concentrated on the silver cord that still bound him to
his body and encouraged it to pull him away from here. Slowly, he
focused every gram of energy he could muster into that activity, but
he feared it wouldn't be enough. Then, almost unbidden, Je'en's face
came into his mind and he heard her voice above the chimes saying,
"Help me, Cefn. Help me!"
He didn't know from whence that plea had come, but it spurred
him to dredge up the very last of his reserves. Pouring everything
he had into his link to life, he willed himself away from the siren.
And slowly at first, he was pulled painfully away from the
chime-playing woman. Farther and faster, chanting Je'en's name to
try to counteract the chimes, Cefn was drawn to safety.
The normally achy return to the body was magnified to roaring
pain when Cefn came back. But the pain was good - it meant that he
was still alive. But tired, so tired. He opened his eyes to see a
concerned Ka'en standing over him. He said weakly, "Sorry, Ka'en,
but...got to rest. Tell you when I wake...." He fell back into a
deep restoring sleep, leaving the thief to fret and wonder whether
the wizard had gotten what he needed, and then to fall asleep
himself waiting for the answer.
The Keseth
They landed just in time. As soon as the huge reptile touched
ground before the mine adit, it began to crumble. Its return to
death was swifter and messier than its rise from the grave, leaving
parts beyond just the skull to rot and moulder. Vard and Je'en
scrambled out of the wreckage of the beast's midsection, both upset
at being covered with rotting dragon slime. Vard sent Je'en back
into the mess to recover the chest that held most of what he needed
- the remainder of their supplies could wait.
He sent Je'en back in to retrieve Tanandra. The thing she came
out with was a withered husk, nothing like the healthy young girl
that had arrived on his doorstep little more than a week ago. There
was just a flicker of life left within her, not enough to keep the
dragon reanimated any longer. Vard clucked sadly when he saw what
was left of Tanandra. Not because he was sad that she was all but
dead, but because he hadn't been paying attention to her condition
and if she had given out sooner, there could have been a bad
accident. Vard had had no idea that the drain of reanimating the
dragon had been so strong - it had taken only hours to use up the
young woman. He briefly wondered if there was some impurity in his
mivorn amulet because the manual had indicated that one person could
keep 'alive' a whole army regiment for more than a week. Maybe a
dragon was more costly that that many human corpses.
Now he would need another source to enable him to awaken his
guide into the mine. Fortunately, he had another one ready to hand.
He gave Je'en instructions to set up the amulet and the portable
book stand.
He had no trouble getting Je'en to place her palm against the
glowing black stone. She gasped when the sliver entered her palm,
but after that she simply accepted it with no comment at all.
Next, he unpacked the skull of the guide and placed it on the
ground next to the amulet. With now-practiced ease, he uttered the
incantation that restored the skull to life without even consulting
the book. Je'en withstood the purple light's draining without a sound.
Je'en re-packed the chest and hefted it onto her back while Vard
unrolled the ancient map and lead the way into the mine followed
closely by the animated and re-embodied skull holding a torch in its
grey-skinned hand.
Trap after trap, identified and defused or destroyed. Maze-like
tunnels threaded only with the help of the ancient map. Without
either guide or map, Vard would have been first lost then dead very
soon after stepping into the mine. Those Fretheodan were ingenious,
tenacious, and redundant - in places the passage was barred by four,
five, or even eight separate traps layed under, on, and around each
other. The most tiring part, however, was the time it took to get
the necessary information out of the undead guide. It never
volunteered anything, it only answered direct questions very
succinctly and literally. Hours ticked by as the trio proceeded
slowly deeper and deeper into the mine.
Vard had to marvel at the sophistication of many of the traps.
Very few were magically oriented, but even those that were
mechanical were usually created with a simplicity and efficiency
that was laudable. Vard was careful to disable each and every trap
he came across, but when it became harder and harder to get
disarming information out of the guide due to the increasing
complexity of the traps, he turned to smashing and destroying them.
And as they went lower into the mine, even smashing the traps began
to take finesse as they were made more ingeniously. Finally, when
they had reached the level of the keseth vault, he had to take to
disarming the traps again because brute force was no longer safe.
They took as long reaching the vault as they had taken getting to
the lowest level.
But finally they reached the vault. In a large cavern very far
under the earth Vard, the guide, and Je'en faced a slab of strange
looking metal with a large key-plate in its center. Vard let Je'en
set down the chest as he withdrew the third treasure that had come
from beneath Dargon castle - the key to the final vault.
As he strode over to the door, something made him turn and look
at the guide. He was startled to see that it was smiling, which
faded as Vard turned back from the door and stood next to the guide.
"Are there any traps remaining here?" asked Vard.
"Yes," answered the guide in its toneless voice.
"How many?"
"One."
Vard thought a moment, then asked, "On that key-plate?"
"Yes."
"What kind?"
"Cave-in trigger, poison needle, gas, trap door, crossbow bolts
from the walls, a..."
"That's enough!" interrupted Vard. "So, they put everything they
had in this last trap. Okay, that's reasonable. Now, how does one
get by these traps to open the door?"
"One does not," said the guide, beginning to smile again.
Vard thought again, then he said, "I've got it. So simple, so
common! That key-plate is a ruse, a lure for the foolish. Where is
the real lock for this door?"
The guide's smile turned into a pout. It said, "On the wall
behind us, behind the moss-covered rock that isn't covered with moss."
Vard began to brush his hand across the slimy-green rocks until
he came to one that was not slimy, though just as green. He pried at
the stone and lifted it away, revealling a very plain keyhole. With
triumph, he inserted the key and started to turn it. Then, thinking
back to the complex instructions he had given to that thief who had
brought him the Tome of the Yrmenweald, he asked the guide, "Which
way do I turn the key, and how far?"
The guide replied, with a hint of disapointment in its toneless
voice, "To the right three times exactly."
Vard complied, hearing a click each time that the key made one
revolution. He could feel that the key could have kept turning, and
he wondered what nasty trap would have been triggered by the wrong
number of turns. Leaving the key in its hole, he returned to the
vault door, where a handle had appeared. Grabbing hold of it, he
pulled the door open, unsealing a vault that had been closed up for
more than a thousand years.
The first thing he noticed as he entered was the smell -
strange, musty and musky and...he had no words for it. He walked
into the dimly lit room, seeing large panels along one wall bearing
small circles of glass in neat, ordered rows. Another set of panels,
about waist high and horizontal, bore more circles of glass, and
little twigs standing in rings of metal interspersed with larger
square panes of glass.
Just as he was turning around, the room was flooded with light
and the sight that was revealed almost made Vard's heart stop.
There, occupying a space four or five times the size of his
laboratory back at Aahashtra was a - a thing!
Crisscrossing that part of the room in what seemed to be a
random pattern were foot-thick rods of what was probably stone.
Somehow bound between those rods was something that looked like a
cross between a spider and a grasshopper magnified a thousand fold
or more. And it was alive!
The End
Six hours after Cefn returned, he awoke refreshed. Not quite as
good as new, but his rest had pushed back the overload effects of
the sustaining magic he had been using and he was ready to go again.
After locating Ka'en and rousing him from his little nap and raiding
the keep's pantry for food, they prepared for their journey to Duurom.
To Ka'en, who wasn't as refreshed as Cefn but who was feeling
better for his nap, being teleported was weird. He had always
imagined that it would be instantaneous, but he was sure that they
spent several minutes flying between Aahashtra and the mine on
Duurom. When they arrived, to the night and double shadows cast by
two moons, the first thing he noticed even before the second,
smaller moon, was the rotting carcass of Vard's undead dragon.
Cefn, however, noticed Tanandra first. She was still alive, but
even if she should survive it would be as a wasted wreck of her
former self. She looked at Cefn with sunken and cloudy eyes as he
knelt beside her, and said, "I guess I wasn't strong enough for him,
was I?"
Cefn, unseen eyes tearing at the sight of his former love, said
shakily, "I'm sorry for forcing you into this, Tandi. I'm so, so
sorry! I should have gone. I should have taken the gorfodd and gone
after Vard before he could get this far into the Forbidden Art. I...."
"Cefn, love, don't. You cannot change what is - just accept it
and learn to live with it. Leave me and get after Vard. What I've
learned about his plans...you must stop him. Go, catch him before he
can harness the keseth..." Her voice trailed off and her eyes closed
for the last time.
Cefn didn't move for a long time, strangely colored tears
falling from his cowl onto Tanandra's withered flesh. Finally, he
turned away to find Ka'en standing right behind him staring in
horrified fascination at the remains of the brave girl. Cefn said,
"She was known to me long ago - we were students together. Vard has
killed her - she was consumed by the powers of the Forbidden Art. We
must destroy him. Come."
He took out the sand-map and shifted its focus. It became a copy
of the ancient map that Vard had followed, showing the way clearly
down to the final vault. Pulling a small clear globe from his
pocket, he tossed it into the air. It began floating just above his
head, casting a golden glow. Squinting carefully at the map, he
entered the mine.
When Vard recovered from the shock of seeing the creature - what
he assumed was meant by the symbol he had named 'keseth' - he turned
his attention to the rest of the room. He was suprised by the rack
of swords hanging on the short wall beside the vault door - they
seemed out of place in this very uncomprehensible room as the only
item he truly recognized. Against the wall opposite the door was the
master-node of cwicustan attached to the framework the Tome had
described as linking it to the caged and bound keseth. Vard went to
work busily on that lump of stone, chipping away at it to remove it
from the framework. He already had his own piece of cwicustan primed
and ready to go into the socket. Once it was there, he would be able
to communicate with the keseth and learn all of the mysteries it held.
Ka'en noticed more of the deactivated traps than did Cefn, and
he, like Vard before him, marvelled at the work. He was certainly
glad that someone else had blazed the trail through those traps - he
doubted that his second teacher, a Master Trapper, could have found,
let alone deactivated, half of the traps they passed.
The pair made much better time than had Vard's group. Of course,
all of the work had been done for them. All they had to do was
follow the map at their top possible speed. The sand-map showed
Je'en was already at the final vault - Ka'en only hoped that
whatever this Vard person was doing there would take lots of time.
They came out into the last cave and saw the open vault door.
Cefn could see both Vard and Je'en, as well as a rather grey-looking
man. The latter two were just standing, statuelike, while Vard
chipped away at a large piece of crystal while looking at a slot in
the wall. None of the three had noticed their arrival. With a low
whistle, the clear globe returned to Cefn's hand and stopped glowing.
He returned the globe to his pouch and retrieved another item
from it. He whispered, "Ka'en, take this and try to distract Vard. I
don't think you will be able to kill him but you can try. This disc
should protect you from most any magic he casts at you but not for
very long. When it starts turning black, it has been used up and is
useless. Oh, one more thing." Cefn reached back into his pouch and
came out with the mysterious crystal circlet. He handed it to Ka'en
and said, "I think that this will protect you from mental magics.
Vard is an expert at mind control, which is why Je'en is in there
and not out here with us. Okay, ready?"
"Wait. Why don't you go after the wizard, eh? At least you can
meet him on his own level." Ka'en was looking suspiciously at the
small clear disc he had been given.
"I want to see if I can free Je'en - she'll make a useful ally
for our side. Also, I'm a better fighter than you are if I can't get
her out of Vard's control. Neither she nor I have swords, and I
think I can handle her easily hand-to-hand. Satisfied?"
Not waiting for an answer, Cefn crept to the edge of the vault
door and peered through. Ka'en came up beside him, holding the
amulet like a very small shield in front of his body, the circlet
perched on his head like a crown. At his signal, they both rushed
into the room.
Unfortunately, the presence of the keseth was just as startling
to the two adventurers as it had been to Vard earlier, and they were
stunned into immobility by the sight of the giant insect. Je'en
moved away from Cefn and crouched into a defensive posture. Her eyes
flickered to the wall of blades, and she began to make plans while
awaiting orders.
Vard looked up from his work and recognized both his old rival
Cefn and that thief he had hired so long ago. He reacted quickly.
First, he released the energies keeping the guide animated - he
didn't want anything to hamper Je'en. Then he said, "Je'en, protect
me from these intruders."
She knew exactly what to do. She executed a perfect diving roll,
flashing past the slowly recovering intruders. She straightened up
by the racked swords and plucked one from its place. It almost
seemed to hum in her hand, and she delighted in its lightness and
perfect balance. Dropping again into an en guarde position, she
faced the two intruders ready to obey her master's order.
Cefn recovered first and took in the new situation. Trusting
Ka'en to continue on with his part of the plan, Cefn reached into
his pouch for a wand. Drawing it and firing it in one motion, he ran
toward Je'en and the rack of swords.
Je'en instinctively blocked the bolt of blue that had shot from
the tip of Cefn's wand. The bolt bounced off of the dull-grey blade,
but the impact pushed her back through the vault door.
Cefn took swift advantage, dropping the wand to grab a sword
from the rack as he followed his love out the door. In the outer
cave there would be more room to maneuver, and he might have more of
a chance to subdue Je'en.
There was one more matter to consider, though. He couldn't fight
effectively in his cowl. Reaching again into his pouch, he removed
two spheres, one clear, one black. Juggling them one handed, he
timed the toss and threw first the black one at the vault door, and
the clear one back into the air. It began to glow bright golden as
the black one shattered and enveloped the doorway in blackness. Cefn
hoped that Vard didn't decide to break the simple darkness spell -
he shouldn't even be able to see it as it was a one-way darkness
like the one on his cowl and from the other side it should look like
nothing at all was barring the doorway. With his eyes protected for
the time being, Cefn lowered his cowl and faced his love across a
pair of very fine, very strange swords.
He and Je'en had sparred several times in the past, but he
really didn't know the extent of her abilities. He knew that she was
good; he had watched several fights she had been in, and he had
watched her from afar as she was training at Pentamorlo. But to face
her with that hard, serious look on her face - and, for the first
time he realized that she wasn't wearing her mask! That rocked him
long enough for Je'en to launch an attack. Fortunately, it was only
a series of feints, a test-pattern to determine the level of her
opponent, and Cefn was able to reflexively block them. When the
blades contacted each other, they gave off a louder hum as well as
green and yellow sparks. Cefn wondered just what these swords were
as he was turned and forced back into a wall. He dodged a thrusting
blow that struck the wall behind him. He danced away from the
entrapment and watched, amazed, as Je'en withdrew half of the length
of her blade from the wall amid many purple sparks. When she came
back en guarde, he could see no damage at all on her blade.
The fighting began in earnest then. Cefn tried to put everything
from his mind, to reach the unity with sword that Je'en already had.
As they fenced back and forth, he came closer and closer until
finally there weren't two people in the cave, but two extended
swords fighting each other.
Back and forth, around and around, the dance of death continued,
both parties so totally involved in the graceful battle that Cefn,
at least, forgot who he was battling. It was almost as if it was
truly the swords moving the people through the fight. Yellow and
green, an occaisional burst of purple as blade sliced into stone,
and a humming that grew and grew until it filled the cave and the
people fighting.
When one of those blades met flesh, the resultant spark was long
and crimson, a more startling color than the blood that the strike
also drew. The dance faltered, and Cefn pressed his advantage. His
opponent reacted as if far more injured that a little arm-scratch
could account for. Without thought, he executed a maneuver that he
couldn't have described afterward and came up under Je'en's sword
arm. It wasn't until he saw the double fountain of red - crimson
light and red blood - that he remembered he wasn't here to kill
Je'en, just subdue her, knock her out. Vard was the enemy, not
Je'en. But that didn't convince the grey sword-blade half-buried in
Je'en's side.
Ka'en recovered his wits in time to see Cefn follow Je'en out of
the vault, leaving him alone with the wizard Vard - the grey man had
vanished somehow, leaving behind only a very old-looking skull.
Ka'en faced Vard with the amulet disc held out before him. He had no
idea what to do now. At least, he thought, Vard was distracted from
what was going on in the cave outside.
Coils of blue light were wreathing Vard's hands as the wizard
chanted. Ka'en held the disc higher, but when the spell was
released, the streamers of blue light by-passed the amulet and were
absorbed by the circlet he wore. Vard looked puzzled as he said,
"Put down the disc and come here." Ka'en wondered why the wizard was
trying to give him orders, and he just stood still.
This seemed to infuriate the wizard. Rage suffused his face, and
his arms went up, hands glowing a firery red. He said mysteriously,
"You should have stuck to stealing books, you meddlesome thief!"
With that, thick bolts of fire flashed out from each of his fingers,
meeting before his face to become one very large bolt. Ka'en started
to back away from the oncoming spell, but the bolt homed in on him -
or rather the disc he held before him.
By rights, and without the protection he had, Ka'en should have
been nothing but a pile of smouldering ashes after the bolt
dissapated. But the disc amulet worked - mostly. It was able to
absorb the destructive energy of the spell, so that Ka'en wasn't
killed outright. However, the amulet wasn't strong enough to absorb
the entire spell. Ka'en was hurled back by the force behind the
energy. He was unconscious before he hit the wall beside the vault
door, and he stayed slumped like that for a long time.
When he awoke, the first thing he was aware of was being alive.
His hand hurt, but the rest of his body felt fine. He looked at his
hand, half afraid that he would find that it was just a charred
lump, but it looked perfect. He saw that the disc was now pure black
and cracked around the edges. He set it aside quietly as now useless.
Next he noticed the humming coming from the cave. He eased
himself into position to look out the vault door and was instantly
mesmerized by the dance going on out there. He had never before seen
such skill as was being exhibited by Cefn and his cousin - he had
had no idea that either of them, Cefn especially, was so talented
with the sword.
Finally, he remembered his mission. As he turned around, he
heard the humming stop but he didn't turn back to see why. He saw
that Vard was fitting his lump of stone into the wall and was very
absorbed by that activity. Old training came to the fore, and he
drew his belt knife. He recalled just where and how to drive even so
short a knife as he had to kill swiftly from the back. He centered
his attention on that back, searching out just the right spot, and
he began to cross the well-lit and empty room as silently as he could.
Closer and closer Ka'en crept. He forced hiself to ignore the
keseth after glancing at it once and seeing that it was alive, its
sides moving rhythmically and its many-eyed head seemingly turned in
his direction. It took all of his concentration to look away and
return to the task at hand.
Closer and closer...and just as Ka'en was beginning his leap,
Vard turned around with a gasp of "What?!" The wizard tried to back
away from the thief, but he was too close to the wall to maneuver.
His hands went up again, beginning to glow with fire, but Ka'en
ignored the distraction and re-aimed himself instantaneously. His
leap continued and his knife slid into Vard's chest just to the left
of his sternum, angled in a bit. Steel grated harshly on bone, and
Vard screamed.
Ka'en backed away from the wizard. Vard screamed again, and the
power he had been gathering slipped away. Ka'en watched the fire
flicker down his arms and spark around the knife protruding from his
chest. Vard gave one last cry as his mortally wounded heart was
shocked into stopping a little bit early by the mis-release of his
own magic, and then he was no more.
Shock immobilized Cefn for several minutes. Slowly, reason began
to return and his first thought was whether he had enough healing
rods to save her. He knelt by Je'en's side, frantically searching
for the green rods in his belt pouch. He located five and breathed a
sigh of relief; it had taken three to heal Ka'en of a similar wound.
Ready with the first rod, Cefn carefully took hold of the hilt
of his sword and pulled. What he withdrew from the wound was only
half a sword, though. The part that had been within Je'en's body
had...well, melted or something.
Cefn applied all five of the healing rods to the wound, but they
didn't seem to work as well on her as they had on Ka'en. After the
fifth she still had a bad scar, and she seemed drained somehow. The
flesh around both the torso wound and the slight scratch on her arm
was of a sickly grey tone and Cefn was sure that the grey around the
larger wound was spreading.
He was searching in his pouch for more healing rods when he
heard a weak "Cefn?" He turned back to Je'en to find her awake,
struggling to sit up. He helped her up to lean against his body and
said, "I'm here, Je'en, I'm here."
"Cefn, I've had such a strange dream. I...I wasn't myself - it
was like I was a marionette and this evil man was pulling the
strings. I killed a man, maybe two, and I stole some old things from
the basement of a castle. Then I was brought to a deep cave and I
was forced to fight you and you...you won. Oh, Cefn, I feel so cold.
My side hurts and my arm hurts and I'm very, very cold..."
Cefn hugged Je'en close and said, "I know, my love. It was no
dream. All of that happened, including the duel. But I think that it
wasn't us fighting, but those strange swords. And I'm afraid that
they were poisoned or something, because you don't look well even
after all of the healing I could give you. Oh, Je'en, I'm so sorry.
I love you and I think I've killed you!"
Ka'en chose that moment to come out of the vault. He said,
"Cefn, is Je'en all right? I managed to kill Vard: did that free her
from his control?"
Je'en answered, "I'm almost all right, cousin, and I am free of
that man's control. Thank you, thank you both for rescuing me."
Cefn said, "But you aren't all right! I've got to get you to my
laboratory. We have to find out what these swords do so I can cure
you. Come on." He tried to lift her, but found that he was too weak
to manage it.
Ka'en said, "Why don't we ask the keseth? They were stored in
its vault after all, maybe it knows how they were used and how to
cure their wounds."
Ka'en had to help Cefn transport Je'en into the vault. Cefn was
too exhausted to wonder how Ka'en had learned to communicate with
the monster beast; he just hoped that it knew how to help his love.
They lowered Je'en to the floor of the vault, and Cefn knelt
beside her to help support her. Ka'en went over to the now glowing
crystal in the wall without even a glance for the dead wizard who
had been moved into a corner. He layed his hands on the crystal and
said, "We ask your help, Master Keseth."
An eerie voice came out of the panels dotted with glass behind
Cefn and Je'en. It said, "What service may I render?"
Cefn started to reply, but Ka'en said, "Wait, Cefn. It can only
understand you if you are touching the cwicustan node. Let me.
Master Keseth, do you know the function of the swords racked on that
wall over there?"
"I do. They were the constructs of the Clear Fire Weavers, those
wizards who helped to imprison me. They were used in executions and
other rituals. The death they brought was said to be terrible indeed."
"What death was this, Master Keseth? Is there a cure?"
"The death is a death by fading. The swords are made from a
material which alters the state of matter. Mention was made of the
etherial plane as well as the second order of form - these concepts
mean nothing to me. The victim slowly fades from normal corporeal
existence and the 'Weavers knew of no way to reverse the process
once complete. Also, there is no conventional cure."
"Then there is no hope? Je'en is going to become a wraith,
doomed to wander the etherial plane forever?"
"I can offer only one solution. Fretheodan legends spoke of a
place where total renewal was possible - a body could be healed of
all hurts and injuries in this place. Many expeditions were sent out
to find this place, but none knew of any that succeeded. However, I
do. One party managed to find what they were looking for. I can give
you the location of this place if..."
Ka'en almost shouted, "If what!?! We'll do anything we can for
the chance to save Je'en. Tell us, please!"
"I have been trapped here for ages beyond reckoning. I wish only
to return to my home. I will tell you how to free me in return for
the location, but I must tell you that if you let me go, the
Yrmenweald will go with me. The power that that other man came for
will be gone."
"We followed Vard here to rescue Je'en, not for whatever foolish
dreams he had. We will free you - we would even if you didn't have
information we need. Just tell us what we need to do...."
Freeing the keseth had been easy - Ka'en and Cefn had pushed the
twigs and bits of glass that seemed to be switches of some sort in
the order that the keseth told them to. One by one, the scattered
bars in the keseth's part of the room retracted into the walls and
finally it was free. It then caused the little rounds of glass to
flash rapidly and randomly, after which a little door opened in one
of the panels. The keseth said, "Within that compartment you will
find a map of the location you seek. I have also supplied tablets
that should lend your companion strength as you seek her salvation.
They should retard the spread of the sword's poison throughout her
system. I fear, however, that she has only a month unless you find
the restorative place."
Cefn thanked the keseth for the help, and he and Ka'en helped
Je'en out of the mine. Once they were clear, the keseth worked its
way out using its own abilities and those provided by the cwicustan
to force a way through solid earth. It came out of the mountain by
blasting its own adit, and Cefn, Ka'en, and Je'en waved and called
goodbyes after it as it crawled away. Cefn concentrated, drew up
enough power to teleport all three of them, and with a thought they
were safe back in Dargon, ready to rest a bit before continuing the
quest to save Je'en.
Thus there was no one to see the falling star come down near the
old mine. There was no explosion at its impact - in fact it settled
to the ground quite gently. The keseth entered the silver ovoid and
it rose majestically back into the air, carrying the keseth away
from its long-time prison and back to its home among the stars.
-John L. White
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TEN NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
*Worthy of the Title, Part I M. Wendy Hennquin
The Defiant Vector Brian M. Dean
The Quest Ron Trenka
*Quest, Part I John L. White
Date: 031288 Dist: 577
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Well, we've got a couple bits of news to relate, so let me jump
right into that. Firstly, there is now an open discussion group for
FSFnet readers on the network server CSNEWS@MAINE. Please feel free
to read and/or submit your comments to this group, as it's primary
purpose is reader feedback. Please note that CSNEWS will ONLY accept
commands via interactive messages; do NOT send mail files to it, as
they will be discarded. Also note that the subscribe functions will
subscribe you to the FORUM, not to FSFnet itself. The following are
some commands you might find useful in checking out this forum.
Request the CSBB HELPNET file for details on how to append to it.
SENDME CSNEWS HELPNET - sends you general CSNEWS help file
SENDME CSBB HELPNET - sends you CSBB bbs help file
SENDME FSFNET CSNOTICE FROM CSBB - sends you the current discussion
CSBB SUBSCRIBE FSFNET - subscribe to FSFnet discussion
CSBB UNSUBSCRIBE FSFNET - unsubscribe from forum
The other bit of news is that plans are being made for my
eventual graduation. After some discussion with the authors, the
current plans are for the following. While FSFnet will stop being
produced, the Dargon Project will continue, and the stories it
produces will be made public through a new magazine (possibly
dedicated solely to the printing of Dargon stories). FSFnet will
stop publication during the summer, and the new magazine will begin
at that time. Further details are still up in the air, but I will
continue to post news here about what is going on, and how things
will change when I leave. But we've still got several more issues to
send out before then, and I'm sure you'll enjoy this one. And, of
course, if you have anything you'd like to submit for printing, get
in touch with me. Enjoy!
-'Orny' Liscomb
Worthy of the Title: Part I
A frantic, far-away echo shattered the quiet of the library.
"Master Roisart, Master Roisart!"
The panic in the voice caused Roisart to snatch his gaze
immediately from the copy of "Legends and Myths of Thasodonea" and
stared instead at the open doors of the library. He could hear
commotion down the long halls of the old keep, the doors that opened
and shut in quick, startled rhythm, the running of the servants
called from duties, the wails and shouts. Over it all, he heard the
call still, ghastly and ghostly, frightened and far-away. "Master
Roisart! Master Roisart!"
Young Roisart stood, raced across the room. What has happened?
the young nobleman wondered, concerned. Has a war come to Dargon?
Although the library was a great room, Roisart soon reached the
opened double doors and called out, "Here I am! What is it?"
The heralding servant who been wailing his name slid to a stop
and then turned to his master. Fright and despair on his face, the
servant rolled his eyes and cried dramatically,"Oh, Master Roisart,
go quickly to the study. The baron is dead!"
Roisart paled and his eyes bulged, as if he had suddenly been
stuck in the stomach. "Dead? The baron dead?" But he cannot be dead!
He is healthy, and only five and forty! Quickly, Roisart demanded,
"Where is my brother?"
The servant gulped the tears he wanted to shed and replied
sorrowfully, "He is in the study, master. He has sent for you."
With a quick wave, Roisart dismissed the near-blubbering servant
and rushed with all his youth and strength to the study, the office
of the baron--the late baron. His blood beating in his ears, he
threw open the heavy door and cried, "Luthias! What has happened to
our father?"
The face that met Roisart's was the same as his own: the deep
brown eyes; the straight, aristocratic nose; the smooth,
well-defined jaw; the pinkish lips, usually merry with smiles, now
twisted with grief. Roisart's twin looked him in the eye and said,
slowly and solemnly, "Roisart, our father is dead."
"Dead?" denied Roisart scornfully. "Dead how? Father is young.
He has never been ill--"
"Roisart," repeated his twin brother Luthias deliberately, "our
father is dead."
"But what could kill our father?" demanded Roisart. "He's as
strong as a horse."
"No, Roisart," sighed Luthias, falling heavily into the padded
chair behind the desk. "The horse was stronger. Sit."
With a reluctant grimace, Roisart came into the room and sat in
another padded chair, the one that faced his father's desk. Memories
of his father crowded his thoughts. There was that time that he and
his twin Luthias, very small boys, had squirmed in this chair as
their noble father scolded them for some forgotten offense. And the
times that they had brought their school books in here to study and
be near their father. And the time when their father had lifted them
both on his strong shoulders to look at the lion's head that hung on
the wall. His father was a strong man...
"What do you mean," blurted Roisart, "the horse was stronger?"
"Dragonfire threw him. Father's neck was broken."
"Dragonfire?" gasped Roisart. "But, Luthias, Dragonfire is the
best trained stallion in the stables! Father trained him himself! I
remember! And Father--Father is the best horseman alive! There is no
way that he could have been killed in that way!"
Luthias closed his eyes. "Roisart, there is no doubt that Father
is dead. I have seen the body." He opened his eyes again, stared at
his brother. "Do you wish to?"
Roisart quieted a little. He kept Luthias' gaze a moment, then
looked at the carpeted floor. "No, Luthias," he replied in a muffled
way. "I want to remember him living, not dead."
His father truly was dead. "But it wasn't the horse," he murmured.
"What does it matter what it was?" wondered Luthias, almost
snapping. "There are matters to be attended to. The body must be
prepared and buried by sundown, as is the custom. I have called the
priests." Luthias then waved at a fine piece of parchment on their
father's desk. "I am trying to find words to tell our cousin, Lord
Dargon, of this. And I've sent for Manus."
Roisart gave his twin a quizzical look. "Manus the Healer? Why?"
Luthias shrugged. "Father deemed his wise, and so do you, my
brother. And there must, for the next five days, be a regent."
Roisart quieted and nodded. "Yes, a regent," he agreed. He had
forgotten for a moment that there were five days between this day,
the third day of Melrin, the Spring Festival, and the third day of
Yule, when he and Luthias would reach the age of majority,
twenty-one. Only then would they be old enough to rule the barony in
their father's place.
"Luthias!" Roisart gasped urgently, "Which of us shall inherit?"
Luthias scowled with old ferocity. "Accursed be that midwife who
neglected to note which of us is elder!"
"You can't blame her. Mother was dying, and she was trying to
save her."
"She's caused us more problems--and Mother died, in any case,"
snapped Luthias. "And now there is no way to decide who is to rule."
"I often told Father that he should choose one of us," sighed
Roisart. "But he wanted to wait until we were twenty-one, until he
thought we could both accept his choice." Roisart thought for a
moment. "Could he have left some will?"
"I don't know; I didn't even think of that," Luthias grumbled.
He began to rummage among the papers on his father's desk. By the
time that Luthias started to search the desk's drawers, Roisart was
lost in thought once more. "Damnation!" cried Luthias in
frustration. "Nothing!"
"It couldn't have been an accident," mumbled Roisart. "Father
was too good a rider, and Dragonfire too good a horse."
Luthias slapped the desk in anger. "Roisart, haven't you been
listening? One of us is soon to become Baron of Connall, and with no
indication of which of us Father wished to rule in his place. None
at all!"
"No papers?"
Luthias shook his head. "Unless there was some other place he
kept them."
"Do you have the key to the locked drawer?"
"Yes, and I've already looked. Only the seal and the
proclamation that made him baron of Connall."
"Nothing at all, then," murmured Roisart. "He never even had a
favorite between us."
Luthias smiled affectionately at the memory. "It was a point of
honor for him," Luthias agreed. "He let each of us be who we are,
and loved us both equally for it." He scowled then. "But it gives us
trouble now. How are we supposed to determine which of us shall next
be the Baron of Connall?"
"We have no proof of first-born," Roisart began his analysis.
"And we have no proof of favoritism. On that, we are agreed."
Roisart looked his twin brother in the eyes, the eyes so like his
own. "Luthias, we have never been able to lie to one another. Tell
me, then. Do you wish to rule in our father's place?"
Luthias gave his brother a look of consternation. "Rule?" He
appeared to be thinking of the possibility for the first time. "I
had always assumed that you would rule. You have read so much more..."
"True, but Father made certain that we both were learned enough
to rule well," Roisart argued. "And you are so much better a fighter
than I."
At this, Luthias smiled, almost wickedly. "Don't underestimate
yourself, Roisart. I wouldn't want to fight against you."
"Thanks," Roisart replied almost ruefully. "But answer me, twin.
Do you wish to rule?"
Luthias let the possibilities roam his mind, then said, "I will
if I must, Roisart." His voice was strong, calm, and even, as if
Luthias were older than his almost twenty-one years. "But I have no
great wish to be a Baron and rule."
Roisart sighed like a man beneath a heavy stone. "Nor do I, my
brother. Nor do I."
"It must be decided, Roisart," Luthias stated. "And it must be
decided soon."
Roisart mentally sought possibilities. "We could gamble for it.
Cast dice..."
Luthias stared at his brother with surprise and disbelief, and
when he saw that Roisart was completely serious, Luthias began to
laugh. "Oh, Roisart, thank you. What would I do without you? In the
midst of grieving a father and trying to solve a dilemma that has
plagued us throughout our lives, you and only you can make me laugh."
Roisart wrinkled his brow and looked at his twin brother in a
confused way. "But Luthias, I meant it. We should cast dice."
Still smiling, Luthias continued. "I know you meant it, Roisart,
and that was what I found amusing. Cast dice? Would that hold any
authenticity before the court? You've got to be more practical about
things like this, Roisart."
"Practical? Authenticity?" stammered Roisart in mock indignance.
Even in grief, his twin could still make him play. "You wish
practicality and authenticity, my brother? Then why don't we just go
to our cousin lord Dargon and let him decide? What more authentic
and more practical solution could you want? We should let our Lord
decide, and save ourselves the trouble."
"That," Luthias agreed, "is the wisest thing you've said in a
week, Roisart."
"Then I'll have the horses saddled," Roisart offered as he rose
from the chair.
"Have you forgotten that our father needs yet to be entombed?"
Luthias asked with stern gravity.
Roisart started. He had forgotten. In that golden moment, when
he and his brother had teased each other, when everything was like
it had been before, Roisart had forgotten. Now, the knowledge came
back like a stinging boomerang. His father had died.
"There is much to be done," Luthias softly said.
"You do it, then," Roisart urged his brother, thoughts of their
father's death ruling out all else. Luthias watched his twin
sympathetically while Roisart buried his head in his hands. "No,"
mumbled the young nobleman.
Luthias left the desk and went to his brother. He put a hand on
Roisart's shoulder. "No?"
"Our father did not die," Roisart declared with passionate
conviction. His head flew from his hands, and Luthias, startled,
moved backwards. "And I'm going to go and find what murdered him!"
Murdered! His father was dead! The knowledge screamed inside him
for release, for action. And there, in the study, Roisart cried out
like a small boy and began to weep. And Luthias, the practical one
who knew that crying for a dead man was useless, put his arms around
his beloved brother, and, as they had done all things in their life,
they wept for their noble father together.
Roisart adamantly insisted on riding his father's prized
stallion Dragonfire to Dargon, despite the grooms' warnings of evil
spirits. Roisart, though he believed in a spirit world, scoffed the
very idea and declared above the fearful projections of the grooms
that he would ride his father's horse, damn it, and that was that.
Luthias, too, scorned the idea of evil spirits possessing his
father's steed, but watched his twin with worried eyes. After all,
that strong, red mount had thrown their father yesterday to an
unexpected death.
And Roisart had been behaving strangely. Yesterday, just after
the twins jointly mourned their father in the privacy of the old
study, Roisart had burst out of the keep's gates, taking with him a
groom, the groom which had accompanied the twins' father on his last
ride. No, the young lord hadn't been acting desperate, the groom had
told Roisart, just a wee strange. They had gone back to the scene of
the death (there was still blood on the new grass), and Lord Roisart
acted as a hound on the hunt, dashing here, darting there, rummaging
through the brush. And when they had returned, Roisart, withdrawn,
had refused to speak to old Manus, who had just arrived for the
funeral, and didn't even deign to speak to his own twin. After they
had entombed their dear father, Roisart returned to normal--as
normal as a grieving son could be--but still, Luthias worried.
Luthias motioned the protesting grooms to be silent. "We have a
right to ride our father's horse," Luthias told them gently. With
another wave, he dismissed them. When they had gone, he asked,
"Twin, are you all right?"
"Yes, I... I just wanted to ride him. He was Father's favorite."
That was true, and it was for good reasons that Dragonfire was
the late Baron's favored horse. Luthias admitted to himself the
incredibility of his father dying on horseback, especially that
particular horse's back. He didn't press the issue. Instead, Luthias
gazed up at the dark, pre-dawn sky. "We should get moving."
Roisart nodded, and motioned for the brace of guards and a
manservant to urge on their mounts. Stately, but not lethargically,
the party moved forward toward Dargon.
It wouldn't be a long trip, thankfully. The earliness, on which
had decided the night before, would shorten the trip more. Besides,
the brothers had no wish to try to wade their good horses through
the crowds which would be soon flooding the roads on the way to the
Melrin festival. And neither wanted to deal with the curiosity and
pity of a peasant crowd seeing twin noblemen dressed in mourning blue.
Yes, it was best to get to Dargon early. The earlier the better;
the earlier they arrived, the sooner their cousin Clifton Dargon
could decide, once and forever, which of the two was worthy to be
Baron of Connall. And the sooner that was decided, the easier both
twins would feel.
The little band moved ahead, each of the members buried in
thought. Luthias looked at his twin, and knew that Roisart was still
wondering how their father could have died like that. Concerned for
his brother, and, indeed, what had happened to his father, Luthias,
too, considered, and kept turning his head to watch his twin.
After about an hour--halfway to Dargon--Roisart caught his
brother's eye and almost smiled. "Father always taught us that the
good fighters live long. It still makes me--"
Roisart felt something hit him hard, and at once found himself
on the hard, startling ground. For a wild, wicked moment he thought
it was true: Dragonfire is a mad horse and he threw my Father!
Then he saw before him the sly-eyed, leather-clad man who held a
steel knife sharpened to the point of beauty. Then he heard the
manservant's cry, "Masters! Thieves!"
Roisart erupted from a form lying prostrate in the dust to a
poised warrior. It took him only a moment of squinting in the
half-dark to take in the situation: seven thieves, all dressed in
tooled leather armor, all armed with swords and knives. And the near
darkness which made the counting difficult worked to his advantage
and Luthias'; it was easier to see the light brown of leather than
the blue of mourning in the pre-dawn light.
Luthias had already taken the battle and his good sword into his
own hands. Instinctively, Luthias was battling a brigand on one side
of his horse; the opposite foot automatically kicked at another
oncoming thief. Without blinking from the divided effort, Luthias
continued to thrust and parry, to swirl his sword in the darkened
air against the severely outmatched thief.
Roisart heard the dull, weighty footfalls of an charging thief
and poised himself for the fight. Using every instinct his father
had branded onto his brain, Roisart the warrior side-stepped the
thief's attack and thrust his blade into the peasant's back. Blood
from the spurting heart sprayed him once, then subsided.
Abruptly, his breath was stopped, and there was a terrible
weight on his back. A mighty snake constricted his throat. His eyes
bugged; in the shadowy light, he saw the manservant's head explode
into pulp. One of them must have a crossbow, he thought. Angry and
desperate, he flung the assailant on his back toward the ugly sight.
As the first beam of dawnlight reached him, Roisart plunged his
sword into the second thief.
Two thieves were fencing with Roisart's brother, and trampling a
dead comrade beneath their feet. Kick one, stab the other, quick,
parry, Luthias! But Luthias was fast, well-trained. Roisart scanned
the area. One of the guards was dead. The old manservant was dead.
The other guard was ineptly trying to beat off the remaining two
that plagued him.
Roisart sprinted to his servant's rescue, screaming a
frightening but meaningless sound that masqueraded as a battle cry,
and swinging his sword above his head. Roisart saw his guard fall in
seeming terror, saw a thief fall from his bloodied blade, chased the
one who tried to run away.
But he was tripped, and fell onto one of the thieves' dead
bodies. His face flopped onto the fatal wound received by his guard.
Warm blood gently blushed his cheeks. Like a man suspended in a
dream, he watched as the fleeing scoundrel was joined by another,
and together they ducked into the shadows of the woods.
Winded, Roisart lie still and gazed at the corpses.
"Roisart!" A voice was calling him. He heard the careful steps
of a well-trained horse. "Roisart! Are you all right?"
Good Luthias. Roisart scrutinized the leather, the blade, the
corpse. He managed to draw a breath and speak. "These are too fine
for common brigands," he croaked.
Luthias rolled his eyes and groaned internally. "We've got to
get out of here, Roisart! Two are on their way to get others. Are
you hurt? Can you ride?"
Meticulously, Roisart pulled himself to a sitting, then standing
position. Luthias saw the blood on his brothers face and paled.
Frantic, he began to dismount. "No, I'm all right," Roisart assured
his brother, holding up a hand to stay him. "Don't worry, twin. It
isn't mine. I'm all right. I'm not even bruised. I can ride.
Luthias, look at this." He bent and retrieved a sword. "Look at
this. These were no common thieves, Luthias."
Luthias whistled at Dragonfire, who neighed once and came
quickly to Luthias' call. "Quickly, Roisart. We must get to Dargon
before they can return with more."
Graceful as a acrobat, Roisart vaulted onto Dragonfire's waiting
saddle. "Luthias, this may not be--"
"Never mind!" Luthias interrupted harshly. "Let's leave this
place, before we're butchered! Come!"
Spurring their steeds, the twins raced to the city of Dargon.
The Lord of Dargon's hardened guardians of the Keep considered
screaming or fleeing from the terrible apparition which confronted
them first thing in the morning on the fourth of Melrin. A red horse
and a black one, both in a lather, scattered a few early travelers
from the road as they charged up to the gates of Dargon Keep. Upon
the horses were twin death-riders, dressed in death-blue, with faces
out of nightmares. The grisly visage of the one on the red mount was
streaked with drying blood; the countenance of the other was a
horrid purple on one side, deathly pale on the other.
But the sergeant had long been a veteran, who had just joined
the company after returning from the wars where he had witnessed
many deaths. Death, even delivered by death-riders, inspired no fear
in him. "Who comes, in the name of Dargon?" he demanded boldly.
The one upon the black horse, the one with the mockery of a
harlequin face spoke, and his voice was as loud, as bold, as fierce,
as the sergeant. "I am Luthias Connall. He--" One apparition
motioned to the other. "--is my brother, Roisart Connall. We have
come to see the Lord of Dargon. Admit us!"
These ghostly horrors, sons to the Baron of Connall? The guards
muttered their doubt amongst themselves. The sergeant scrutinized
them. The blood and the bruise made recognition near impossible, and
he had never seen the sons of Connall, only the Baron himself. "You
are unfit to see the Lord," snapped the sergeant.
"When are men unfit to see the son of their father's brother?"
Roisart shouted angrily.
"Admit us," demanded Luthias fiercely. "It is urgent!"
"What is happening here?" asked another voice. Luthias and
Roisart exchanged glances and expelled a simultaneous, relieved
sigh. Bartol, bard and personal body guard to their cousin Lord
Dargon, had arrived, thanks to the gods. Neither twin wished to
argue with this new sergeant all day.
Bartol saw the double terror before the gate and stared at the
twins for a moment. The gaze was intense, searching for a clue to
identity beneath the defacings of the previous scuffle. Then Bartol
ordered, "Admit Masters Roisart and Luthias--now."
The sergeant turned away, giving the twins a look askance. "Do
as he says," he grumbled.
Reluctantly, the guards opened the heavy gates, all the while
muttering amongst themselves. Bartol bowed at the noble brothers as
the urged their exhausted steeds into the courtyard. "Grooms!"
called the bard. Two lads--hardly old enough to be called grooms,
Roisart thought--ran forward to lead their mounts away.
"See they're brushed and taken care of," Luthias ordered
sternly. He dismounted as if he were aching all over.
The so-called grooms mumbled affirmations and led the tired
horses away. Bartol looked after them and then turned to the
brothers. "Masters, what has happened?"
Roisart appeared pensive; Luthias scowled. "We must see our
cousin, Lord Dargon."
"He's not yet risen, but I shall call him," promised Bartol. He
looked quickly around the courtyard. "Nidh'r," he called to one of
the servants unloading a wagon filled with new tables, "come show
Master Roisart and Master Luthias to the study."
The strong youth that was Nidh'r joined the twins, then led them
through the familiar halls of Dargon keep to their cousin's study.
Often, the twins had played in this Keep, when their father and his
brother, the late Lord of Dargon, were both alive. After that, when
the twins were young men, and Clifton Dargon, six years their
senior, had become lord, Luthias and Roisart had accompanied their
father to the Keep for balls, banquets, and other affairs of state
and society.
It had been nearly six months since they had been here, though;
snowy, treacherous roads halted all noble society gatherings for the
winter. But when the Melrin festival came, all the festivities began
again with the Melrin Ball, sponsored by Lord Dargon himself.
Nidh'r bowed the twins into the study and seemingly melted into
the castle. Too weary to fall into chairs, Roisart and Luthias
rested on their feet a moment, waiting for their cousin.
"Roisart and Luthias?" they heard suddenly. Their cousin's voice
was muffled by the door in back of the study. "Of course, they're
here, Bartol. The ball is tomorrow night. They and mine uncle are
supposed to be here. What do they want to see me so early for?"
The door in the back of the study opened in one, swift movement
to reveal Lord Clifton Dargon, who stopped short and stared at his
cousins. They, too tired to speak, returned the gaze. They saw
Clifton, Lord of Dargon, yet another version of themselves.
Clifton's face wore a startled expression, but otherwise, he looked
alike enough unto the twins to be their brother. He stood taller,
however, perhaps due to his greater age, and the fairy which had
brushed the twins' dark hair with a bit of auburn had neglected
their cousin. But the eyes were the same, dark, and full of concern.
"My god," the Lord of Dargon finally said, "what befell you
two?" Clifton stared at their faces. "Are you all right? Bartol,
call Griswald." The bard crossed the room, and stuck his head out
the door. Dargon continued his inspection. "Roisart," he continued,
gazing at the neckline of the one twin's mourning clothes, "you look
like someone hung you and slit your throat. You had better sit down.
Luthias, what happened to you?" The blue of the clothes finally
washed over Dargon. "My god!" he cried. "Who are you mourning?"
"Father," Luthias announced stoically, "died yesterday.
Dragonfire threw him."
Suddenly, Dargon's face went white. Bartol, at the door, began
to laugh. "Dragonfire threw your father? Your father, who almost
invented horsemanship?" Bartol gasped between guffaws. "Come,
masters, I know that jesting is a great part of Melrin, but you
could have at least thought of something more credible."
"That's just it, Bartol," Clifton said with a note of doom in
his voice. "If it were a jest, my cousins certainly would have come
up with a more believable story than that. And they wouldn't appear
here in mourning clothes stained by blood." The Lord of Dargon
looked from one twin to the other. "Someone assassinated your
father. And it looks like they tried the same upon you."
"They weren't common thieves who attacked us," Roisart agreed.
"Their weaponry was too superior for that. And I rode Dragonfire
here. He's still the best stallion ever trained."
Dargon nodded. "Yes, Roisart. It's absurd to think that your
father was killed on horseback."
"But it isn't practical to think him assassinated either,"
Luthias contended. "Why would anyone want to kill our father?"
"Probably for the same reason that they've been trying to kill
me," sighed Lord Dargon. "Luthias, sit down, before you collapse.
Bartol, get some breakfast for my cousins." Bartol nodded and
slipped out the door. Dargon stared at Luthias until the portal shut
again. "What happened to your face?"
"One of the bastards threw a rock at me," Luthias quickly
brushed the bruise away. "I'm all right."
"And I was lucky enough to be covered with someone else's blood
instead of my own," Roisart told his cousin. "But this isn't
important. How long have people been out to assassinate you, Clifton?"
Dargon shrugged and fell into his chair. "A few years. We've
been unsuccessful in tracing it." He grimaced. "I had feared for
your father, as he was my heir."
"Did Father know of this?" Luthias wondered, finally sitting.
Again, Dargon nodded. "Of course. I wouldn't keep a thing like
this from him. I set great store upon your father and his advice,
and I needed it badly at the time."
"We were never told," Roisart informed the lord. "That isn't
like Father."
Clifton smiled. "Not like him? Roisart, remember, you were only
sixteen? seventeen, perhaps? when this all started. To your father,
you were still boys. I wanted to have you told, but your father
refused." The Lord of Dargon again became grave. "It appears that I
was correct in thinking that you, cousins, were also in danger. And
now, that your father is dead..."
"Yes," began Luthias "Now that father is dead, we have a problem."
Clifton Dargon nodded. "I shall have to send some body guards to
attend you. You're not safe."
"Clifton," Luthias' voice insisted on attention, "there is no
Baron of Connall. We don't know who is the elder, and Father didn't
have a favorite. We have six days--you have six days--to appoint a
Baron. Manus is regent now, but we become adults soon, Clifton, and
this must be decided quickly."
"I can't put one of you in that sort of danger," Dargon
declared. "I won't do it. You're in peril enough already."
"Clifton, it must be done," Luthias reminded him roughly.
"Listen, Luthias," the Lord of Dargon requested politely, but
with a hard edge in his voice. Roisart realized that his cousin must
have been feeling very frustrated. Here Clifton's uncle were dead,
probably because he had been Dargon's heir, his own life was in
peril, and he had no idea who was seeking to end his life and why.
And now there was Luthias. Roisart understood his cousin's
exasperation. Luthias could drive one to distraction by just looking
at the surface and acting.
"Listen, Luthias," Dargon began again, "if I name one of you
Baron of Connall, I'm sentencing you to death. Any favor I show
either of you will get you killed. You're my heirs now, and whoever
killed your father, whoever is trying to kill me, may also try to
kill you. If I give proof that I think one of you is more
worthwhile, you'd be struck down in an instant, and the other of
your would be set up as a puppet in their plans--whatever they are."
Dargon paused and took a heavy breath. "And I have no wish to
pit you one against the other. Decide yourselves."
"Decide ourselves?" Luthias echoed, incredulous. "Clifton, how
are we supposed to know who would be a better--"
Luthias and his twin twisted as the door behind them opened.
Lord Dargon looked above their heads. "Ah. Griswald. Good. Come in,
and attend to my cousins."
The old physician, his hair still unkempt from sleep, shuffled
into the room and dropped a leather case of sorts. He looked at each
of the twins, then turned his attention to Roisart. "What happened
to you two?" he grumbled, examining Roisart's bloody brow.
"We were attacked by brigands," Roisart explained. "I'm all
right, Griswald. It's their blood, not mine."
Griswald crossed over to Luthias then and turned the young
lord's head towards him. "Hmmm," he fussed. "Nasty. I can take care
of that though." He stooped, opened his case and fumbled in it.
"What's the mourning for? It's Melrin."
"Our father died yesterday," Luthias told him simply.
Griswald appeared to flinch, or to shudder. He quickly looked
Luthias in the eye, then turned back to his bag and began fumbling
again. In a moment, he gave a gruff, mumbled, "Sorry." Then: "He was
a good man."
"Thank you, Griswald," Roisart answered kindly, although he
thought the eulogy sounded a little grudging, or angry, perhaps.
Griswald stood quickly, a little vial in his hand. "Here,
youngster, this way," he beckoned Luthias. The term annoyed the
young nobleman, a nice cream to his anger. But he turned, and
Griswald poured some of what was in the vial onto his hand. Then he
gingerly began to rub it into Luthias' bruise. "You be careful now,
lad," he said gruffly. He turned abruptly to Lord Dargon. "He'll be
all right. I'm going back to bed."
Without a dismissal, Griswald turned and left, slamming the
heavy door behind him.
"What's wrong with him?" Luthias wondered, trying to crack a
smile. His face was already beginning to feel better, and the violet
hue was fading.
Dargon shrugged. "He's not usually this cranky when we wake him.
I would think that a physician like him would be used to it."
"Perhaps something is ailing him," Roisart speculated. "Or
something is weighing on his mind."
Clifton shrugged. "God knows. Griswald rarely speaks." He looked
at his cousins. "You know you are welcome to stay here with me. I
was expecting you for the festival. And you will come to the ball."
"You would think that civilized custom would give us more time
to mourn our father," Roisart complained angrily.
"Life goes on, Roisart," Luthias said. "And so must we."
There was a knock on the door. "Yes?" asked the Lord.
"It's me, sir," Bartol called.
"It's all right," Dargon answered. "Come in."
"The cook will have breakfast ready for you and the young lords
shortly," the bard informed them, entering and shutting the door.
"The south dining room is being prepared."
Clifton nodded. "Thank you, Bartol." To his cousins, he said,
"There have been rooms prepared for you down the hall. Why don't you
refresh yourselves and change clothes before we eat?"
Luthias rose and stretched. "Good idea, Clifton. Roisart?"
His twin stood as well. "Coming. We'll meet you there, Clifton."
Bartol and Lord Dargon watched at the twin nobles left the room.
The bard shut the door behind them and turned to his lord.
"I want a watch kept on my kinsmen, Bartol," Dargon ordered.
"See to it personally. I'm certain that, being here, they'll go out
into the festival. They may be in danger. I don't want them harmed."
"It will be done, my lord," Bartol answered.
A strange rhythmic knock sounded at Griswald's door. Hastily,
Griswald turned from his work--ruining it in his hurry--and opened
the door. There stood that Lek Pyle, the despicable merchant that
had threatened Griswald so many years ago to join this insane plot
against the Lord of Dargon.
"You killed Fionn Connall," Griswald accused.
"Of course I did," Pyle snapped. "Do you think I want him to be
the Lord of Dargon after we are rid of Clifton? He was too strong."
"And now what do you do?" the physician challenged. "Now there
are twin heirs. Which shall die and which shall live?"
Lek Pyle displayed a wicked grin. "I've already decided that, my
dear Griswald. I've had them watched. Their guardian, Manus, has
already told me what I want to know of them. When we rid ourselves
of Clifton's menace, we will dispose of Luthias Connall as well.
Like his father, he is too strong, and not wont to listen. The
other--Roisart, is he?--is also quite a strong young man, but he
will listen to arguements, and it will be easy to trick him into
convincing the King to go to war with Bichu."
Griswald felt angry, uncomfortable. "What now, then? When do we
end this insanity, Pyle?"
"Soon, dear Griswald, soon," Lek Pyle vowed. "Tommorow, at the
Melrin ball. I've already arranged for two crossbowmen. They will be
here tommorow afternoon. I need you to mix poison, quick poison, for
the bolts."
Griswald's discomfort turned to near sickness. Was he to poison
one of the men he had just healed?
Pyle saw the near-ready protest in Griswald's eyes. "Do it,
Griswald. Remember," he threatened through his teeth, "your life is
in my hands."
As it had been from the beginning, Griswald remembered with
bitterness. He turned to the worktable. "It will be done."
Lek Pyle smiled. "Good." The merchant looked intensely
satisfied. "Now, dear physician, I must leave. I, too, attend the
ball." At Griswald's surprised expression, Pyle added, "Did you
think I would miss my triumph?"
The merchant left the keep laughing.
-M. Wendy Hennequin
The Defiant Vector
I don't like three space. I don't like it at all. There has to
be more to life than just up, down, left, right, forwards,
backwards. I wish I could travel in four space or even five space
but the systems manager has stuck me in this lousy three space and
there is no way I can get out.
I am a vector and let me tell you, it's no fun. Even though I go
through different transformations, I am still a vector. And no
matter how I am transformed, I still end up in the same lousy three
space. Even if I could only just once in awhile, get into a
different sub-three space of four space it wouldn't be too bad. But
of course I am stuck in this same lousy three space and it is
pissing me off.
It must be different for you. After all you are a hyper-cube.
You can extend into four space. I know that there are those worse
off than me. Like some vectors are stuck in two space, flatland I
think it's called. And some aren't allowed to go through
transformations as often as I do. But I'm better than they are, I
deserve some respect. After all, wasn't it me who traced out the
path of the positron in the nuclear labratory? And wasn't it me who
traced out the path of all of the other particles that physicists
have come up with? But does the systems manager care? No not in the
least. Why doesn't he give me the respect I deserve? But here I am
in three space and I will probably stay here for all eternity.
Yes, I have met other shapes before, I mean other than yourself.
I met a hyperbolic paraboloid once. He was still three dimensional
but I would like to be one of them. It would be better than being a
vector I can say that much. I have heard once from someone that
hyperbolic paraboloids are good at sex. After giving it some thought
I imagine they would be. After all they do have a hump. But that's
not really what I like about them. I like the way they extend in an
infinite direction both ways. Sort of like a line but even more so.
I never was able to extend in an infinite direction. My norm has
changed once in awhile but that of course is not the same thing.
I also met a hyper-sphere one time. Not too interesting. They
act like they're gods or something but they really aren't. So they
extend around in a perfect circle in four dimensions. Big deal! I
never did understand why the greeks were so fond of circles. I know
that they symbolized perfection but so what? What is perfect anyway?
That's another reason why I like the hyperbolic paraboloid so much.
It represents chaos and disorder and that's what the universe should
be represented as. Not some prissy, goody-two-shoes, kind of thing
like the circle, or the sphere, or the hyper-sphere, but the
hyperbolic paraboloid. That's what the universe should be to me.
I wonder what shape the systems manager is. I bet he's some kind
of hyper-hyper-sphere, or maybe he exists in infinite space, the
lucky bastard. But whatever he is I bet he isn't some stupid vector
or something. Maybe he can be anything he wants any time he wants.
Now that would be the ultimate insult. Who does he think he is, God?
I think this systems manager should be overthrown and defeated.
I would like to fight the systems manager. I know I will be
defeated but I must try. Maybe if I get a whole bunch of shapes
together we could overthrow the systems manager. I could get some
hyperbolic paraboloids and some hyper-cubes and I wouldn't even mind
it if we had some dodecahedrons in the group. I like dodecahedrons.
Or maybe even some pyramids or maybe even some hyper-lemniscates.
But I don't want any circles or spheres or hyper-spheres or anything
of that sort into the group. They are too snobish. But if we got all
of these shapes together I know we could overthrow the systems
manager. Then everyone could be anything they want to be and the
universe would be a much better place to live in.
-Brian Michael Dean <3895D393@KENTGOLD>
The Beast before me gave a cry of joy
and I saw delight in its eyes at my demise.
I was filled with a hate for the creature
who loved death so.
With a mighty heave
I brought up my blade
and slew him.
And then I cried.
My tears were for the waste of life
My tears were for the tortured
My tears burned with the hate
of all those causing pain.
So my journey became a quest
which I would carry far and wide
To the ends of the world
Wherever death hides.
A quest, a great quest
to be told throughout the ages
of a single warrior
trying to stop Death.
As the fame of my quest spread
people gazed at themselves and wondered
They put down their weapons and applauded my approach
and the death dissappeared, and I was glad.
Then a new realization came upon me
as I fought for my great cause,
that Death may have been banished for a time,
yet it had reappeared, in form anew
I shrank back in horror
and saw what I had done
I had taken death from the hands of the masses
and become Death itself.
And so I realized
after many years
that Death cannot be banished
that he always reappears
At least I did what I could
and brought away death for a time
The happiness I brought
brightened the day, if but for a while
And now I embark upon my last journey
to a land far, far away
and once again remove Death from the world
until it manefests itself in a new form
and darkens the day
I wonder if I will meet another,
who rose up in my place
and once again started my grand quest,
and came upon the realization
that ended my quest and made me depart.
-Ron Trenka
Prolog
The hamlet of Trasath was not a happy place. Too recently in the
memory of its population tragedy had struck, and it had warped all
of their lives. By the Kingdom's reckoning it was in the eighth year
of King Arenth's reign that the snow started falling early and thaw
came late. To complicate the already tense situation of a long
winter on normal stores, the weather was so bad that it drove the
wolves from the hills as far north and west as Trasath. The village
wasn't prepared for such an unheard of occurence, nor for the
ferocity and ravening hunger of the misplaced predators. That came
to be known as the Wolf Winter and it claimed more than half of the
lives in Trasath.
Certain people in the village saw the tragedy as an opportunity
to gain power and prestige. Forces were called on, pacts were made,
and assurances were given to the remaining populace that the Wolf
Winter would never come again - as long as everyone did as they were
told. Even 12 years later, the effects of the Wolf Winter were still
being felt in Trasath.
I knelt beside Keryin's grave as I had so many times before, and
placed the roses I carried before the simple cruciform headstone
that bore only her name. I had missed my sister from the day she
died five years ago, but now I would miss her even more. For my
father was sending me to the ducal seat, Dargon, to be apprenticed
to his sister's husband as a blacksmith. It wasn't what I wanted to
do - either go to Dargon or become a blacksmith - but I had to obey
my father. What made the decision strange, however, was that I would
be the first person to leave Trasath for any length of time since
the Wolf Winter 12 years ago. Trasath had yet to really recover from
that, and it needed every able hand to keep it alive, yet I was
being sent away. It didn't make sense.
Even so, I was going. I would miss my parents and the village,
but I would miss Keryin the most. She was fifteen when she died, and
I only nine, but we were still best of friends. Even her grave
seemed able to comfort me when I was feeling very lonely or
depressed. I said good-bye to her yet again, rose, and walked back
to the house.
The circumstances of Keryin's death were still a mystery to me
so long after the fact. No one would answer the questions of her
grieving brother. In fact, it seemed as if I had been the only one
to grieve - the rest of the villagers hardly let it upset their
daily routines. I couldn't even learn whether she had been slain by
an animal, or had been taken by a sudden illness in her bed. The
mystery was just one small piece of strangeness in a strange town,
though. I hadn't travelled far in my fourteen years (in fact, not at
all), but I was sure from the wandering tale-tellers' stories that
Trasath was not like most small villages. Here the neighbors were
all dour and taciturn, each careful about seeming to mind his own
business while trying to mind everyone else's. There was much
sneaking and much suspicion and at times I thought I would be glad
to get out of such a place.
As I approached my home, I heard voices within. Two men by the
sound of it, and they must have been in the front room as well for
they weren't speaking very loudly.
The first voice was that of Master Dineel, the tavern-keeper. I
caught him in mid-sentence and the part I heard made no sense.
Neither did the tone of his voice - it was a forceful, commanding
tone such as I had never heard before. The part I heard was, "...cul
is not pleased by this!"
My father, the other voice, replied as if to a superior, which
Master Dineel wasn't as far as I knew. "My Lord, my
brother-by-marriage is expecting the boy and it would be strange to
forbid him to leave now. To do so would cause talk in Dargon. So, he
must go whether you will or no. I...I just could not bear to put
another at risk..."
"Enough!" said Master Dineel. "We will discuss this further
later, in a more private place. But know this now: we do not allow
our rules to be flaunted without price. If the boy goes to Dargon,
you will pay with more certainty than if he stayed. Farewell."
I ducked out of sight as the tavern-keeper stormed out of the
house. I was quite confused by the conversation. I was sure they had
been talking about me, but I didn't know in what way. I knew that
sending me away was strange but why would Master Dineel threaten my
father for doing it?
I entered the house prepared to question Father about it,
sensing that some of the mystery of Trasath might be explained by
his answer, but he was briskly cheerful to me and didn't let me get
in a word as he asked me whether I was ready to leave and telling me
what it would be like living in a big city like Dargon. I knew that
there was worry of some kind behind his talk for my father was not
normally so effusive. I wanted to help him, make him less afraid and
less unhappy, but I didn't know how. So I listened to his stories
and his advice as we waited for my Uncle to arrive.
Shortly before Uncle Lavran rode up, I asked my father, "Can I
come back and be Trasath's blacksmith when Uncle has taught me
everything?" His silence went on for a long time, and finally he
replied slowly and sadly, "No, son, I think you should stay in
Dargon. Smith Braden's already teaching his son his trade, so we
don't need a 'smith here. Stay in Dargon and make a good living
there - make a new life for yourself and forget Trasath altogether.
Lavran's a good man - my dad wouldn't have let Mellide marry him if
he wasn't. Respect him, learn to love him, and let them, my sister
and him, be your family from now on."
"But why, father? Why must I leave? Why..."
"I cannot tell you - I want to, but I cannot. Just obey me and
forget Trasath. It shouldn't be hard - I've heard that Dargon is a
fascinating place. I love you, son, I love you dearly but life will
be much better for you away from here. Much better..."
Just then, we both heard hoofbeats outside and a man's voice was
hailing Father. I was introduced to Uncle Lavran, a big, hefty,
jolly-seeming person who greeted me with an openness that warmed me
to him imediately. The three of us together loaded Uncle's pack mule
with my few belongings. I hugged Father and said good-bye with tears
in my eyes. I had taken leave of Mother earlier in the day, before
going to say farewell to Keryin, and she stayed in the kitchen now
to avoid a repitition of that very teary encounter. Uncle had
brought an extra horse for me so I mounted up, waved one last time,
and rode away from Trasath, for ever as far as I knew.
Part I
Midsummer's day was one of the few days that Uncle let his
apprentices off to enjoy themselves. It wasn't exactly a holiday -
not like either Founding Day, or the King's Birthday, or Varhla's
Day - but there was a tradition of picnics and games on that day,
especially for the younger people. I didn't really have any plans
for the day, unlike Mernath and Dersh, my fellow apprentices. They
had the whole day plotted out, but I thought that they had probably
gotten more pleasure out of the planning then they would out of the
implementation. I thought I might visit the markets, and perhaps the
docks, but I really just wanted to relax. But, once again, Leriel
changed all of that.
Of the many changes in my life in the two years since leaving
Trasath, Leriel had been the best. Dargon was a big city, and very
strange to one who had lived his whole life among the same thirty
people. But, eventually I got used to it. Working as an apprentice
blacksmith was a far cry from helping out in the fields of the
village, or aiding the carpenter as able in fixing a roof or adding
a room. It was hard, at times nothing but drudge work, and often
boringly repititious. But, I was learning a little every day and I
was already able to pound out nails from rod-stock with precision.
Next would be raw-shaping horseshoes - one of the most important
skills a blacksmith needed.
But, Leriel was nothing like learning a new city or a new trade.
Firstly, she had been totally unexpected. Uncle hadn't told Father
about the orphan he and Mellide had adopted. Leriel was very close
to my age - just a month less than sixteen with four months between
us. In that way, she was very like my sister. In fact, there were a
lot of ways she was like Keryin - we swiftly became very fast
friends. Even though Mernath and Dersh were friends, too, Leriel was
the one to show me the city and teach me its ways. Which was why she
dragged me out of my own boring plans for that midsummer's day and
showed me how it was supposed to be celebrated.
The entire day was intoxicating, wild and full of life, good
friends having good fun together. When it began to get dark, I was
dragged along to one of the alehouses mid-town where I got drunk
with the rest. It was amazing that Leriel and I made it home by
ourselves, but we finally crawled into our beds just after midnight.
I couldn't have been asleep for a very long time when something
awakened me. I found myself by the one window in my room before I
had time to wonder why I wasn't still trying to sleep off an
increasing hangover. The part of the city where Uncle had his shop
wasn't built very high so that I had a majestic view of the sky.
Almost as soon as I looked out into it, I caught sight of a large
falling star arcing across the sky from north to south. Something
about the way it moved and its size made me wonder if it might
actually strike the earth. Stories Uncle had told surfaced - stories
of sky-iron and the wondrous tools and weapons that could be
fashioned with it. I briefly considered trying to find it, but
realized that it would be next to impossible even if it didn't
vanish in the air like most falling stars did.
I went back to my bed and crawled back under the covers, but I
couldn't get back to sleep. The idea of the sky-iron refused to
leave my thoughts and I began to imagine what kind of things I might
create out of it that would be passed down into history in the tales
of the Bards. My fantasies got wilder and wilder - placing my name
beside that of Welan in the Tales - until finally I just had to go
find that sky-iron. Something told me that I could find it if I
trusted to luck and the gods. Why not, I thought. It was, after all,
still Midsummer's Night and strange things were said to happen then.
I got dressed, and silently went out to the stables. My
incipient hangover was gone, as was any fuzzyness from lack of
sleep. I was excited and very clear headed as I saddled up Snowfoot
and walked her out of the city before mounting her. Then, we headed
south into the forest that covered most of the area between Dargon
and the Darst Range. It wasn't exactly safe for a young man to ride
alone into that forest, but my 'clear' head wasn't being all that
pragmatic about such things. All I had on my mind was the sky-iron
and being famous.
By the middle of the next day, I really wanted to turn back. I
was lost and hungry and sure that I would never find that stupid
falling star - it had probably never even reached the ground! I
could barely believe that I had actually followed my dreams out into
the forest - I was 16 years old; too old for such silliness.
But each time I was about to rein Snowfoot around, something
would whisper in the back of my mind 'What if it's just over the
next rise?' Or 'Maybe it's around the next bend in the path.' And
always 'What if someone else finds it first, and claims your fame?'
So, I kept going almost against my will.
I came to the ruined chapel not long before sundown as the
forest was beginning to get dark again. I didn't see any sign of a
fallen star near the place, but I decided to stay the night there
anyway, and head for home the next day. I hoped that Uncle wouldn't
be too worried or too mad when I told him why I was gone for two days.
The chapel was very old and in very bad repair. It stood close
to a huge tree, but even so the weather had done it severe damage.
There was little left of the roof-beams, and there was a sizeable
hole in one wall. Still, it was shelter of a kind and the weather
was quite pleasantly warm so I didn't really need much protection. I
unsaddled Snowfoot and rubbed her down, then left her tied to a tree
nearby. She immediatly settled into grazing, and I wished it were so
easy to feed myself. I briefly considered trying to find some early
berries, or some old nuts, but I was too tired to go scavenging in
the deepening gloom. I took Snowfoot's tack into the chapel and went
about trying to make myself a place to sleep.
Leaves and the saddle made a comfortable little nest in one of
the corners of the chapel's single room. I decided against lighting
a fire, and was ready to curl up in my nest and try to go to sleep
even though it was very early. But again there was a whispering in
my ear that said, "Explore." So, I did.
There was just enough sunlight remaining to illuminate the small
room, so I looked around. There wasn't much to see. Any furniture it
had ever held was now long gone. Any decorations on the walls (the
ones remaining, at least) were long since vanished. The only
ornamentation in the building was the white stone altar in the
alcove at one end of the room. It had once borne carved scenes on
its sides, but they were weathered away almost to nothing. Still, it
was the only thing in the chapel to examine, so it went over to it.
I tried to trace out the carvings on it, but the elements had done
their work very well.
As I worked my way around the altar, I felt something welling up
within me. I didn't understand what it was but when I came to the
back side of the altar the feeling became almost overwhelming. My
hands went to a depression in the former carving and pressed down.
There was a click, and the whole altar swung away from me on a
corner pivot revealing a depression sunk into the floor. From
somewhere within me came the knowledge that the cavity was the
hiding place for the chapel's holiest items.
In the center of the depression was a pile of ancient cloth that
had once been priestly vestments. Among the shreds of fabric I could
see the glint of gems that had adorned the robes, but I had no
interest in them. To either side of the vestments, resting on the
remains of satin pillows, were what I had been sent for. On the
right side was a piece of amber the like of which I had never seen
before, nor even heard tell of. It was the length of my forearm and
of a pure, translucent gold of the highest grade of amber but that
wasn't its rarest feature: it was carved into a representation of a
tree branch! It represented an oak limb, and showed the tree in all
three phases of life from leaf bud to full fruit. The workmanship
was exquisite - this was a true treasure apart from its religious
signifigance.
On the opposite side of the depression lay a chalice, low and
flat and made of a dull silver metal that looked like pewter but
wasn't. It was simply decorated but it had a majesty about it that
matched the amber branch in some strange way. I had no idea of the
signifigance of either item in whatever religion had been practiced
in this chapel in the wood but from somewhere within me came another
piece of knowledge - I had been drawn here to take these things away
with me. They had a place in some larger plan that I would someday
be a part, but further knowledge of that plan was withheld from me.
I took up the chalice and the branch and pressed the latch on
the altar again, closing the cavity. I put them into my saddlebags
and went to sleep dreaming mistily of Bard-tales of magic and destiny.
The next day, Snowfoot and I turned back for Dargon. About an
hour and a half along the trail, Snowfoot took a wrong fork. I
didn't notice right away - I was still pre-occupied with the chalice
and branch - and we followed this new trail for another half hour.
About the time I realized that I didn't recognize the trail we were
on I noticed signs of a recent fire. It hadn't burned very much - we
had had a lot of rain recently - so that it was easy to find the
center of the black area. And there I found the lump of sky-iron
that had lured me away from my bed two nights ago.
Snowfoot somehow found her way back to Dargon. After hiding my
three treasures, I ate a supper large enough for three. Uncle Lavran
chewed me out for vanishing for two days, but not as hard as I had
feared. In fact, his final words on the subject revealed where he
thought I had been for so long - "Next time you decide to go
wenching, Midsummer's Day or not, don't get so involved that you
forget to come home!" Leriel laughed along with the rest of us at
that, but she kept my secret - I didn't tell anyone where I had
been, but she alone knew for sure that I hadn't gone 'wenching'. My
three treasures were safely hidden away, awaiting our joint destiny.
My life became strange after that Midsummer's Day when I was 16.
Being led across leagues of forest to claim three treasures was just
the beginning.
The most common strangeness was the scent of roses that came to
me in the most unlikely places. I soon learned that no one else
could smell the roses and I stopped commenting on them, but I soon
grew used to the occaisonal waft of fragrance and it came to be
soothing and somehow reassuring to smell the flowers my sister loved
so much.
And then there was the sourceless help I received at times.
Once, I was walking home alone from a bar through the seedy part of
town. It wasn't a safe place to be after dark and alone, but I was
just tipsy enough not to take the longer way around. As I approached
a particularly dark alley, I smelled the roses and something urged
me to turn back. As I obeyed, four mean-looking man rushed out of
the alley mouth and gave chase. I was far enough away and fast
enough to escape but without the warning I would have been in trouble.
Another time I was in the workshop alone, hammering out some
sheet stock. It seemed (we learned later) that one of the new
apprentices had been careless in stoking the forge-fire, allowing
some impure charcoal to get in. I heard a sizzle, and the beginning
of a loud *POP* and I found myself flying as if shoved into a wall.
I was turned so that I could see a bright fan of sparks and debris
fly through the space I had been in a moment before as a gaping hole
was blown in the side of the forge-pit. The accident wouldn't have
killed me but I would have been badly burned. When I got my wind
back, I looked around to thank the one who had pushed me only there
wasn't anyone there and there were no tracks in the sand of the
floor to show where someone might have come and gone.
These and other, similar, incidents made me think I had a
guardian spirit who was keeping me out of danger so I could come
into my destiny. There was usually a way to explain everything that
happened logically, but it was more romantic to believe in the
spirit. After the first few times I was 'miraculously saved' in this
manner I stopped telling everyone about them - my friends just
kidded me about my dreams and Uncle Lavran told me to stop making up
stories and get back to work. Leriel was the only one who didn't
laugh or scoff, and she became my confidant and secret-sharer.
There was one strangeness I didn't tell her of, though. It was
the most disturbing of them all and there wasn't anything romantic
about it, either. It was the dream.
There was only one dream, but I had it many times. It seemed to
get worse around summer, particularly on Midsummer's Eve. I never
could remember all of it, just vague impressions of it. It involved
fear and helplessness, a ring of people dancing naked, a knife, and
blood. I always awoke from the dream with a pain in my chest, and
when the dream was at its worst there were times I woke with blood
on my chest. The blood always vanished by morning but that scared me
the most. The only time the dream would come to me when I was not
asleep was when I would try to bed a woman - and it was for that
reason that I was yet a virgin.
Between the strangenesses, I learned enough from my Uncle to be
called a blacksmith. Shortly after my 19th birthday, Uncle Lavran
came to me and said, "Dyalar, I think you've studied enough under
me. You have good hands and a strong back and I would be proud to
call you my partner if you've a mind to stay in Dargon a while." So
I became one of five smith's working in Uncle's shop and I was so
happy that even the dream couldn't upset me for weeks after that.
I went to bed one night in mid-Ober thinking about my first
commission - a Guildmaster friend of Uncle's wanted a trinket to
wear to King Haralan's 36th Birthday Ball at Dargon Castle in just
two weeks, and Uncle had given the project to me. It took me a long
time to get to sleep for thinking what to make for Master Kethral,
but as soon as I had drifted off I began to dream.
It wasn't "the Dream" but it was strange. I dreamed I woke up,
dressed, retrieved my three treasures - the sky-iron, the amber
branch, and the chalice - from their place of concealment, and went
out to the workshop with them. A full moon lit the large room as I
stoked up the forge-fire and placed our thickest-walled melting pot
over it. I placed all three of my treasures into the pot and went to
the bellows to increase the forge's heat.
As I pumped the bellows and stirred the contents of the melting
pot, I began in my dream to sense the presence of someone else in
the workshop with me. When the three objects were finally melted, I
was directed by that presence (without words) to pick up a handy
knife. Holding my arm out over the melting pot, I cut myself high on
the forearm. I let myself bleed into the mixtrue, adding a fourth
element to the strange alloy. When there was enough blood in the
pot, the presence directed me to remove my arm and I tied a rag
around the wound. After stirring the mixture some more, I tipped the
melting pot into a waiting sword-form.
The strange alloy cooled rapidly, gaining a shiny, rosy golden
sheen as it hardened. When it was handleable, I began to shape it
from its rough-cast form into a useable weapon. While I had been
tutored in weapon-making by Uncle Lavran, I had yet to have the
opportunity to make a sword. However, in my dream and helped by the
presence, I crafted a weapon fit for bard's tales. It was almost as
if the alloy I had created had a finished shape within it, and the
hammering and shaping I did to it only helped that form to come out.
My dream seemed to become even more remote as greatness was formed
by my unskilled hand.
The process of forging a sword can take days or even weeks -
this one formed itself in just a few hours. When it was finished I
placed it in the cooling bath one last time. It seemed to glow
beneath the water in the bath. I put my hand into the water to touch
the sword for the first time - and as my hand hit the luke-warm
water I woke up to find myself standing in the workshop reaching
into the cooling bath for a rosy-gold glowing sword that lay
therein. For just a moment, I thought that I could still sense that
strange presence that had guided me in my dream but it was soon gone.
As I lifted the sword I had somehow created from its final
cooling and stared at its beauty, a sense of what lay before me came
into my mind. I saw a journey, a reconcilliation, and righting an
old wrong. Lured by the mystery of it, and the sword itself, I went
quietly back to my room, packed some clothes and food, and set out
on a quest.
-John L. White
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TEN NUMBER FOUR
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
A Wyrm's Tale Ron Trenka
A Summer's Day: June, 2084 Sean Myles Smith
Tattoo's Becki Tants
*Worthy of the Title, Part 2 M. Wendy Hennequin
Date: 031988 Dist: 590
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Hello! Since this issue follows right on the heels of 10-3,
there's really no new news to bring up, and I honestly don't want to
bore you with the standard editorial comments, so I'll depart from
tradition and, as it were, editorialize a bit.
You know, running a magazine is a fascinating experience. No,
really! The strangest things happen. For instance, for over two
years readers have been commenting that although the Dargon Project
is excellent, they'd like to see more non-Dargon fantasy stories and
more science fiction in FSFnet. And, for over two years, I've been
replying with the standard disclaimer that I can only print what
people submit, and that no one is submitting anything but Dargon
stories. Well, within the past two weeks I've received seven
non-Dargon stories from five different authors, with promises for
more. It's enough to make an editor want to take up something sane,
like professional wrestling! But don't mind me, it's healthy for an
editor to rave - it only *looks* like insanity.
There are some interesting differences between editing an
electronic magazine and a 'real' one. An electronic magazine must,
by nature, be freely distributable, because it is so easy to send
copies along to non-subscribers. To offset this, electronic
magazines do not need to worry about advertising costs, as most
network services are glad to make room for a magazine announcement
or information file. There is also a closer tie between the editor
and the readership of an emag, due to the ease of communication via
electronic mail. But the most noteworthy difference is inherent in
the difference between the phosphor screen and the printed page.
Most people find that the attention span of an individual reading
one article from a computer screen is much less than if they were
reading printed text. The repercussions this has for emags is that
their articles should be short and to the point, like newspaper
articles, and issues should be small and frequent rather than large
and infrequent. Of course, FSFnet is no exception to this rule, and
I'm sure that many people simply never get to their issues. However,
I find that most people who are serious FSFnet readers do not read
issues at a terminal, but print them out and read the hardcopy, thus
successfully avoiding the problem.
Well, before I bore you all to tears with subjects only an
editor could enjoy, I'd better sign off and get this issue sent. My
welcome to all the people who have recently subscribed, and for
BITNET readers, don't be shy about appending to the FSFNET
discussion on the server CSNEWS@MAINE. And, of course, back issues
are available from the server LISTSERV@TCSVM.
-'Orny' Liscomb
A Wyrm's Tale
The warrior sat near the mouth of the lair and planned. Soon
would come the time when the wyrm would sleep. Then there would be
no time to waste. He must be swift or he would fail like the rest.
"There," he thought. "The sunset approaches. It is time." He
gathered up his equipment and gingerly picked up the weapon he had
spent many years to find and more to secure. It was rumored to be
the only thing that could kill the dreaded wyrm... a creature he had
sworn to slay or die in the process. He entered into the darkeness
of the cave.
Through the darkness he crept, moving slowly and silently as not
to awaken the wyrm. Many years had he perpared for this moment. Only
if the wyrm slept would he be able to slip his blade into the
creature's chest.
"That glow must be the wyrm's chambers," he said quietly to
himself, "where he sleeps on his golden bed. Quietly. I mustn't fail."
"Hello," a deep vioce said as the warrior entered the chamber.
The warrior stood paralyzed as the wyrm's massive head rose to look
him straight in the eye.
"I knew that it was too good to be true," the wyrm said. "It has
been so many years since the last one, I had hoped the world had
forgotten me." The warrior was aghast when a glint showed in the
wyrm's eye.
"Ahhhh...." the wyrm said, obviously statisfied. "You have
brought back Wirmhyr. Then you are welcome."
"Back, horrid wyrm," the warrior said, drawing Wirmhyr from its
sheath. "Or surely this blade will find its mark!"
"I beg your pardon," the wryrm said. "I think you are quite
mistaken. There isn't a blade of this world that can pierce my hide."
"I have come to end your reign of terror," the warrior announced
in a formal challenge. "You have murdered your last maiden, stolen
your last cattle...."
"I think you have come to the wrong cave," the wyrm said calmly.
The warrior was somewhat taken aback.
"Is this not the cave of Kravaxx the Golden?" the warrior asked.
"It is," the wyrm replied.
"Then I have come to the right place," the warroir said flatly.
"I beg to differ," the wyrm said.
"You beg to what?" the warrior asked, incredously.
"I am Kravaxx the Golden," the wyrm said, "but it ha been a few
centuries since I have stolen cattle and never have I slain a maiden
that didn't deserve it."
"I do not understand," the warrior said, confused.
"Look," the wyrm said, "it isn't difficult. The last maiden I
murdered, if you want to call it that, was Karita the Loud. And if
you ask me, it was more a mercy killing."
The warrior then smiled and raised Wirmhyr confidently.
"I understand you now, wyrm," he said. "You try to confuse me
and lure me into a trap. It will not work, for I have heard of this
trick before. You are beaten, wyrm."
"By the gods, you are thick," Kravaxx said. "Look, if it would
make you happy, I will let you strike once with Wirmhyr. Anywhere
you like, except the face. I put so much work getting this face to
look as perfect as it does - I wouldn't want you to scratch a scale."
"Again you confuse me, wyrm" the warrior said.
"Give it your best swing," the wyrm said. "Go ahead. I will even
pretend that I am sleeping." And with that, the wyrm promptly laid
down, as if to rest. The warrior stood, wondering what to do, and
decided that it couldn't hurt to give it a try. If he was fast,
which he was, he could be in and out before the wyrm could strike.
So, preparing himself and carefully choosing a likely spot, the
warrior darted in and swung Wirmhyr with all his might. The blade
whistled through the air as it came around.
And then bounced off the thick scales of the wyrm with a
resounding clang.
The warrior was too scared to even move. The wyrm opened his
eyes and turned its huge head toward the warrior. Praying to his god
and preparing for a blast of the wyrm's firery breath, the warrior
could only stare.
"See, I told you so." was the only thing the wyrm said.
-Ron Trenka
A Summer's Day: June, 2084
It was wasting-time again.
Jason hated wasting-time, hated it like poison. Not because of
the wasting itself, but because of the messiness that always seemed
to go with it. Jason was a very clean boy, and despised being messy.
he would have condemned wasting-time altogether had it not been for
the fact that his birthday was on the second day of the third
wasting-time of every ninth month. As it was, wasting-time was
hated, but tolerated.
Jason slipped out of bed and headed for the shower; another
reason to hate wasting-time. Jason liked to get in and out as
quickly as possible, every action intentional and economical.
Instead, he scoured himself three times with the rough soap, doused
his hair with shampoo, rinsed himself with too much water. Which, of
course, was the entire purpose of a waste-day: to waste things.
After using two towels to dry off and too much toothpaste to
clean his teeth, Jason cleared out of the bathroom to make way for
his sister, Janice-- who, when it came to the bathroom, used too
much of everything anyway. Except, of course, when it was
fasting-time. Janice brushed by him with a sniff and shut the door
firmly behind her.
The lights in the hall were all on, which meant that his parents
were already up. Jason groaned. Whenever possible, Jason liked to
make his own breakfast on waste-days, sparing himself the almost
sickening culinary orgy that was the norm. He padded into the
kitchen, resigning himself to the inevitable. "Hi, mom." he said.
"Why, hello, Jason." she answered. "Breakfast will be ready in a
minute. Just sit down at the table--but turn on a couple of radios
while you're up."
Jason snapped on two of the several radios within a few feet of
him, then sat down. he studied his mother as she deftly flipped
eggs, fried bacon, buttered toast and English muffins, opened canned
fruit, poured milk and orange juice, and carried out all the other
myriad responsibilities of making breakfast on a waste-day. Mrs.
Grady Powers was a tall, graceful woman in her late thirties. Her
darkish hair, beginning to show signs of grey, was let down so that
it fell around her shoulders, one of the outward signs of a
waste-day that Jason had come to notice.
As Jason's mother finished her cooking and began placing the
heaping platters on the table, his father walked in. He raised the
radios' volume and turned on a third. "Smells good." he commented.
Jason wrinkled his nose in distaste. His father reeked of
cologne on wasting-days.
"What?" asked Jason's mother.
"I said," repeated his father, loudly, "it smells good!"
"Thank you!" she replied, with similar of volume. "Eat up!"
Jason's father sat down and began shoveling food into his mouth
with his fork. Jason did so less rapidly. Janice came in, sat down,
and started complaining that waste-days ruined her diet.
"Eat." said Jason's father, around a mouthful of bacon. "You'll
be thankful for it next time fasting-time comes around."
"Terrific." she said, and began to eat.
Jason played with his food, hoping to disguise his reluctance to
consume as much as his parents and sister.
"You too, Jason." his mother said. "A growing boy has got to
eat." Jason scowled. On fasting-days his mother said that to not eat
when one was hungry built character.
"I'm not hungry." he muttered sullenly. "I hate waste-days."
"Now, Jason." his father admonished. "You know that everybody
needs a proper balance of attitudes. That's why we have
wasting-time. If we didn't have wasting-time, there would be nothing
to balance out fasting-time. If we didn't have lazy-time, there
would be nothing to balance out work-time. If we didn't have. . ."
"If we didn't have any times at all," Jason interrupted, "we
could do whatever we wanted and we wouldn't have to do whatever the
Shrinks told us to."
"Jason!" his mother exclaimed. "You should be ashamed of
yourself! The Shrinks only want what is good for us! Eat another
bagel, this instant!"
Jason grabbed a bagel and began stuffing it in his mouth. "With
cream cheese." his sister mocked. Jason HATED cream cheese.
"Shut up, wart." he answered. He crammed the rest of the bagel
into his mouth and swallowed hugely.
"Just because you don't like doing something is no reason to be
surly, young man." Jason's father said firmly. "Just for that, you
wash your dishes last."
"Aww, dad. . ." Jason whined. Washing your dishes last meant
waiting around an hour and a half while everyone else did theirs.
Jason ate in silence for five minutes, then asked to be excused.
His mother examined his plate critically, then told him he could
watch TVs until it was time to wash the dishes. "And tape something,
too." she called.
Finally, two hours later, Jason put away the last of his dishes
and went outside, heading for Robert Bond's house. Jason liked
Robert. He could always think of neat things to do.
Jason walked down the street, kicking pebbles. Robert lived only
four houses down, but Jason took the long way around, circling the
block. The cool air felt good upon his skin. he squinted up at the
sun, enjoying its warmth. All in all, he decided, a good day to be
alive, except for the wasting.
Robert's house was a neat little two-story brick edifice. Jason
went up the walkway and rang the bell. Robert opened the door and
grinned when he saw Jason. "Hi, Jase." he said. "I knew you'd come
by. What do you want to waste today?"
"How about time?" Jason asked, hopefully.
"That's for lazy-time, dummy." Robert answered. "Let's waste,
uh, let's waste film!"
"Okay." Jason said. Jason liked photography--not as much as
Robert, who had glossy photos all over his walls, but enough not to
mind spending the day snapping his shutter at everything he could
find. "Get your stuff."
Robert ducked inside, re-emerging half a minute later with his
camera and a bag full of film. "Come on." he said. "Let's go." They
walked towards Jason's house.
"I wish we could just use your stuff." Jason said. "It's
inconvenient to have to walk back to my house."
"It's not that far." returned Robert. "Besides, rules are rules.
Everyone has to waste his own stuff or the Shrinks won't know who
needs to be checked."
"I guess." Jason said glumly. "You want something to drink?"
"Yeah." said Robert. "My mom'll kill me. She'll say, 'Why
couldn't you be thirsty at our house? Don't you think we have
requirements to meet, too ?' I know she will. I don't care, though.
What's a little lemonade between friends?"
Jason opened the front door. "You know where everything is. I'll
be right there. Pour me one too, okay?" He went down the hall and
into his room. He heard Robert pouring as he found his camera and
grabbed a satchel.
"Jason?" came his mother's voice from somewhere upstairs. "Is
that you?"
"Yes, mom." he answered, moving back into the kitchen. "Me and
Robert are gonna go take pictures."
"Oh. Okay. Bring me back some beauties."
"I will, mom." Jason crossed the kitchen to the cabinet the film
was stored in. He scooped a dozen rolls into the satchel and turned
to face Robert . "Ready?" he asked.
"When you are." Robert replied, and held out a glass of lemonade.
"Oh, yeah." said Jason. He took the glass and downed the
contents in three long gulps. The two of them left the house and
headed down the street.
"Where do you want to go?" Jason asked.
"I was thinking we could go down to the river. Near the falls."
"Okay by me."
They followed the road for a while, then cut across an open
field. Robert took occasional shots of the houses, the sun, and the
sky. Jason loaded his camera, but didn't take pictures. Robert
appeared not to notice, absorbed in his surroundings. The field
ended in a long downslope, with the river at the bottom. They picked
their way carefully until they stood on the sandy, relatively level
bank. Robert began to walk upstream, and Jason followed.
"You know what I'd like to be?" Robert asked after a while.
"No, Robert," Jason asked, amused, "what would you like to be?"
"A Shrink." Robert answered.
"You're crazy."
Robert laughed. "That's a good one." he replied. "A crazy
Shrink. That's a good one." he repeated. "No, but really," he said,
sobering, "I think I would. When testing-time comes around again, I
think I'm going to tell them that."
"Come on, Robert." Jason said. "Almost nobody makes it. And
nobody knows why the ones who do get picked. 'The ways of the
Shrinks are downright strange.'" he said, quoting an old proverb.
"Still," Robert insisted, "I can always try."
The sound of the waterfall was getting louder. Jason began
taking pictures of the trees and rocks. They rounded a bend in the
river and he could see the waterfall, throwing broken reflections of
light at him, all red and green and blue. Jason began taking
pictures in earnest.
So absorbed was he in getting a close-up of the rushing waters,
Jason failed to notice the man sitting behind the waterfall until he
stood up. He was small, only a couple of inches taller than Jason,
and dressed in tattered, threadbare garments. Despite this, he
possessed a calm dignity that held Jason semi-hypnotized for the
first few seconds.
"Robert." he said, softly. "Rogue."
Robert turned. His eyes grew wide and his mouth formed an O
shape. Suddenly, his mouth snapped shut and he began to run back
downstream. "Wait." called the man, but Robert kept running. Soon he
was out of sight.
Jason stood paralyzed. He had heard about rogues, of
course--everyone was supposed to be on the lookout for them and know
what to do in case one was spotted. But he had never figured on
actually SEEING one. Rogues were the dissidents, the ones who didn't
believe in the Shrinks or their ideas. They ran away from the crews
who came to take them to attitude training, and lived in the
wilderness. The Shrinks said that there weren't very many of them,
and Jason had believed it. Surprise was all that kept him from flight.
Finally, after an eternity, Jason began to run.
"Boy. Wait." said the rogue, and something, the calmness in his
voice , maybe, but something made Jason hover, if only for an instant.
"Hear me out." said the rogue. "I have seen you. I know that you
are different--that you do not believe the Shrinks when they say
that they must control the way you act and the way you think. I know
you want to live life the way YOU want to live it, not as the
Shrinks would have you. Come with me, Jason." He became intense. His
eyes locked on Jason's, and spoke silently of forgotten freedoms. "I
will take you to meet others like you," he continued, " but we must
hurry. Your friend is already on his way to bring the authorities. "
The rogue held out his hand. "There is a better way than you know."
he finished.
Jason stared at him for a few moments, unbelieving. Then he
turned, and ran from the rogue faster than he'd ever run in his life.
He was nearly to his house when he heard the sirens, and he knew
the rogue would get away. It was easy to hide in the woods. He
slowed down, and saw Robert waiting for him on the steps leading to
his door.
"God." said Robert. "I've never been so scared in my life."
"Me too." Jason panted. "I don't much feel like taking pictures
anymore."
"Neither do I." said Robert, and headed towards his house.
Jason was grilled about the event at the dinner table by his
parents, and again later that evening by the police. He told them
both the same thing. "I got so scared I couldn't move." he said. "He
started talking crazy, and I ran before he could grab me or
somethin'." Both his parents and the police seemed satisfied. The
sergeant who interviewed him said that they didn't expect to catch
the rogue, that they were usually experts at hiding, but that there
was little chance he'd be hanging around this area, either. Jason
was relieved.
And the next morning, the second day of the first wasting-time of
the sixth month, Jason ate everything on his plate and asked for more.
-Sean Myles Smith
Tattoo's
As Kara walked onto the bridge, all the crew's eyes turned
toward her. She looked disheveled, with burn marks on her ripped
clothing and her face streaked with ash. Her hair was a mess, full
of knots and singed spots.
"What should I expect", she thought, "I look like I've been thru
hell and back. It was only a little revolution."
Little revolution. Amazing how easy it had become to write
things like that off. Only killed a few million people, no big deal.
Slowly but surely, these ties to the Fifth Horsemen Mercenary Troops
were getting to her.
"How do they get me INTO things like that???" she asked herself.
Yet she knew the answer already. It was Cross. Damian Cross. As
usual, he had asked her for help and she had brought her ship
running to his aid. And he didn't even need her this time (altho he
got some kind of joy out of watching her fight like that...just
sitting up in his HoverTank watching her lead her men.
"Well, at least they respect me.", she thought. "Anyways, back
to work."
"Navigator, plot a course to Delta Mynas II. Security, report
status, both ship and crew."
"Security reporting Ma'am. Ship security tight and unbreached.
Seems they can't get off the planet down there. What did you guys do
to them?"
"Never mind," she said, snickering a little about the ease with
which they had immobilized the Space Port. The Horsemen were famous
for such great planning as that. "I'll tell you all about it later.
How about the crew?"
"Well, as you know, we lost 45 men down on planet, and 3 more of
the injured have died since we brought them back up here to high
port. The rest are expected to be OK. That leaves us with about 102
soldiers and the normal on board personal."
"Damn. That's a lot to loose. I'm going to my cabin to clean up.
Send a message to Cross that he's invited to dinner over here in 2
hours. Let me know what he says."
"Yes Ma'am."
"Ma'am," the navigator piped up. What a weaselly little man.
Maybe I'll send him on combat duty soon...see if that strengthens
his character.
"Yes, Johnson, what."
"Ma'am, the course is plotted and laid in."
"Good, we won't be leaving for about 3 hours, so double check
your figures. No mistakes allowed this time. I think the
sharpshooters need some moving target practice." With a snicker she
remembered the time they had ended up at exactly a 180degree angle
from where they were headed because he reversed a couple figures.
God what an idiot. That got him his pay docked for months to pay for
the time lost and the job passed on. This time she wasn't in as
patient a mood.
"Yes Ma'am." Johnson said with a cringe. She'd done it before.
God was it nice to be alone.
For the first time in days, she could get undressed, take a
slow, leisurely shower, and not be surrounded by hot, sweaty men.
The way they all looked at her was enough to drive any woman
bonkers. Stepping out of the shower, in front of the full length
mirror, she acknowledge that maybe they had a reason to gawk her
like that. Maybe. Maybe if she were just some normal bimbo on the
street. But she wasn't. She was in command of the Iron Fox III, a
name passed from generation to generation of ship's captains. One of
the finest mercenary ships in this part of the galaxy, second only
to the Horsemen. The shouldn't gawk her like some street whore. She
was a pretty woman, but 15 years of leading this group through
uncounted battles have left their marks. Scars marred the once
beautiful face giving her a very rough look. Lines from worrying and
from fighting made her look years older then she was. Her figure was
as slim, lithe and strong as ever, but as scarred as her face. And
then there was the tattoo.
The shape of the Fifth Horseman's symbol, small, dark, shown on
the side of her hip. The sign of a female possession of theirs. A
permanent mark for all the world to see.
She had been found on a devastated planet, her father's ship
destroyed by an attack of the Horseman. She was 15 at the time, and
some of the horsemen had decided he wanted her as their pet. They
tattooed her, and put her to work onboard their ship, serving food
and sleeping her way up thru the command ranks in an attempt to get
out. When she met Damian, he saw some potential in her. He gave her
the chance to learn ships operations and mercenary actions. Soon she
was a strong commander and an even stronger soldier, so when a
derelict (but still flying) ship was found, Damian convinced the
other leaders to let her have it. (A simple feat, considering that
they had been watching her to make sure she didn't organize a revolt
among the servants for quite some time.) From there she'd made her
own way. Getting the ship fixed up, getting a crew, and eventually
getting some soldiers together took the better part of the next 6
years. But she did it. Alone. Never, however, forgetting about
Damian. he'd given her the chance. And he called that one in every
time he could.
"Stop daydreaming and get dressed!" Kara said out loud, as if
saying it out loud would change the fact that she was still somewhat
lost in her own thoughts.
The battles of the past few days was still very fresh in her
mind. She and her men had merely been extra numbers, not needed, but
it looked good. The Horsemen rarely NEEDED the help. They had a
beautifully laid and executed plan. The world involved, Altilles
Planet, had a dependence on outside fuel sources. The Horsemen
merely ran them dry, let a shipment get thru, and then blew up the
ground side space port with all the fuel in it. Made a rather large
crater of the capital city, killed most of the major government
figures (as was their contract with the neighboring planet who
wanted the agricultural land there) and left the path open for
takeovers. Of course, they took more then their share of loot off
the place. They always do. But then again we did too. That's the
mercenary way.
After three days of cleaning up the last of the straggling
government and sending them all to their makers (in rather
imaginative ways), it's time to move on. And count the loses. One
third of my mercs on a battle that we weren't even needed for.
Damian had better clear this debt now. They would be hard to replace.
Half an hour later, dressed in her normal black jumpsuit, with
her long wavy red hair down for once, Kara was back on the bridge.
"Cross will be arriving in 15 minutes Ma'am. Everything is
prepared for your dinner in the Main Conference Room."
"Thank you, Stevens. I'm headed down there now. If anything
should happen while I'm there, buzz me."
"Oh, and Johnson, tell Port Control that we will be leaving in
exactly 2 hours. Get the clearance."
"Yes Ma'am.", Johnson said, as she turned and walked out of the
room. Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned back to his calculations.
When Damian walked in the room, she was standing facing out the
port hole, not really at anything, but just out. Away from him. She
knew what would happen when she turned around. He would be in
control. The only man that had ever been able to control her. She
wasn't even sure if she resented that fact or not.
"Evening. You wanted to see me?", Damian said, as he walked in,
poured himself a drink, and sat down at the head of the table.
"Yes.", she said, turning around to face him where he sat. "I
seem to have lost a lot of men in the past few days over a silly
squabble that you didn't even really need me for. Now why did you
really bring me here?"
"If I said because I wanted to get laid would you get mad at
me?", he asked, with a smile so sarcastic, it was almost painful.
"Yes, I would. I do have jobs of my own you realize. I hope this
absolves any debt you feel I still owe you. You've been paid a
million times over for it."
"That tattoo you bare on your hip tells me when you owe me no
more. As long as it's still there, you still owe me." Putting his
feet up on the table, he picked up his plate and started eating,
completely ignoring her.
Furious, she turned away from him and stared out the port hole
again until she was calm enough to talk again. "Damian, me, you may
feel you own. The battered hull of this ship you own. But I lost 1/3
of my crew down there and you do NOT own them. Now I need some kind
of recompense for this. Otherwise next time I won't come."
"You haven't checked your bank account recently. Money for the
men you lost is in there. And as far as you go, dear, I do own you.
Don't you ever forget that fact. In the meantime, I just wanted to
let you know that I won't be needing your help for a while. We're
taking some time off and you need to train some new men. I'll call
when I need you. Have a nice day." Out of his mouth, "have a nice
day" sounded like a string of obscenities.
He got up to leave, but as he reached the door, he looked back.
Walking across the room to where Kara was standing, he grabbed her
and gave her a rather rough, but passionate kiss. Then he turned and
walked out. Again.
After eating, she headed back up to the bridge, all the way
saying to herself "Damn, he did it to me again." But that's how it
always went, and altho it put her in a foul humor for a day or two,
it never changed.
Arriving on the bridge, she did the only thing possible.
"Johnson, get us out of here now. And you'd better get it right!"
Later that night, after safely getting underway on the right
course, Kara wandered back to her room. She wasn't furious anymore,
just in that state of mind where nobody wanted to cross her. It was
written all over her face. Needless to say, most of the crew gave
her a wide berth as she walked down the hall.
Arriving back in her quarters, she was surprised to see a bit of
a glow coming from around the corner, her bedroom. Drawing her
Neural Paralyzer, she quietly moved up to the corner. "Nice little
weapon" she thought, as she set it on one of it's lesser settings.
These weapons had been known to cause insanity, or at the very least
extreme pain to those hit by it. Perfect for anyone sneaking around
in the Captain's quarters. She swung around the corner, weapon going
first, ready to fire.
"So, what took you so long?", Damian said, apparently unfazed by
the fact that she had a weapon in hand.
"Damnit, what are you doing here????? I thought you'd crawled
back in your hole by now." He was sitting, well actually lying, on
her bed with her favorite wine on the table next to it and candles
glowing in the candle globes she kept scattered around the room for
relaxation.
"I told you. We're taking a vacation. So put the gun down and
come over here. I've already poured you some wine."
"Damn." she thought, as she put the weapon down and walked
across the room to him. Here we go again.
-Becki Tants
Worthy of the Title
"You might as well go out and see the festival, now that you're
here," Lord Clifton Dargon had suggested as his twin cousins
finished breakfast. "Melrin only comes once a year."
"Yes," Luthias had agreed practically, but his voice was heavy.
"We might as well."
"What's going on today in the Melrin, Bartol?" Roisart asked his
cousin Dargon's bard.
"Oh, final competition for the Bardic Crown," the bard cum
bodyguard announced enthusiastically. "Today at noontime."
"What else?" Luthias wondered. While bardic tales could interest
Luthias, hours upon hours of sung tales drove him to distraction.
Bartol gave him a strange, appalled look. "What else?" demanded
Bartol, gazing at the young noble as if he were insane. "What else
is there?"
Roisart looked at his twin and smiled. Luthias rolled his eyes.
Then he turned to his cousin, the lord. "Clifton, do you think
you'll be all right here after what happened to our father yesterday?"
Clifton had laughed then; Roisart smiled. "Come on, Luthias,"
his brother urged. "Think about it. What would Clifton, with all his
guards, need us for? Considering the men who attacked us this
morning," Roisart continued, turning his eyes towards his cousins,
"we may need guarding ourselves."
But Clifton had smiled and shaken his head. "You'll be safe
enough in the festival," the Lord of Dargon ventured. "And the city
guard is out in full should you need assistance." The smiled widened
and the skin around Dargon's brown eyes crinkled slightly. "Besides,
you two didn't do all that badly this morning."
So it was with this assurance the Roisart and Luthias left
Dargon Keep and strolled into the Middle City, where most of the
Melrin was taking place. There were as yet three hours until the
Bardic Crown competition was to take place, so Luthias suggested to
his brother, "Let's go down to the docks. There's bound to be
something happening there."
"Yes, Father used to take us there when we got to the Melrin
early," Roisart sighed. Luthias frowned; he too missed their father.
Then Roisart brightened a bit. "Maybe the races are today."
The noble twins walked a little more quickly toward the docks,
past the side shows and food stands that were just setting up for
the fourth day of Melrin. Roisart noted curiosities along the way: a
bearded lady, a steer the size of a small house, a fortune teller or
two, a seller of rare books...many things that he and Luthias would
have to see. It would have been easier if their father had been with
them; the late Baron was much like Roisart in his zest for oddities
and stories. Luthias was not as interested such things, for which he
could find no real use. Then Roisart spotted the booth of an armoire
come all the way from Magnus for Melrin, and decided it would be
easier than he had anticipated to drag Luthias back.
They arrived at the docks very early, so the docks were
deserted, except for old Simon, the Stew Man, and his monkey, who
chattered at the twins in a primate greeting. Luthias played with
the jovial creature, and Roisart began eagerly to ask the old man
about a sea legend he had recently read and whether or not it could
have any truth to it. Finally, as the crowds began to press onto the
docks, Luthias slipped the monkey a sovereign and pulled Roisart
away to find a good view for the race.
It was a spectacular race, with Captain Kent's "Victory Chimes"
taking the honors at the end. When it was over and the crowd was
thinning, Roisart told his brother, "I saw some interesting booths
over by the market. Let's go look them over."
Luthias shrugged his shoulders and together they left the dock
areas for the Middle City, near the market. As Roisart had expected,
Luthias was not particularly interested in the side shows, but he
became very enthusiastic when he saw the display of the best sword
maker of Dargon. While Luthias inspected the blades, Roisart paid
two coppers to see the steer as big as a house and played a game of
toss, though he won no prizes. Still, Roisart made sure at all times
that he knew exactly where his brother was.
Luthias watched Roisart as well, saw him duck into the tent with
the exaggerated steer. "I'll take this one," he said to the sword
maker, choosing the best blade of the lot, but keeping his eyes on
the tent. "And a scabbard, too." Roisart emerged from the attraction
and moved over to his brother. "Look, Roisart," Luthias bragged as
he paid for his new toy, "see this!"
The pride was well-founded; the sword was very well made and
decorated. "You going to fight with that?" Roisart laughed.
"That's what swords are for," Luthias said, a gleam in his eye.
"But that's too nice to fight with," Roisart argued. "Besides,
in a pinch, you're used to your old blade."
Luthias grimaced. "We had better stick together, twin. I thought
I saw someone following us on the docks."
"You worry too much," Roisart chided his brother lightly. "Come
over here, Luthias. Let's take a look at this scribe's cart. Did you
see the books?"
Luthias took his sword from its maker and nodded. "I saw them,"
Luthias confirmed as they crossed the street. "Very old."
Roisart arrived at the cart and immediately began rummaging
through the titles. "These aren't so old, Luthias."
"I meant the scribe," joked his brother, picking up a red-bound
volume inscribed with blue. He opened it, looked at the title page,
then called over the scribe. "How much is this?"
"Do you have 'History of the Ancient World'?" Roisart wondered.
The scribe shook his head. "I'm sorry, young sir. And you, young
sir...." He looked from Roisart to Luthias, then back again. Then,
to Luthias, he gave the price of the book, which Luthias paid
laconically and turned away to flip through it as Roisart browsed.
After a minute, Roisart peered over his brother's shoulder.
"What's that you've bought?"
"Meresan's 'Lives of Lords and Princes'," Luthias told him.
"We're going to need the examples if one of us is going to be baron."
Roisart sighed. "If we can ever decide who is to be baron."
Luthias looked into his brother's brown eyes. "I think you
should be baron."
"What?" laughed Roisart. "But I'm not much of a leader, or a
fighter. Men would follow you, Luthias. In an emergency, you think
fast and act."
"But that would be deadly to me if I were judging a legal case,"
Luthias replied, closing the book with a decided thump. "I would
think too quickly. You'd delve into the matter until the truth was
found. I might take the truth at the surface. And what about law,
Roisart? I know nothing of laws."
"If only we could both be baron," sighed Roisart dismally.
"I know that that is against the law," Luthias chuckled. "We
can't both be baron."
"I know, but we both have qualities that are so necessary to be
one," Roisart replied. "And it's hard to tell which one of us would
better serve Clifton."
"Clifton," muttered Luthias, beginning to move away from the
scribe's cart. "Now, about him I am very worried."
"You worry too much," Roisart laughed. Then he sobered. "But
something's got to be done. Clifton can't let this continue."
"There's nothing we can do about it, though," Luthias pointed
out. "We'll just have to decide which of us should be baron."
There was a moment of silence, then Roisart announced suddenly,
"Luthias, I'm hungry."
Luthias smiled. "So am I. I think there's a tavern on the next
street over. It's been a long time since breakfast."
"I hope it's a good tavern," Roisart said. "I don't want to get
sick before the ball tomorrow."
Slowly, the twins made their way through the crowds to the
nearby street. The tavern which Luthias had earlier spotted, the
Rogue and Quiver, was full, and seemed rather dirty. So they kept
walking and searching, until Roisart spotted a large sign which
advertised, "Belisandra's."
Luthias gave the place a cursory inspection. "It looks clean,
and the food smells good. Let's eat."
Together, the twins ducked into the darkened tavern, scanned the
room and its patrons (neither seemed too bad), and found a table in
the corner nearest the door. Luthias pointed it out, and motioned to
his brother. Roisart nodded, knowing the location's advantages as
well as Luthias did; it allowed no attack from behind, and the
proximity to the door made the twins difficult to spot as a
potential killer's eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness.
A sharp-eyed serving wench had spotted the brothers almost
immediately and hustled over to their table as they seated
themselves. She was a small girl, only reaching the twins'
shoulders, but she dressed neatly and wore a pleasant smile. "Good
Melrin to you, sirs," she greeted the twins politely. "What may I
serve you?"
Roisart began to smile in a lazy way which triggered alarms in
Luthias' brain. Roisart was having an infatuation again. Luthias
sighed mentally. Well, at least the girl wasn't a peasant; her
speech was clear and free of the peasant accent, and she wore her
clothes like a decent woman, unlike another serving wench on the
other side of the room. Still....Luthias nudged his brother beneath
the table and spoke. "Two ales, to begin with. What's the special
for luncheon?"
The girl's smile spread. "Belisandra's Secret Stew. The recipe's
older than the Keep. It's the best stew in Dargon. And it's fresh;
Belisandra made it just this morning." The girl nodded
enthusiastically to a buxom woman nearing middle age, who stood
behind the bar, tending it and a large cauldron of stew behind it.
"It comes with fresh bread and butter and greens, and I can bring it
to you right away."
"Perfect," Luthias' stomach answered. "Bring two of those please."
The girl nodded and turned away with a natural, unflirtateous
bounce. "Too young for you, Roisart," muttered Luthias. "She can't
be more than fourteen."
"She's very sweet," Roisart argued.
"Yes, but she's not for you." Roisart sighed with resignation;
his brother smiled affectionately. "You give your heart too easily."
"Whoever is baron could choose his own woman," Roisart realized.
"If only we could choose a baron," Luthias laughed as the girl
returned with two bowls of stew, a plate of fresh bread and a pat of
butter, and a bowl of greens. Wondering how she could carry all
that, Luthias continued, "There's absolutely no way to choose
between us."
The girl was setting the dishes down. "Belisandra will be over
with the ales in a minute," she promised. She leaned back a moment
and surveyed the young brothers with an appraising look. "Choose
between you? How could any girl choose between you?" She blushed
then, perhaps feeling immodest. Both twins, blushing as well, smiled
at her as she continued. "Maybe your lucky lady should see Corambis."
The tavern mistress Belisandra, bearing two ales, came from
behind the girl as Luthias asked, "Who is Corambis?"
"You don't know Corambis?" the girl asked, her eyes now wide. "I
thought everyone knew Corambis. He's the Sage in the market-place.
Your lady should see him today to see which of you she should choose."
Belisandra set the ales down with two distinctive thumps. "Go to
him today? Mika, he may never come back!" She gave the twins a
motherly gaze. "He's been gone all winter, without a trace, and--"
"He got back yesterday," Mika protested. "He read my horoscope
for me this morning, Belisandra."
She turned again to the twins, and began to continue, but
Belisandra interrupted. "Where was he this time?"
Mika took a moment to recall the information. "He went off with
a young man for a few days, then stayed with relatives for the
winter, he said. But he is back," she assured Roisart and Luthias,
"and you can go and make an appointment for your lady friend. He's
right in the market."
Luthias faced his brother. "Do you think we should?"
Roisart shrugged. "Why not, Luthias? We've tried everything
else." He then asked Mika and her lady, "Where can we find Corambis?"
"Oh, he's easy to find, my lords," Belisandra explained
helpfully. "It's the only closed booth in the main market place. You
can't miss it, young sirs."
"I'll think we'll try it," Luthias decided. "Thank you."
Mika smiled engagingly; Belisandra nodded, pleased. "You're
welcome, my lords," Belisandra answered. "Good Melrin."
"Good Melrin," Roisart returned politely.
Belisandra went back to her bar and her stew and left Mika with
the twins. "Enjoy your meal," the girl said pleasantly. "Call me if
you'd like anything else, milords."
Luthias nodded and smiled at her, and then Mika also left.
Luthias turned to his stew and greens and began to eat hungrily.
Then he laughed, his mouth full. Aware of his manners, he stopped,
swallowed, then said, "I can't believe I'm actually going to see a
fortune-teller!"
"Why not?" Roisart answered, stirring his hot stew to cool it.
"Didn't she say he was a Sage? Sages are very wise men, Luthias."
Still Luthias shook his head. "Leaving a barony to a horoscope..."
Roisart laughed. "Be practical, twin, just as you always tell me
to be. We're going for advice, not for a decision. That will have to
be made by you and me."
For a moment, Luthias was quiet. Then he said in a low voice,
"We should be more careful what we say in public, Roisart. The girl,
Mika, didn't guess what we really meant, but if someone were
searching for us..."
"It wouldn't be that hard," Roisart countered. "I'd bet that we
were the only twins in mourning blue in a festival city."
Luthias attacked the greens. "Still, we don't need the whole of
Dargon knowing about us and about...our cousin's troubles."
Roisart swallowed and nodded. "Agreed. But we should go see this
Corambis. We need all the help we can get."
"It certainly couldn't hurt," Luthias concurred.
About mid-afternoon, Luthias and Roisart finished their
leisurely meal, and after paying Belisandra and generously tipping
the girl Mika, they made their way to the main market square in
search of Corambis the Sage. As Mika predicted, his stall in the
market place, the only one that was closed in completely, was easy
to find. Luckily for the twins, the people of Dargon, accustomed to
Corambis, were exploiting other fortune tellers today. A bit
self-consciously, Luthias knocked on the door, and the nervous twins
were admitted into the booth by a young woman whom Roisart
recognized as being one of the serving wenches at Belisandra's. She
smiled at the twins provocatively, and in a sugary voice informed
them that Corambis was with another querent, but would be free very
soon. Both twins nodded soberly at this information and seated
themselves gingerly on a wooden bench.
After a minute, a middle-aged man dressed in a gay shade of red
came through the door directly opposite the twins. A young woman
followed him, apparently in tears. She slipped the man a gold piece
and then slipped out the door. The man then turned his attention to
the twins. "Who are these men, Thuna?" he asked the girl, giving her
a stern, suspicious look.
The wench Thuna shrugged coyly. "They've come for you, Corambis."
The Sage looked visibly relieved. "Come in, gentlemen," he
invited, motioning toward the plain, still-open door. In unison,
Roisart and Luthias rose and walked toward the room.
The cubicle was dark, despite the afternoon daylight outside,
and from what the twins could tell, somewhat bare. Candles
illuminated a small, circular table. Roisart recognized it as the
Wheel of Life, a divination device. After a moment, Luthias also
recalled the Wheel. Roisart noticed two chairs in opposing points
around the table. He indicated it to Luthias, who shook his head, so
Roisart sat down.
After a few quick words of instruction to Thuna, Corambis the
Sage joined them. "I apologize about Thuna," the Sage began. "I
thought that perhaps she had fallen into old habits again." The Sage
looked at Luthias, who was still standing. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't
have another chair."
"It's all right," Luthias assured him. "Don't trouble yourself.
I don't mind standing."
"All right," the Sage agreed. He looked at Roisart then, and
again at Luthias. "How may I help you, gentlemen?"
"We would have you tell our horoscope," Roisart answered quickly.
Corambis at once appeared surprised and flattered. "It's not
often men of nobility come to me," he chuckled, beginning to smile.
"They don't often trust their problems to strangers."
"This is an exceptional problem," Luthias revealed.
"You may confide in me, my lords," Corambis declared with
dignity. "I will not reveal your secrets. Why have you come to me?"
Roisart smiled. "I suppose we had no where left to go."
Corambis' eyebrows raised. "Sir?"
"My brother and I," began Luthias, "have come to you with an
unusual problem, sir. When we were born, our mother died, and so no
one noted which was the elder."
"And your father has just perished?" Corambis asked
sympathetically, gazing at the blue-grey mourning dress. "I see. You
have no idea which of you is heir." Roisart and Luthias both nodded.
"My lords, have you brought your case before Lord Dargon?"
Roisart and Luthias looked each other in the eye a moment, and
Luthias had his doubts. But Roisart trusted the Sage, and Luthias
gave his consent, so Roisart revealed the entire story to Corambis.
To the twins' astonishment, the Sage was not surprised by the
information. "I have been seeing that in the stars lately," mused
Corambis. He sighed, then looked at Roisart, sitting across from
him, and then at Luthias. "Well, my lords, I shall do what I can to
help you."
The Sage rose and turned to a little cubby-hole in the corner.
>From it, he withdrew a small, velvet bag. He opened it, rummaged a
moment, then turned back to the cubby-hole. He reached into it
again, and tossed something across the room to Luthias.
Luthias caught the thing deftly, then opened his hand to examine
the object. It was a small red chip.
Corambis seated himself once more. With one hand, he offered the
velvet bag, and another red chip to Roisart. With the other, he
beckoned Luthias closer. "It isn't often I do readings for twins,"
he mused, "but I often read for couples. Lord Roisart, take half the
chips, and do not look at them. Give the rest to your brother."
"What's the red chip for?" Luthias asked.
"Put that on your birth sign, the Oak," Corambis instructed.
"You too, Lord Roisart." The twins obeyed. Roisart took a handful of
chips, and gave the rest to Luthias. Corambis spun the wheel. "Drop
them when you are ready."
Without any outward signal, the twins simultaneously dropped the
blue chips onto the whirling Wheel of Life. It spun and spun;
Luthias knelt next to the table to see better. The Wheel spun and
spun and spun. Roisart put a hand on his brother's shoulder.
Corambis stared at the whirling Wheel. The Wheel stopped.
Corambis stared at the Wheel, with its scattered chips of red
and blue, for a moment. "Unusual," he said. "Look here, my lords.
The two birth chips have separated. One has stayed on the Oak, a
sign of strength and long life. The other has strayed to the Ship,
as if he were going to make a journey away from the other."
"What's that blue one on the Ship?" Roisart asked, fascinated.
Corambis scrutinized the symbol. "A new ally, come from afar, it
seems." He gazed at the other chips. "You will need him, along with
this ally--" Corambis pointed to a chip straddling the elements of
Fire and Sword. "--to combat these two. Two very dangerous enemies,
one caught between deceit and caring...probably a woman," he mused
to himself. "And another, on the sign of the Fox--" Again, Corambis
pointed. "He is a dangerous, cunning man, and I would be wary of him.
"The outcome..." Corambis looked at the chips. "It will be
decided soon, my lords. There are chips in the present and in the
near future."
"But which one of us?" demanded Luthias.
The Sage shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I know not, my lords.
But I can tell you this," he promised, pointing to the sign of the
Knight, which held two chips, "the decision will be made by an act
of extreme valor."
Luthias looked up at his twin. "I should have known that there
would be no easy answer, my brother," sighed Luthias.
"So should I," smiled Roisart.
Corambis shrugged pleasantly. "I can assure you of this, my
young lords. The sign of the outcome is on the Mistweaver. Whatever
happens in your case will be a fufillment of destiny."
"Do you mean that the elder will gain the barony?" Roisart asked.
"The Wheel is not specific," sighed Corambis. "It is never as
specific as I would like. As you said, my lord, there are no easy
answers in the affairs of destiny." The Sage smiled.
Both twins returned the smile with crooked, somewhat sad grins.
Luthias rose, and Roisart rose with him. "Thank you, Corambis,"
Roisart said respectfully. "We appreciate your time."
"How much do we owe you, sir?" Luthias inquired.
"Nothing," said Corambis amiably. "It isn't often I get to tell
the future of the Baron of Connall and the Lord of Dargon."
"Please," Roisart insisted, "let us give you something for your
trouble. You lost other Festival customers by telling our fortune."
"Doubtless there are other fortune tellers in Dargon for the
festival," Corambis smirked. "No, my lords, you need not pay me."
"But we want to," Luthias said, with the tone of a demand.
Corambis rolled his eyes. "Oh, all right," he conceded. Luthias
gave him two sovereigns. Corambis looked at the coins, then back at
the twins. "I suppose you won't let me put up a fuss about the
amount, my lords?" Luthias gave him a wild, wicked, challenging
grin. "I didn't think so." Corambis sighed. "Well, good Melrin to
you, lords, and be careful."
"Good Melrin," echoed Roisart, and Luthias nodded a silent
farewell as they stepped out the door. A little old lady rushed past
them to see Corambis. They heard a hysterical weeping as he door shut.
"Poor woman," said Roisart sympathetically. Luthias took a deep
breath. The twins crossed the room and left Corambis' booth. Roisart
looked at his brother. "Well, twin, what do you think?"
Luthias shrugged his large shoulders elaborately. "What should I
think, Roisart?"
"I think you'll be the next baron," Roisart announced flatly.
"Me? Why me?" wondered Luthias. "Haven't we already spoken of
this, Roisart?"
"The Sage said it would be decided by an act of valor," Roisart
reminded his brother. "You excel in matters of bravery, twin,"
Roisart praised with a confident, affectionate smile.
Luthias' faced echoed the smile falsely; Luthias' smile was
introverted, private, but it retained the happiness shared by his
brother. "Roisart," Luthias told him, "there are many sorts of valor."
The two wandered in silence for a few moments, then Roisart
wondered, "What shall we do now, Luthias?"
Luthias gazed up at the sky. The sun was just above the horizon.
Funny, but it didn't seem as if it should be that late. Lunch and
finding Corambis must have taken longer than he thought. The reading
was certainly quick.
Due to the setting sun, people were clearing the streets. The
merchants were closing and barring their shops and booths; the side
show people were packing their equipment. Tomorrow was the last day
of Melrin and the best day for business. One could not take a chance
on one's equipment being stolen in the twilight. Luthias grimaced.
If humble merchants took that much care....
"Roisart, perhaps we'd best go back to our cousin's," Luthias
suggested, carefully omitting their cousin's noble name. "After what
happened this morning..."
Roisart appeared disappointed (he had heard that there would be
firework s that evening), but then thought about the situation. "I
agree, my brother. Let's go home."
The twins were a little over a mile and a half from the keep, a
nice leisurely walk in the twilight. Roisart did a little mental
calculation and figured that he and his twin brother would arrive at
Dargon Keep about the time of the sunset. Perfect, just perfect.
Roisart again thought about that morning's escapade and began to
feel apprehensive. These murderers after Clifton, he thought, don't
even wait until after the dark. Just a deserted place. They don't
mind the twilight.
Another thing occurred to Roisart. He was unarmed. Luthias had
bought the fine, new sword at the bazaar, but he, Roisart, had
brought no weapon. Only the city guard was allowed to wear arms
during the festival, a mandate Clifton had issued for public safety.
Luthias, therefore, carried his new sword, snug in its fabulous
scabbard, in his hand, and by the blade.
That morning, the two of them had ridden prepared. But now...
Apparently, Luthias had shared his brother's thoughts. Luthias
gazed at the covered sword, and at his brother's hands, which
carried only the book Luthias had purchased. "Let's hurry, twin."
"You worry too much," Roisart said automatically.
"I don't want to lose you, Roisart," Luthias answered, sotto voce.
Yes, Luthias worried too much. After all, what assassin would be
stupid enough to try the same trick twice in the same day?
Still, Roisart gave his twin a watery smile, then gripped the
book tighter as the pair quickened their pace slightly. The streets
were becoming deserted. Luthias took a step closer to his twin.
Roisart noticed that the knuckles of the hand clutching the sword
has paled. Grim, Roisart quickened the pace again.
It was getting dark quickly.
Roisart looked at the setting sun, red and round, like a ripe,
round apple, then at his brother's face, bathed in red light.
Something moved behind Luthias.
"Roisart, fall!" cried Luthias suddenly.
Instinctively reverting to the fighting lessons they had
received under their father's auspices, Roisart trusted his brother
and collapsed carefully onto the ground. He rolled to the side,
looked up. Luthias swung at a thief, bearing a knife in one hand a
rope in the other, and bloodied the man's nose with a sweep of the
sword. The one behind Luthias, whom Roisart had seen move, moved to
strike, but Roisart pulled his brother's leg, tripping him. Luthias
stumbled, but was unhurt.
Roisart rose, put his back against Luthias', and observed the
numbers. Six. And thieves again. Roisart wondered at one of them; he
seemed familiar, but the light, as well as the observer, was
uncertain. He heard something clatter to the ground behind him;
Luthias had unsheathed his sword. Roisart cringed. Six to two, and I
am unarmed. He took a good hold on the book. Not a peasant weapon,
the unexpected thought came, but certainly an odd one.
Suddenly, there was a cry from the shadows, and four more men
joined the scene.
Luthias lunged forward and impaled a thief in one sure thrust.
Roisart leapt toward one of the attackers, and clubbed him clumsily
with Luthias' new book. The thief stumbled, more surprised than
hurt, but he shook his head and kept coming. Roisart kicked him
soundly in the groin, and when he fell, he clubbed him again with
"Lives of Lords and Princes."
Roisart lunged from the knife of his attacker, but the thief
dodged despite the pain. Roisart fell to the ground, losing his
breath. Some strong arms roughly grabbed him and hauled him to his
feet. "Master Roisart, are you all right?" Bartol's voice hissed.
"Bartol!" cried Roisart. "Thank God!" Then, in the darkening
twilight, Roisart saw movement again. "Bartol, look out!"
Deftly, the bard turned to defend himself. Roisart crouched, to
try to ward off any attackers with hand-to-hand combat. He left the
book in the dust; it was of no use to him in this situation.
Six of them, six of us, Roisart thought. Fair odds.
One of the thieves lay on the road, bleeding from wounds from
Luthias' sword. Another's head was crushed on one side from a blow
from one of Bartol's three guards. But one of Bartol's men was
still, the slit in his neck allowing all life to gush from him.
Roisart checked around. One, two, three--where is the fourth---?
A crushing blow to the neck gave Roisart his answer. Behind him.
Dazed, Roisart fell. Far away, he heard Luthias' voice, "Roisart!
ROISART!" Far away, he felt rough, rough hands tying his arms and
feet with coarse, chafing ropes. Not far away, he saw through
blurred eyes another of Bartol's men fall. He saw Luthias, trying to
fight off three thieves. The other, probably the one who had tied
him, was being defeated by Bartol and the last of his men. Bartol's
last guard fell, leaving the bard alone. And Luthias, defending
himself against three thieves.
Bartol fell, clutching his sword-arm. The thief kicked him
soundly, and ran to join his comrades, fighting Luthias.
Luthias, Roisart tried to cry out. His mouth wouldn't move.
Luthias! Bartol, help him.
Bartol was bleeding. Roisart couldn't even see Luthias any more.
There was a strange battle cry.
Suddenly, a blue and white clad stranger leapt into the midst of
the four fighting Luthias. One, he stabbed in the back. Luthias made
a lucky thrust into one of the others. The other two backed off, but
did not run. The strange, a short, young man, Roisart judged him,
swung an odd curved sword above his head and charged one of the
thieves. Encouraged, Luthias sprang at the other, who was ready. The
thief stabbed at Luthias, and Roisart heard his brother cry out. The
stranger's opponent fell.
The stranger saw Luthias clutch his side and quickly went after
the thief. One slash rid the thief of his arm. Another robbed him of
his life.
Roisart regained his breath and began to fidget. The ropes
irritated his wrists, which had been bound tightly. He heard Bartol
moan. It was becoming difficult to see.
"Are you all right?" asked the stranger in accented words.
"It's not deep," Luthias said. "But my brother...Bartol..."
Luthias took a few steps toward his brother and knelt beside
him. "Roisart?" he asked, tentatively touching his brother's forehead.
"Untie me," Roisart demanded irritably.
Luthias slit the bonds. "Are you all right?"
Roisart pushed on the ground and managed to get on his feet.
"Yes, I'm all right. Bartol?"
"A cut," the stranger answered. He was binding it. "A physician
should be able to repair it."
Luthias put his hand on his brother's arm and together they
joined the bard and the stranger. "We are indebted to you, sir,"
Luthias said politely. "We--my brother, Bartol, and I--would have
died here without your help. Thank you."
"Prease," said the stranger, "do not make fuss over it. I saw
that the thieves attacked you, and like any honorable man, I wished
to help."
"How can we ever repay you?" Roisart asked.
"Prease," the stranger begged, "I do it out of honor and
decency. I need no reward."
"At least come to sup with the masters and their cousin, the
Lord of Dargon," the bard urged. "We at least owe you that much, sir?"
The stranger took a step back and bowed. "I am Ittosai Michiya
of Bichu."
"I am honored, Michiya-san," Roisart answered, bowing and using
the suffix he had learned in books. To his surprise, Mocha bowed
again and smiled. "I am Roisart Connall. My brother, whose life you
saved, is Luthias Connall. The other man is," here Roisart smirked,
"apparently our new body guard."
Bartol frowned. "Yes, Lord Dargon sent me and the others to look
after you two."
"We should be leaving this place," Ittosai recommended.
"I agree," Luthias replied gravely. "Do come to dinner with us,
sir," he urged. "You did us a great favor this night, and the least
you deserve is our thanks and our hospitality."
"You do me honor to invite me to the house of Dargon," said
Ittosai. "I will go."
"Quickly," said Bartol, clutching his arm.
Quickly, they returned to the keep.
Roisart, rubbing his rope-burned wrists, and Luthias, clutching
his thinly-sliced side, rushed though the gates of Dargon Keep with
Bartol the bard and Ittosai Michiya, the noble from Bichu, in close
attendance. The city of Dargon had stealthily and swiftly snuck into
the dark, night hours. From their experience at the morning's dawn
and this evening's twilight, the twins knew they were no longer safe.
Roisart's head was throbbing miserably. Stubborn blood seeped
slowly through Luthias' clenched fingers. Both twins hurt, but
Roisart knew by instinct that he did not have a concussion, and
Luthias' wound was only skin deep, as much as it was bleeding.
Bartol also nursed a minor flesh wound in his sword arm; the bard
sincerely hoped that all tendons were intact. Ittosai was slightly
winded, nothing more.
Guards quickly ushered the wounded party to the presence of Lord
Dargon, who was waiting for the return of his noble cousins of
Connall. As soon as he saw them, he rose. "God, not again!" He
looked at the twins, then at Bartol. "Bartol, I gave you orders--"
Bartol wore an obstinate mask. "My lord, the three you
instructed to take with me are dead. If it were not for my lord of
Bichu, Master Roisart and Master Luthias would have died too."
Dargon grimaced and went to the door. "Bring Griswald," he told
the nearest servant, who nodded once and went immediately to fetch
the old physician. He shut the door and returned to his guests.
"Forgive me, cousins," he said to Roisart and Luthias. "I thought
you would be safe in the city."
"They waited until sunset," Luthias informed him. "The streets
were almost deserted. This man, Ittosai Mich...Michiya? saved us."
Dargon bowed to the Bichurian in the style of the foreigner's
homeland. "I am honored to meet with you again, Lord Ittosai. You
honor my household." Past the formalities, Dargon then said, "I
thank you for saving the lives of my cousins, Lord Ittosai. I am
indebted to you."
Ittosai himself bowed to Dargon's lord. "I do what any man would
do, Lord of Dargon."
"I have offered the hospitality of your household to the Lord of
Bichu," Bartol informed his lord.
"You did right, Bartol," Dargon replied. He again turned to
Ittosai Michiya. "You are welcome here, Lord Ittosai, not only as a
hero, but as a noble of a great land."
Griswald almost seemed to choose this moment to enter the lord's
study--without knocking. He looked from Bartol to the twins, and
groaned, "Gods and gods, what have you two been doing this time?"
Dargon unconsciously frowned at the disrespect of Griswald's words,
but said nothing, as he thought that the old man meant no harm.
"Bartol, what happened to you?" Griswald quickly snatched an herb
and some cloth out of his bag and bound the bard's arm. "It should
heal quickly. Don't overuse it." He turned then to Luthias and did
the same. "And what happened to you?" he finally asked Roisart.
"I was clubbed from behind," explained Roisart. Roisart turned
to his cousin.
Griswald grunted by way of reply, and probed the boy's skull
with dexterous fingers. "No lump. Were you unconscious?"
Roisart gingerly shook his head. "It's sore, though," he
admitted. Roisart turned to his cousin. "They were careful, Clifton.
They didn't want me harmed. They clubbed me hard, but it didn't put
me to sleep. And then...they tied my hands." Clifton frowned,
exchanged a glance with Luthias. Luthias gravely nodded the
confirmation of the event and his understanding of its implications.
Griswald seemed unaffected. "Can you see all right? Feel
nauseous? Tired?"
Again, Roisart carefully shook his head.
"Then don't worry about it until you do," the physician
instructed in harsh, laconic tones. Griswald then turned to his
lord. "If you'll not be needing me, I'm going to bed. You got me up
very early this morning." Without waiting for Dargon's dismissal,
Griswald abruptly left.
"He hasn't been himself for days," Dargon revealed, having seen
Ittosai's perplexed expression following the physician.
"Can a man not be himself?" Ittosai wondered, no less confused.
"It's an expression," Roisart explained with a smile. "It means
he is not acting as he usually does."
"Let's go to dinner," Luthias suggested. "It's been a long time
since Roisart and I ate lunch."
Dargon nodded, and Bartol went to hold the door open for the
Lord of Dargon and his noble guests. As Dargon followed Ittosai out
the door, he said, "You will be coming to the Melrin ball, won't
you, Lord Ittosai?" When the Bichurian didn't answer, Clifton
continued, "You are invited, as my guest, as the worthy noble of a
distant land."
"I fear I am not versed in your past-times," Michiya admitted.
Roisart smiled. "But it's simple, Michiya-san. You smile at the
pretty women--"
"And try not to fall in love with them," Luthias finished for
his brother.
"A strange expression is falling in love, as if one were to fall
into a pit," Ittosai noted.
"Please do come, Lord Ittosai," Dargon repeated his invitation.
"The people of Dargon are very curious about your nation across the
sea, and want to have better relations with you and your people."
"I am not the best speaker of my people," Ittosai protested,
"but I will come."
"Thank you," said the Lord of Dargon. "Please accept my house's
hospitality for this night, and for tomorrow night, after the ball.
You wouldn't want to miss any part of it."
"Yes," Roisart said. "I imagine it will be a night to remember."
-M. Wendy Hennequin
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TEN NUMBER FIVE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
Flyer's Dance John Sullivan
Untitled Lori Spier
*Worthy of the Title, Part 3 M. Wendy Hennequin
Date: 041688 Dist: 619
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Greetings once again! Well, it's about time another couple
issues of FSFnet were sent out. In this issue we have an excellent
SF story by a very promising new author, John Sullivan; also the
conclusion of Wendy's Dargon series, "Worthy of the Title", and an
SF short story by Lori Spier. The next issue should follow closely
on the heels of this one (if the queue between Yale and CUNY permits
it), and will include a new story by Ron Meldrum and the conclusion
of Carlo's "Cydric" series. And there are several other stories
currently in the works, and which I know are particularly
interesting, and should be ready for printing very soon. In all, a
huge quantity of very good fiction coming your way, enabling me to
keep keep my editorials nice and short (under the pretense of not
having enough room to waste on my own editorial ramblings and such).
So, without becoming particularly verbose about it, I'd like to
say that it's good to see you again, I hope you like the issue, and
I hope it won't be too long before I'll see you again. Enjoy!
-'Orny' Liscomb
Flyer's Dance
Humans aren't supposed to dream in D-sleep. They don't do
anything at all. But the computers must have noted the turmoil in
his brainwaves and brought him at least partially out, because in
the deep night between stars, Kei dreamed of the world called Gironde.
Lissa was in the crawler. She was trying to fix the engine,
coached on radio by the base engineers. "Forty minutes," she
shouted, fear in her voice. Forty minutes until the flare hit,
bathing the entire hemisphere in radiation.
The folding shovel from the emergency kit was cheap, with a
tubular handle of thin metal that kept folding back up when he
thrust into the dirt. As soon as he got a spadeful up, he tossed it
over his shoulder into the heap that slowly piled up against the
crawler's sunward side. He kept remembering his old freshman physics
professor talking about the distances gamma rays could travel
through lead. Kei wished Dr. Conover were here now. He could help
him dig. Kei worked on, blisters forming on his palms. The pale
white light cast his face into harsh relief.
"Ten more minutes," Lissa called. It couldn't have been half an
hour already. The hole was no bigger. His hands were bleeding now,
making it harder to grip the shovel. Kei turned to check the pile
and saw a flower drift down to rest in the turned earth.
He looked up in surprise and saw his grandfather, sitting
cross-legged on the crawler roof. His sword was sheathed on his lap,
and a small bowl of flowers sat next to one knee. With a casual
motion he flipped another blossom from the bowl and watched it
flutter down beside the first.
"Grandfather!" he cried. Surely he would help dig.
"I tried so hard to teach you about wisdom and life, Kei," the
old man said sorrowfully.
"I listened to you."
"Are you listening now?" And another flower fell.
"Grandfather, will you help me dig? I'm begging you. I'm going
to die. My wife...."
"You don't understand." His grandfather shook his head slowly.
Lissa called from inside. There was no more time.
"I have to go inside now, grandfather. The flare's going to
hit." His grandfather looked ashamed as Kei dropped the shovel and
went into the crawler.
Kei and Lissa curled together under a last futile layer of seat
cushions and winter clothing. For a time, Lissa talked to him about
her home on Delta Raeli. Then she'd cried. He held her as she lapsed
into coma, kissing her as she slipped away from him. Soon he would
follow her. The dream faded as Kei weakly screamed his rage and pain
at the baleful white sun.
There was a thin sheen of ice on his cheeks when the computers
woke him over Delta Raeli.
Delta Raeli was a small world, cool with a dense atmosphere. The
gravity was a weak .8G, making his movements more comfortable. Even
with the painkillers that his medpack dispensed, his muscles ached
and his nerves burned. He was constantly tired as his body vainly
tried to throw off the tumor tissue growing within him. The ride
down to the surface had made it worse.
Apparently his story had made the newsnets because people
recognized him in the terminal. He felt the stares of the curious,
and heard whispered voices saying things like "radiation poisoning,"
and "wife died," and "lawsuit." They seemed especially fascinated by
the money. Several times he heard "thirty million" whispered in a
sort of jealous awe. None of them had ever worn a medpack. He hated
the thing, with its blinking telltales and the catheters running
into his body. He longed to whirl on them and tell them they could
have the money if they could give him more than two months to live
without it strapped to his torso. While they were at it, they could
give him back his wife. But he didn't say anything, afraid he would
go too far and break down some barrier within him that was better
left intact.
He made his way through customs and hired a car. Lissa's father
made his living shooting documentary tapes for export, and they
lived in the barrier range, where the andrils were. None of the
tourist trains went anywhere near them.
Finally, in the car, he could relax. He settled back into the
seat and gazed out the windows at the mountains in the distance. He
could see andrils moving in that far distance. They were small black
dots that swirled and looped in the wild winds around the peaks.
Seeing them, he bit his lip to fight the tears.
The Farnhams lived near the highest peaks, in a house
overlooking a two thousand meter drop into fierce desert badlands on
the other side of the range. He paid the driver outside, and Lissa's
mother met him at the door.
"Mr. Fujiwara," she said, her voice confused between sorrow and
pity. Then she let out a breath and closed her eyes momentarily.
"Kei." She put an arm around his shoulders and led him into the
house. Her parents knew the bare details from the newsnets, but it
was different when he told them. Now the tears came.
Along an indistinct line the living room turned into balcony,
and Kei sat, drink in one hand, looking out at the sky and the
peaks, purple in the fading light. Once he had officially told them
how Lissa had died, no one seemed to know what else to say.
Lissa's mother finally broke the silence. "You look so," she
paused, unsure of what to say. "Healthy."
He shook his head. "The drugs slow it as much as possible, but I
can feel them losing ground. When it comes the decay will be
exponential. The last couple days will be bad, very bad." He took a
sip from his glass.
"What are you going to do?" asked her father. "You could go into
D-sleep. You've got the money."
"I could," he admitted. He left the rest unsaid. There was a
faint hope that in a few years they would be able to arrest the wild
cell growth that was eating him from within. But without her the
world had nothing to offer him. He wasn't going to take D-sleep.
There was a flash of movement outside and a cry, like a bird's,
but longer and modulated. He looked off the balcony and an andril
plunged through the growing darkness a few thousand feet away. Great
wings folded and bent, twisting the creature into a corkscrew roll.
Two trailing appendages - almost tentacles - rippled through the
wind behind it. At their ends, smaller versions of the wings
alternately extended and contracted to provide more control. The
creature repeated its long, mournful wail as it fell away and arced
out over the desert. Finally he lost sight of it in the darkness.
Kei gazed into the darkness, trying to capture another glimpse
of the vanished shape. For almost a minute he said nothing. Mr.
Farnham looked at him and smiled.
"They usually like the winds better farther downrange. But we
sometimes get a few around here. Beautiful, aren't they?"
Kei nodded. All he'd known about the andrils was that they were
one of a very few species of large fliers known to exist. Few worlds
had the right combination of light gravity and dense air for the
wings to push against. He'd tended to think that they would be
awkward in proportion to their size. He'd been wrong. The andril had
been surprisingly graceful.
"There's a mountain a few miles south of here where they
gather," said Farnham. "I'm driving down tomorrow to do some taping.
Why don't you join me?"
He considered it for a moment, then smiled. "Thank you. I think
I will."
The place was unimaginatively named Grant's Peak. Rail lines and
roads converged at the bottom, and there was a large parking area
scattered with tour buses. Then, past restaurants and souvenir
shops, an elevator system carried them halfway up the mountain to a
wide stone platform open to the sky.
They had come early to avoid the tourist rush. Perhaps fifty
people milled about on the observation platform, talking, looking up
with hands over their eyes to block the glare. Some had brought
visor units or were using the token-operated versions near the rim.
Farnham's film crew was waiting for him to start setting up their
equipment. While they mounted the holocameras and strung power
cables back to the snack bar carved into the mountainside, Kei
slipped a token into a set of visors and swiveled it upward.
There were six of them, circling in a diffuse group off the
highest summit. With daylight and magnification he had a better view
of them. They were delta shaped, with triangular wing membranes
extending from the narrow triangle of body that tapered back to the
point where the two trailing stabilizers were attached. They flapped
their wings lazily, with a gentle rolling motion. The largest of
them was about twelve feet from wingtip to wingtip. Occasionally one
or two would peel away from the group and pick up speed as they
fell. Then they would go into a sequence of rolls and loops,
punctuated with their eerie calls. Finally they would pull out far
below the observation platform and slowly climb back up to rejoin
the others.
When his time expired, the lenses polarized to black and Kei
turned to Farnham.
"Why do you think they do it?" he asked.
The cameras had been set up, and two of Farnham's camera
operators were taping aerobatic sequences. Behind them there was a
steady whir from the tracking motors that helped keep the cameras
focused on the andrils.
"Any number of reasons. Mating ritual, practice in hunting or
escaping predators. Just for fun. That's my choice. They're having a
ball up there."
Kei watched them for the rest of the day, while the crew filmed,
never becoming bored. The compositon of the group gradually changed
as some drifted away and newcomers joined the show. Kei learned to
identify a few individuals who had specific marks. One in particular
had lost part of the membrane that formed the left wing and had to
restrict its choice of maneuvers to favor the weakened limb. He
named it Ahab and watched it over the others for the rest of the
day, impressed. Gradually he noticed that it did just as much as the
others; it simply had to find movements to get the same results.
A message for him? Kei smiled, amused by the fancy. Ahab didn't
understand. He could go into D-sleep and hope. If Lissa were still
alive, he wouldn't have hesitated. But without her it didn't matter.
There would be a great deal of pain and, at the end of the long
sleep, just another world without her. No gain. His life had tapped
out. In Ahab's terms, there was no one to perform for. He wondered
what the great flyer would do if it were the last one of its kind.
He decided it would probably dive straight into the desert floor.
They were free to fly, but there was little joy in flying alone.
That night he stood alone on the terrace, long after the
Farnhams had gone to sleep, looking out at the stars over the
canyon. Cool winds ruffled his hair and wailed through distant
passes. He thought he could hear the cries of andrils even farther
away. He knew they traveled in groups, but their cries still sounded
lonely to him, and forlorn. He wondered if any of them ever crashed,
ever pushed themselves too far and hit the ground before they could
pull out. Perhaps that was why they flew, to make life bearable for
as long as they could, waiting for the time when they would risk too
much and die, secure in the absolute knowledge of identity and extent.
Kei stood silently for a time, remembering Lissa's humor, and
the soft feel of her skin. He considered his future, the painful
death that was racing toward him. Then he looked back, at his
grandfather and his pantheistic world of beauty and death. His
present seemed to be vanishing to a point with past and future
simultaneously spiraling in on it. The past had been given him by
birth, the future by gamma rays, and the present ....
The present was a rush of wind and a black shape that eclipsed
the stars with a strident wail. Kei stepped back, startled, then
dashed to the wall, searching for the switch he knew was there. He
groped until he found it, and floodlights illuminated the balcony
and the space around it. Kei moved quickly back to the railing.
The andril was arcing upward now, unafraid of the pool of light.
He could make its form out clearly, the wide body and trailing
stabilizers, and the torn wing. It was Ahab.
Ahab allowed its momentum to bleed off as it neared the top of
its loop, then it suddenly flicked its body forward and locked its
wings, gliding toward the balcony. The great wings, supported by
bone only at the leading edge, billowed back like parachutes and the
animal seemed almost to be hovering, less than fifty feet away from
him. Kei could see its eyes in the floodlight. They were perfectly
circular, deep and black. Ahab stared at Kei as it slowly drifted
toward him. He felt as if the animal were probing him, evaluating.
It could last for only an instant. Ahab's wings couldn't hold it
against its growing momentum. Before that momentum carried it into
the cliffs, the andril gave him another cry, not mournful at all but
shrill, challenging. Then it folded the weak wing under its body and
fell, plummeting to one side and out of the floodlight.
His grandfather would have called the andril a kami. For an
instant, Kei understood that sense of the mystical. He had been
thinking about his present and the sign had come, overpowering and
undeniable. His present was with the andrils.
The suit had made Kei a very wealthy man. There were no servo
gliders on Delta Raeli, but there was money to have one sent out on
the next ship. It was three weeks before it arrived, and Kei went to
Grant's Peak every day. And every day, among the group that came to
fly the mountain winds and thermals, there was Ahab. Gradually Kei
realized that the andrils often repeated the same complex sequence
of manuevers again and again in the course of a day. Ahab was one of
these. His sequence was long and complicated. It took him up, high
above the peak, in a beautiful series of climbing rolls, then he
dove past the platform doing rolls, loops and spins so complex Kei
couldn't assign them names. The sequence ended very close to the
ground as Ahab finally pulled out and glided away across the desert.
Kei studied the sequence mercilessly. He taped it with Farnham's
holocameras and watched it at night in the living room, over and
over and over until he knew it as well as he knew his name. Farnham
finally overcame his nervousness and asked him what he was doing.
Kei spoke distractedly, not looking away from the hologram
display. "I'm going to fly with them."
The servo glider looked like a primitive aircraft from the
beginnings of human flight, one of those absurd contraptions one saw
collapsing in old black and white 2D tapes. But it would fly. Kei
stood within the frame that held it above the observation platform
and slipped his arms into the sleeves that stretched across the
underside of the wings. The servo glider was a forest of cloth,
tubing and wire around him. He slipped his fingers into the gloves
and tested the control surfaces.
The crowd applauded as the rudder pivoted and the serrated cloth
wings moved slightly. Farnham came forward and strapped him into the
safety harness, cinching it tight around his chest. He heard the
whirring of the cameras behind him as one of Farnham's crews
recorded the moment. Kei regretted the circus atmosphere, but hadn't
been able to prevent it. Farnham had three crews ready - there on
the platform, on the ground, and the third in a tracking helicopter.
The newsnets had picked the story up, and the tourists flocked to
Grant's Peak to see what was happening. Overhead, the andrils paid
little attention, slowly circling high above the crowds as they
always did. Kei looked up only once, to confirm that Ahab was there.
Finally he was ready. The crowd was tired of the preparations
and stood quietly, waiting to see him fly. Farnham's camera crews
all checked in ready. Kei had been ready for a long time. The tumors
had progressed during the three weeks he waited for the servo
glider, and the medpack was beginning to lose ground in its struggle
to save him. His body was visibly gaunt now, wasting away in a mad
rush to oblivion. Lissa's parents, seeing him die before their eyes,
were urging him to take D-sleep, but none of that mattered any more.
He was ready to fly.
Kei took one last look at the crowds gathered on the platform,
nodded at Farnham, and flipped a switch.
The bottles of compressed gas bolted to the frame opened, and,
with a loud hiss, Kei was shot off the edge of the platform into
open space. He gained altitude for a few seconds, propelled by the
sheer force of the bottles. Then, as he was beginning to curve back
down, he closed the bottles and unlocked the wings. Quickly he
adjusted trim into a stable glide and drifted, exhilarated, across
the desert far below.
The weather was perfect for flying. It was cool, but not
uncomfortably so, and the sky was cloudless, bright blue. A gentle
wind blew over the mountains from the coast. With the bottles turned
off, the only sounds were the wing fabric rippling in the air with a
pleasant staccato sound, and the cries of the andrils above him.
He pulled in one arm and the corresponding wingtip bent slightly
inward, allowing the glider to gradually turn, spiraling slowly
downward until he was facing the mountains again. He came smoothly
out of the turn, gliding toward the cliffs, perhaps fifty feet below
the platform. Perfect, he thought. Now to gain some altitude.
Kei raised his arms, forcing the wings to tilt up over his head.
Then, with all his strength, he forced them down. Sensor pads on the
insides of the sleeves felt his motion, and the power-assist cut in.
With a brief whine of servo- motors the wings flapped powering him
ahead and up. He flapped again and again, laughing. He was flying by
flapping his wings, the way the andrils did. Only Lissa had made him
this happy.
He stroked again and again and soon he was above the platform,
coming into the circling group of andrils. They considered him as he
appraoached. A few turned and flew away, but most stayed, greeting
him with their calls. Ahab stayed, as Kei knew he would.
As he came nearer Kei went into a slow, climbing loop, twisting
through a quick roll at the top - the opening of Ahab's sequence.
Immediately all the andrils except Ahab withdrew from the area and
circled slowly in the thermals, watching. Ahab cried at him, then
repeated the roll, signifying that he understood. Kei suspected that
the andrils understood a great deal more than humans credited them
with. Somehow Ahab had sensed something about him, had asked for his
story. Now Kei was ready to give it to him.
Kei was exultant as they went into the opening of the sequence
together. They paralleled each other, rolling and gliding together,
partners. The early stages of the sequence were slow, gradually
gaining altitude until they were far above the peaks.
As they continued to climb, Kei wondered if the andrils had
their own version of the tale of Icarus, an andril who flew too
high, extended himself too far, until the sun rebuked him and sent
him crashing into earth. It didn't seem unreasonable but there was
no way to be sure. He hoped Ahab would understand what he was trying
to say.
He followed the andril through a circle, as they finished
climbing, then Ahab dipped downward. Kei stayed with him, slowly
rolling to one side to increase his fall speed. Ahab started to pull
up again, but Kei flapped his wings too quickly and hit the tail
flaps until the servo glider stalled. It wasn't so easy to recover
from setbacks. Sometimes they just followed one another too quickly.
Ahab looped over him and down, ending up beside him as he pulled
out of the stall. The andril looked at him, confused. He hadn't
followed the sequence. Kei wondered how much of this Ahab was able
to interpret.
Ahab tried climbing again, but Kei glided gently downward,
insistent. Finally, Ahab relented. It skipped several more climbing
manuevers and dove toward the ground, picking up speed and twisting.
Kei followed, joyously matching the andril through stunt after
stunt. The sequence fit his meaning again.
But that part of the sequence was soon over. Kei felt time
vanishing to a point around him.
They came out of a dive and Ahab sped ahead of him, turning to
face him and carefully flying backwards. Kei was impressed. He
hadn't realized that was possible. Ahab cried at him, then fell away
when he could hold position no longer. Kei locked the wings in place
and glided. He pulled one arm out of its sleeve and unfastened the
safety harness. Ahab recovered and repeated the manuever, showing
off in the rest that preceded the next part of the sequence.
Ahab pulled in front of him and faced him a third time. Kei
could almost see the animal smiling. "Thank you," he whispered.
"Thank you. You showed me the way."
He thought of a cherry blossom falling as he flipped open the
bottles and let go of the frame.
Ahab was ready to begin the next part of the sequence, and
seemed confused when the servo glider shot away, arcing far out over
the desert. Then it shrieked and dove.
Kei closed his eyes. All of time was now.
There was another shriek, very close, and then the andril
slammed into him with stunning impact. He cried out in surprise as
the andril's trailing stabilizers whipped painfully around him and
held him against the creature's back.
The two beings plummeted earthward like a rock, Ahab flapping
its great wings desperately, spinning without the use of the
stabilizers. Kei struggled instinctively to escape the tentacles
until he realized what was happening and screamed "No!" into the
rushing wind.
Ahab had stopped the spin and leveled itself. It had extended
and locked its wings the way it had off the balcony. But Kei knew it
had no chance of maintaining flight. The andrils were barely light
enough to fly to begin with. Even in the faint gravity, his body was
inexorably bearing them both down toward the desert floor.
He beat his fists against the andril's back, fleshy where the
head met the body, and felt the tears being whipped from his eyes by
the wind. "No! You can't hold me, I'm too heavy." he didn't know if
he spoke the words or only thought them. Kei struggled, but the
tentacles held him too tightly. He finally gave up and went limp
against the andril's body crying "No," with a long, anguished sound,
"Please, I'm too heavy. Don't do this. Not again."
Their rate of fall was slower now, but they were still diving.
Ahab had started flapping its wings again, moving quickly across the
approaching sand. It couldn't slow its descent rate any more and was
desperately trying to compensate with a shallow glide slope. But
there was no chance.
When the impact came, Kei screamed, feeling bones breaking. They
tumbled as they hit, the stabilizers convulsing tight around him.
And then he was still, lying on top of Ahab's shattered body. He
saw several broken ends of hollow bones jutting through rips in the
wings and body. He tried to roll off the body, knowing that Ahab
couldn't have survived, but trying anyway. He screamed and froze
again, transfixed by the agony of broken legs, ribs, and an arm. His
blood mixed with Ahab's in the sand.
He heard the sound of Farnham's helicopter coming for him. He
was going to live. Ahab had saved him, and Kei saw just what the
andril had given up for him, and what the extent of his debt had to
be. He was in pain, but Ahab had died to give him that pain. Pain
was life.
Somehow, the medpack was still functioning. It beeped as it went
through a reset cycle and started pumping painkillers into him. He
savagely ripped the catheters out of his body, feeling a stab of
agony from his broken arm. He refused to have his senses dulled now,
no matter how much pain there was. His good hand couldn't stop
gently stroking the flesh of the andril's wing beneath him, so soft
and dusky smooth.
-John Sullivan
Untitled
Allright, I told that Colonel fellow that we'd tell him what
happened. Now, you gotta remember that we didn't know we were doing
anything wrong. It's just that, see, we got real bored this summer
and started fooling around. How were we to know what would happen?
Ok, ok...I'll tell you how it all started. You see, me and Jimmy
were never what you'd call popular. We sorta found each other and
that was about all there was. Well, this summer we were sitting down
in Jimmy's basement just fooling around. You know how it is, right?
Well, we'd found this old bunch of magazines laying around. They
had some pretty neat stories in them and some really wild drawings.
The name of the magazines? I don't remember exactly. It was
something about science.
Anyway, like I said, there were some pretty neat stories in
them. Stuff like people living on the moon and traveling in outer
space. You know, stuff that just isn't real. So, what? Yeah, I'm
getting to what happened. Just don't keep interrupting me so much.
Like I was saying, we knew this stuff just wasn't real but we
decided, what the heck, it made fun stuff to read. So, we read these
magazines and then Jimmy decided to try out some of these
experiments and build us a ray gun.
What? Oh, the story had pictures in it showing where all the
wires were supposed to go. We got the actual gun out of my little
brother's toy box. You know, one of those dart guns that look like
the real thing? Well, we opened that up and had plenty of room for
all the stuff inside.
The wires were easy to find. Jimmy had an old walkie-talkie that
we stripped out. They weren't the right size, but shucks, who cared,
right? Hey, don't shout at me! I said I'd tell you the truth and I'm
doing it. I can't help it if you don't believe me.
The crystal is from an old watch - you know, the face? That fit
on pretty well and it sort of magnifies stuff too. So, we put the
whole she-bang together and tried it out. What? Heck, no! We sure
didn't know it would work like that! We figured it was just play,
remember? I mean, this stuff isn't real!
So, can I go home now? Oh, power..... we just used a battery out
of Jimmy's toys. It didn't need much, just a little something.
Anyway, we're real sorry that we blew up the Army's tank. We just
wanted to play war with the soliders.
-Lori Spier
Worthy of the Title
Despite the fact that Griswald was weary unto the very marrow of
his old bones, he rose with the dawn to await the arrival of Lek
Pyle, the merchant from Magnus, and two thugs--assassins--he
promised to produce. It did not sit well with Griswald that he would
be instrumental in the death of his lord, and of the lord's young
cousin Luthias Connall, whom Griswald had healed twice yesterday. Of
course, Griswald was more uncomfortable with the thought of his own
death, which Pyle had been threatening for sometime now, than with
the death of Luthias.
That strange, rhythmic knock, which by now sickened Griswald,
sounded at the door. Reluctantly, but quickly--it would not do to
keep Lek Pyle waiting, murderer or no--Griswald opened the door.
Pyle gave the physician the grin of a serpent and pushed past him
into the physician's laboratory. Two lithe young men followed. They
both carried crossbows. As they crossed to the center of the room,
Griswald silently shut the door.
"Well," Lek Pyle demanded immediately, but not loudly, "have you
finished it, Griswald?"
Griswald nodded. "It's done, and ready for you." He went to a
cabinet with three complex locks on them. The physician took out a
large ring of keys, and, one by one, he released the locks. He then
opened the cabinet. In it were various dark bottles, all marked with
skulls. The physician chose one, withdrew it, and locked the cupboard.
Griswald handed the bottle to Pyle. "Immediate, as you asked,"
reported Griswald laconically, staring stonily at the merchant's
beady eyes.
"On contact?" asked the merchant.
"Not quite," Griswald explained. "Put into a wound or an
opening, it means instant death. On healthy skin, it is ineffective.
You said you would be using crossbows...."
Pyle smiled again. "Yes. These two gentlemen--" he indicated the
young men, "will attend the ball with me tonight. At the precise
moment, they will fire upon Lord Dargon and his cousin Luthias of
Connall, and then we will finally have an end to this matter. Did
you get the seating plans for the banquet tonight, Griswald?"
Gravely, Griswald nodded. Out of a pocket, he took a grimy
paper. Opening, he pointed to the diagram. "Lord Dargon is to sit at
the head of the table, between his two cousins. Roisart will be on
his left--your right, gentlemen. He will be the one seated next to
me, and he is to be left alone. The one seated between Dargon and
the Bichurian noble is your target. You, gentlemen, will be hidden
outside of these windows." Griswald moved his finger to the symbols
of the said structures. "I will open them if they remain closed."
"Very good," Pyle slithered in appreciation. "You have done
well, Griswald, after all." Griswald did not trust the merchant's
smile. "I will see to it, when I convince the King of Baranur to war
with Bichu, that you are well rewarded. Now," he continued, "these
gentlemen need only put some of this poison on their crossbow bolts?"
"Exactly," Griswald confirmed. "The shot need not be exact. All
it need do is break the skin, and the..." Griswald struggled to find
a proper word. "The Lord of Dargon and Luthias Connall will die."
At sunset that night, in the great ivory ballroom of Dargon
Keep, the musicians tuned their instruments and began to play a
ditty for the nobles of the duchy of Dargon. The night was warm, and
Dargon instructed the guards (and there were many on hand that
night) to open the windows. The Lord of Dargon himself stood near
the door of the ballroom, with Roisart, Luthias, and Michiya by his
side. Few guests had arrived as yet, and those few, after greeting
the Lord and his cousins, were mingling. Roisart enjoyed the
momentarily lull. It wasn't often he got to stand in the great ivory
ballroom, built by his and Dargon's grandfather. It was a colossal
enclosure, actually coated with rare ivory, and decorated with
whimsical stained glass windows. There were twelve windows in the
room, all exquisitely beautiful. Now, Roisart stared at his
favorite. It was a gorgeous piece of art, and nothing, not even the
two guards standing to either side of it, could detract from its
beauty. In it, a exquisite red-haired woman, clad in a sea-blue
gown, stood before a mirror, in which was reflected a handsome,
dark-haired man. It was from a legend, an ancient and romantic one,
that had been a favorite fairy tale with Roisart ever since he was a
boy. He had often longed for a woman like her...
And tonight, there were plenty of beautiful young ladies to
adorn the ballroom. And Roisart and his brother were heirs to
Connall and Dargon, making them two of the three most eligible men
in the township (their cousin, the Lord of Dargon himself, was the
third). Roisart smiled to himself as he looked forward to a night of
dancing and conversing. Luthias was not as pleased. He was not as
comfortable as his brother in the ballroom. Often, his brother, his
father, and his cousin were the only people around whom he was not
tongue-knotted. And he felt out of place tonight; although he and
Roisart had put on white blouses for the evening's ball, they still
wore the mourning blue in their trousers, and on bands on their
arms. It made Luthias feel out of place, like a ugly, dying weed in
a rose garden.
Dargon was greeting a group of merchants from Magnus. "Lord
Ittosai," Dargon said to his guest, "this is Lek Pyle, a merchant
who often travels to your country. Merchant Pyle, this is Lord
Ittosai Michiya."
Pyle, master of facial disguises, smiled pleasantly. "An honor,
my lord," he said, although it was unclear at which lord he was
speaking. "These are my sons," he introduced two graceful swains
behind him.
"Welcome to Dargon," Clifton said formally. "Pray enjoy
yourselves in my house."
"I thank you," said Pyle, and he and his "sons" moved away.
Dargon began greeting the next people, introducing those who
were unacquainted to his cousins, who nodded, and to Michiya, who
bowed in the manner of his country. Luthias and Roisart did,
however, bow to the matrons, and bring the hands of the young ladies
to their cheeks politely. Many of the young girls fussed over the
twins and their cousin, which Roisart viewed as a great compliment.
Luthias' attitude was more realistic. He knew that the women only
wished to be attached to the name of Dargon and Connall, not to
Luthias, or Roisart, or Clifton.
"Ah, Roisart, Luthias," Dargon was saying, "this is Lord
Shipbrook, his lady Amada, and their son, Master Tylane." The twins
nodded to the lord, bowed to his wife, and shook hands with their
son, a contemporary. "Enjoy my hospitality," Dargon invited, and the
people moved on. "Good evening, Lord Coranabo, my lady Coranabo.
Lord Ittosai, I present the Lord Edward Coranabo, his lady Melrinna,
and their daughters, Misses Danza and Kellina. My lord, my lady,
young ladies, I believe you already are acquainted with my noble
cousins, Roisart and Luthias Connall."
"My lord, my lord!" came a call behind them. Dargon and his
companions turned. Before them stood a breathless man, dressed in
slightly outdated formal wear, and bearing dust in his hair.
Dargon smiled congenially, and actually, Roisart thought, he
looked rather pleased. The new arrival leaned toward his lord. "I am
glad that you have finally decided to join us, Chronicler," the Lord
of Dargon admitted. "Do you know--"
The Chronicler leaned backwards, as if he were about to recite
something stiffly. "My lord, I must speak with you privately."
Dargon raised his eye brows. The Chronicler leaned forward. "I
am afraid that is impossible, Chronicler. You know the demands of
society as well as I." The Chronicler scowled at the very thought.
"Leave your studies and enjoy yourself." The Chronicler scowled
again. "Have you met my special guests tonight? These are my
cousins, Roisart and Luthias, the sons of the late Baron of Connall.
And this is Lord Ittosai Michiya, a noble of Bichu."
Taken aback, the Chronicler gasped, and then bowed to the
Bichurian noble. "Konban wa," the Chronicler pronounced.
More surprised than the Chronicler, Ittosai bowed in return and
repeated the greeting.
"Ogenki desu ka?" asked the Chronicler. Roisart recognized the
language, and some of the words from his readings. He cursed himself
for not trying to speak the language with Ittosai beforehand.
"Hai, anata wa?" answered the Bichurian.
"Hai, okagesama de," replied the Chronicler.
The Bichanese noble was smiling brightly. In the local tongue,
Michiya breathed in appreciative surprise, "I did not know that
anyone here spoke my language."
"I have studied your poets, my lord," the Chronicler answered
proudly. The Chronicler then announced to the noble twins and
Ittosai Michiya alike, "My lords, I am Rish Vogel, Chronicler to the
Lord of Dargon."
"A Chronicler?" Roisart asked with interest. "What do you do for
my cousin, Chronicler?"
"Research, m' young lord." answered Rish Vogel good naturedly.
"What do you research?" Luthias wanted to know seriously.
"The truth," the Chronicler answered with light jesting. He
reached forward and actually pinched Luthias' cheek. "Is that not
what we all seek in our own way?" The musicians abruptly changed
tempo. "Ah, a dance I know!" Vogel exclaimed. "Excuse me, my lords,
but if I must suffer through this, I might as well show off what
little knowledge I have of these arts."
Luthias wore a tight, angry expression, but he waited until the
Chronicler was far out of range before he growled wrathfully, "If he
ever pinches my cheek again, I'll kill him!" Ittosai chuckled;
Clifton and Roisart nearly split with laughter.
Roisart quieted and stared at the slightly dusty Chronicler, who
was capering with a lively lady on the dance floor. "Don't you think
you should find out what he wanted, Clifton? He seemed quite excited
about something. It might be important."
The Lord of Dargon shook his head. "No, Roisart. Knowing what he
is investigating, he's only probably found the middle name of our
great-great-great aunt." Luthias and his brother exchanged confused
looks. "He's doing genealogical research," Dargon explained. Clifton
looked out the door at the setting sun. "It's near time for me to
begin the celebration officially," he mused. He turned to Ittosai
and his cousins. "Accompany me, my lords," he invited formally. "The
guests will be announced by herald from now on, and there's no need
for us to be standing by the door when we should be dancing."
"I do not know any of your dances," Michiya protested.
"We'll teach you," Luthias promised mischievously.
"He better be in one piece afterwards!" warned Dargon.
"Don't worry, Clifton. I'll keep Luthias on a leash," Roisart
volunteered with a smile.
"You can try," Luthias challenged his brother with easy humor.
"Behave, you two," the exasperated Lord of Dargon ordered. He
and his cousins and Ittosai Michiya waded through the guests to the
dais. There, Dargon nodded to the herald.
"My lords and my ladies," the herald cried importantly. "His
noble grace, the Lord Duke of Dargon. Lord Roisart Connall and Lord
Luthias Connall. Lord Ittosai Michiya of Bichu."
The four lords stepped onto the dais as the company present
bowed formally. Dargon acknowledged their tribute with a sincere,
lordly nod. "My lords and ladies," said Clifton Dargon, "let the
celebration begin." Quickly, he got off the dais, and just as
quickly, his cousins and Ittosai followed.
"I do not like being looked at by so many eyes," complained the
Bichurian, almost sheepishly. "It is like being a..."
"Target," Luthias supplied crisply.
"That wasn't wise, getting up there," Roisart added. "We were
perfect shots, Clifton."
"I've got guards on top of guards here," Clifton repeated for
the forty-eighth time. "I've got guards on the floor. I've got
guards at the windows. I have guards outside the windows, and by all
the doors. You know all this, Roisart. You're beginning to worry as
much as Luthias."
Roisart smiled. "Never, Clifton." Roisart turned to Ittosai.
"We'll have to find a dancing partner for you, Michiya-san. You need
to dance. Now Luthias, of course, will not dance."
"I may," Luthias conceded in the tone of a threat.
Roisart laughed. "We'll see." He took Michiya off to the side.
Clifton nodded at Luthias, a signal to be sociable and mingle about,
and the Lord of Dargon glided around the room to some of the older
people, who sat in chairs under the stained glass windows.
Luthias was just about to find one of those chairs for himself.
No sense in standing around looking foolish. Then he heard the
herald announce the Winthrop family. Baron Winthrop was an old
friend of Luthias and Roisart's father, and the twins had been
playmates of the Winthrops' daughter, Pecora. Luthias decided to go
greet the Winthrops and ask Pecora for a dance, even though dancing
was not his favorite activity. To his surprise, Luthias found his
brother with the Winthrops.
Old man Winthrop smiled at Luthias' arrival. "Never could keep
you two far apart, eh?" said the old Baron, and he chuckled loudly
at his own joke. "Sorry about your father, Roisart--or are you
Luthias? Never could keep you two boys straight..."
Roisart exchanged a conspiratorial, mildly annoyed, mildly
amused look with his brother, then they returned to the
conversation. "Thank you, Baron," Roisart replied formally.
"Well, it isn't the time or place for sorrowing," Winthrop
asserted. "Come along, Marcellon, let these young ones to
themselves. I'll introduce you to the young Lord of Dargon." A
stately man dressed in red nodded to the twins gravely and followed
Baron Winthrop away. The Baroness followed, after the twins bowed
politely to her, leaving Pecora and another young lady, of
blue-green eyes and sable hair, alone with the twins. Roisart then
lifted Pecora's hand and placed it gently next to his cheek.
As Luthias touched Pecora's hand to his cheek, Roisart lifted
the hand of the other young lady, who stood behind Pecora. "Forgive
me, my lady," Roisart apologized. "I am Roisart Connall."
"Forgive my rudeness," Pecora apologized, blushing profoundly.
Luthias, who still held her hand, squeezed it lightly. Poor Pecora,
he thought. She's still having a hard time of it. Pecora's face
lightened, and she indicated the beautiful young woman next to her.
Roisart's eyes were shining as she introduced, "This is my cousin,
Lady Lauren Equiville. Lauren, these are the twin sons of the late
Baron of Connall, Lord Roisart," Pecora indicated the correct twin,
"and Lord Luthias."
"Good evening," Lady Lauren greeted the twins pleasantly. "I am
happy to meet you, my lords."
Realizing that Lauren was perhaps a little older than his
accepted age group, Luthias bowed. He felt a little wary; there was
that light in Roisart's eyes again.
Roisart simply smiled at the ravishing lady and asked, "My lady
Lauren, would you like to dance?"
"Certainly," Lauren accepted, with an enchanting smile. And the
two gracefully stepped away.
"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Pecora asked Luthias as they
watched Lauren and Roisart dance. Luthias agreed wholeheartedly, but
gravely. He had certainly seen the beauty, and felt it. "She won't
hurt Roisart, I know," Pecora assured him, seeing the concern in his
face. "She...isn't like that. Besides, she's five and twenty,
Luthias. Roisart is too young for her."
Luthias whirled toward Pecora. "Dance with me, Pecora."
Smiling a smile that seemed veiled, Pecora took Luthias' hand,
and he guided her, in time to the music, onto the dance floor.
Luthias gazed into her eyes, and she looked at their shoes. "You
still haven't heard anything," Luthias surmised. Pecora gave a
little, shamed nod. "I'm sorry, Pecora." He gripped her waist a
little more tightly. "I can't image what Kite--"
"Please," choked Pecora.
"You should have loved Roisart instead," Luthias chided in
gentle tones.
"Roisart loves once a week," Pecora announced bluntly.
More often than that, Luthias thought. But he said, "But no one
has ever returned his love." Pecora swallowed a bulk of tears.
Luthias held her tighter. "I'm so sorry, Pecora."
"Do you know, the last time I danced, Luthias, the last time I
danced, I danced with Kite, here on this floor--" Her voice broke,
and a little sob escaped. A tear trickled onto her dark lips.
"Let's take a walk in the garden, Pecora," Luthias whispered
gently. "Let's go away from all these eyes, and you can cry all you
wish." Without waiting for her consent, Luthias led her from the room.
Across the floor, Lauren watched the departure of her cousin.
"Have you known Pecora long?" she asked the admiring Roisart.
Roisart grinned like an open sunflower. "Why yes, my lady," he
answered cheerfully, gracefully leading his partner. "Since Luthias
and Pecora and I were small children." He glanced again at the
departing couple. "I never knew that Luthias had any particular--"
"It isn't that," Lauren interrupted with the voice of the spring
breezes. "Do you know what would make my cousin cry at a ball?"
"She's still not over Kite," mused Roisart, confused and almost
hurt. "I tell you, my lady, Pecora is like a sister to Luthias and
me. When Kite Talador disappeared and left Pecora, we knew how much
she was hurt. If Kite isn't dead and ever returns, Luthias would
kill him on sight. As for myself, I only wish I could understand why
he didn't come back."
"She wouldn't confide in me," Lauren confessed. "I would have
told her that he won't be returning. And she loves him." A wistful
look crossed Lauren's blue-green eyes. "It is a beautiful thing to
be loved."
"You are a beautiful woman worthy of love, my lady," Roisart
returned in a courtly manner. Lauren restrained her laughter and
smiled sweetly. Then they danced past a window. Roisart began to
explain the legend to Lauren, but she knew it better than he did, to
his surprise.
Clifton, Lord Duke of Dargon, surveyed the ballroom with
satisfaction. It was a beautiful night. The breezes were caressing
the keep with the perfume of the sea, and the dancers pranced with
the grace of gods. The music was lulling and festive at once. The
talk was cheerful, animated. The odd ballroom that his grandfather
had fashioned seemed beautiful and contented, like a satisfied
lioness. And everyone was enjoying himself; even Rish Vogel and
Ittosai Michiya were dancing. Only the guards detracted from the
festivity. And they were necessary, Dargon reminded himself.
"Clifton!" he heard one of the twins cry. The Lord of Dargon
turned, and Roisart and a lady, the most beautiful and completely
captivating woman he had ever seen, stood before him. "Clifton,"
said Roisart again, "let me present you to the Lady Lauren, lately
of Magnus. She's a cousin of the Winthrops'. My lady, my noble
cousin, Clifton, Lord Duke of Dargon."
Clifton's brown eyes met the lady's. Dargon took her hand and
bowed low. He pressed her hand to his cheek. "My lady," greeted the
Lord of Dargon amicably. "How do you do?"
He rose, and smiled at the lady with quiet pleasantness. "My
lord," she greeted. She returned the smile and dropped a curtsy.
"I have to go find Luthias, Clifton," Roisart explained, "and I
didn't want to abandon the lady..."
Lauren smiled, laughter in her eyes at the fact that Roisart
apparently considered her too fragile to leave alone. Clifton shared
the mirth, but, like the lady, kept his silence. "It's all right,
Roisart," the Lord of Dargon announced, nodding to his cousin. "Go
find your brother." Leaning closer to his cousin, Dargon hissed,
"And get him in here, before he's killed!" Roisart nodded gravely
and, trying not to appear as if he were in a hurry, made his way out
of the room.
Lord Dargon turned to the Lady Lauren. "You are from Magnus, my
lady?" the Lord inquired politely. Dargon politely offered the lady
a chair, and she sat. Gracefully, Dargon seated himself beside her.
Lauren nodded. "Yes, my lord," she answered politely. "Do you
know the city?"
Dargon nodded. "A little, my lady. I went to the university
there for a year."
The lady gave Dargon a look of admiration. "Why, my lord," she
noted, appreciative, "you must be near a genius. It took me four
years to complete the program--" She stopped, as if an inspiration
overtook her. "Oh, no. I beg your pardon, my lord," she apologized.
She looked mortified and quite contrite, but she did not, Clifton
noted, blush at her error. "I should have realized why you were only
in Magnus a year."
Dargon smiled crookedly and laughed a moment to put her at ease.
"My lady Lauren, how are you to know what brought me home?"
"I..." Lauren lowered her eyes, then looked Dargon in the face
again. "I sometimes just know things, my lord. Not always, and not
always important things. But sometimes I just know. And," she
continued, "if that were not enough, the young age at which you are
Duke and my common sense should have been enough to make me realize
what must have happened, that it was your father's death and not
your wits which brought you early home. Pray forgive me, your grace."
"It's quite all right, my lady," Dargon assured her earnestly,
then he laughed. "Roisart will love you. He rejoices in the unusual."
"He's a good lad," Lauren praised him. "He will like my father."
The musicians started a new tune. Without realizing it, Dargon
began to tap his foot to the beat. The night was getting better and
better; it was refreshing to speak to someone, besides his own
family, who, undaunted by his title, was completely capable of
holding a coherent conversation with him, instead of pleasantries.
Lord Dargon stood. Lady Lauren gazed up at the majestic, young
lord inquiringly. "Will you dance, my lady?" the Lord of Dargon
invited congenially, offering Lauren his arm. She took it with
another smile, and allowed herself to be led away. Lauren was a gay
partner, and a lively and graceful one. Clifton was no great dancer,
but his movements were strong and sure. For once in his life,
Clifton found himself truly enjoying dancing.
"To what do I owe your visit to our city, Madam?" Dargon asked
the lady as they danced.
Lauren's smile froze momentarily. She hesitated a fraction of a
moment before she spoke. "My father wished to visit his brother,
Lord Winthrop," she answered. Abruptly, she stated, "I'm afraid your
young cousin has fallen in love with me."
Dargon grinned. "Oh, that's all right, my lady. Roisart falls in
loves every few days. He'll treat you normally by early next week."
Lauren stared at the lord, unsure whether to laugh or be appalled.
"He's only a boy, my lady. And if he doesn't leave off the
infatuation, Luthias will straighten him out, surely." Dargon opened
his mouth again to inquire why she and her father were in the city,
but remembering her earlier reaction, shut it.
Observing the lord's behavior, Lauren asked, "My lord, am I
making you uncomfortable?"
"Not at all," Dargon answered enthusiastically.
"What did you study in the university?" Lauren asked.
"Government."
"What did you think of Fernusius Cai's philosophy of laws?"
Lauren asked, quite seriously.
Dargon stared a moment, but gave her a thoughtful and well
considered answer. Lauren listened attentively, then gave her own
opinion. Dargon had never expected Fernusias Cai's philosophy to
reach him in the ivory ballroom, but he discussed it with Lauren,
whose intelligence and wisdom regarding the work (and philosophy in
general) impressed him, as they danced past the open windows.
Roisart had gone out into the garden to find Luthias and Pecora.
He understood why Luthias had taken her out of the ballroom, but it
wasn't safe outside, even with all the guards. After an unsuccessful
tour of the shrubbery, Roisart met his brother as he came in from
the garden, alone.
"Where's Pecora?" Roisart asked.
Luthias seemed large and ominous. "I sent her home. I would go
with her, but Clifton..."
Roisart's mouth was tight, and he was as concerned as his
brother was angry. "She's still--" Luthias nodded with the sharp
grimness of death. "The lady--her cousin Lauren--says Kite isn't
coming back."
"I tell you what, Roisart," Luthias began fiercely. "You can
have the barony, and I'll go hunt him down." Roisart smiled at the
suggestion. "I'm serious, twin," Luthias revealed, gravely looking
at his brother. "One of us must be baron, and it should be you."
"But, Luthias, you're a better leader!"
Luthias shrugged. "Yes, but you're better at running things. You
don't overlook details. And when you need a man of action, Roisart,
I'll be there. You know I would never leave you."
"I know," Roisart replied, "but..."
"One of us must be baron," Luthias repeated. "We can't leave the
barony like this, Roisart. And we can't both be baron."
"I know," Roisart sighed. "But I don't feel that I would be the
best baron..."
"How can we tell beforehand who would be?"
"Corambis said it would be settled by a matter of valor."
"Even decision takes courage, my brother," Luthias reminded him
with a smile. "It's valor to take the responsibility of the barony,
as well."
Roisart sighed deeply. "You really feel I should be baron?" he
asked finally. "Despite all the lessons Father gave us, I still
don't know how to be a lord, Luthias."
"So, we'll learn on our own," Luthias assured him with strength.
Roisart looked doubtful. "I mean it, Roi," Luthias persisted,
employing the nickname he hadn't used since boyhood. "Really. I
can't be baron, and you know it. I would always want to go and do
something, not stay here and plan budgets and run the estate. Right
now I want to go off and kill Kite Talador. What if there were a
war, Roi? Your first thought would be to fortify Connall and Dargon.
Me? I would go off and try to destroy the bastards. No, Roi.
Roisart, my brother, you belong in the barony, more than I do, more
than I ever did."
Roisart looked his brother in the eyes, the mirrors of his own.
"Are you sure about this, Luthias?" Luthias nodded. "You could be
giving up your birthright."
Luthias shrugged. "I never wanted to be baron," Luthias said. He
smiled. "And if I am giving up my birthright--which isn't certain in
any case--who better to give it to than you, twin?"
Roisart smiled. "All right, Luthias," he conceded, "but only if
you're absolutely certain--"
"Believe me, twin, I am," Luthias told his brother. Then Luthias
wondered suddenly, "How does Lady Lauren know that Kite won't return?"
Roisart shrugged. "I gather that her father--Marcellon, the man
in the red robes, whom we saw with Lord Winthrop--is a mage of some
sort." Roisart smiled. "I'll have to talk to him at dinner."
"Oh, no," Luthias reminded him with a smile. "You have to sit at
the head of the table, with Clifton and me." Roisart made a
discontented face. "Don't worry, twin. Ittosai Michiya and Rish
Vogel will be sitting near us." Roisart grinned. "Oh, and Griswald,
too, I'm told."
"Don't know what's gotten into him lately," Roisart said,
shaking his head. "I don't think I'll like sitting with him."
"I wonder if it's practical that we'll all be sitting together,"
Luthias replied. "We're all targets--"
"Do you know that we'll be straight across from some of the
windows?" Roisart added. "Perfect shots, for all the guards
Clifton's assigned to them."
"Well, there are guards by the window and outside them, Roisart.
Still, I agree. They're setting up the table now," Luthias noted.
"Let's see if we can get the position changed."
After tussling with the servants, who were reluctant to allow
the sons of the Baron of Connall to help them, the twins sat down to
their meal. The table, and the seating arrangements, were unchanged,
despite the twins' efforts. Clifton sat in the middle at the head of
the table, Roisart on Dargon's left, and Luthias on his right.
Griswald sat around the table corner at Roisart's left elbow; by the
corner on Luthias' right were seated Michiya and Rish Vogel, the
Chronicler, who were chatting gaily in Bichanese. Seated where they
were, the twins found the conversation during the supper unexciting
mostly, and at times, quite boring. Roisart wished that he could sit
next to the Lord Marcellon and the Lady Lauren. Luthias wished he
had gone home with Pecora.
Clifton Dargon said little to the twins. However, at frequent
intervals, guests would approach the Lord of Dargon and speak with
him. Then the brothers did their best to be polite. Winthrop joked
and punched Luthias on the back (which was fine, so long as no one
ever pinched his cheek again). Two young men, the sons of some
merchant, took their leave. Lord Coranabo came forth to praise the
peacekeeping during the festival.
Roisart found himself quite bored and began studying the window
directly opposite his seat: a detail of a maiden knight defeating
six other knights. He wished that the guards weren't on either side
of it; they were distracting him, pulling his gaze toward the open
stained-glass panel, instead of the stained-glass picture above it.
Finally, the dishes were cleared away, and goblets of wine and
trays of pastries delivered unto the tables. No one touched the food
or drink, though. Dargon stood. Roisart let his shoulders droop.
Time for the Spring Welcome Speech And Toast, Roisart groaned
internally. Bored a priori, he continued to study the window.
Clifton stood regally and began to speak in a loud, dignified
voice. In Roisart's ears, the words were garbled sounds. He lost
himself in the magic of the window, in the legend of the fierce,
gentle maiden-knight, who defeats all in her search for love and for
justice. Roisart gazed worshipfully at the window. The legend seemed
to come alive; it seemed that one of the six cowardly knights moved.
Roisart blinked. He *had* seen something move, down below, by
the open panel. Clifton continued speaking.
Was it the guards?
Roisart squinted at the window. Yes, something was there. Two
men. Must be the guards. Roisart found them hard to see.
Then they can't be the guards, Roisart realized. He couldn't see
their armor glittering. What were they doing behind the window? And
where were the guards who were supposed to be there?
Clifton was still speaking, and reaching for his goblet. It was
almost time for the Toast to Spring, made yearly at this ball by the
Lord of Dargon since time immemorial.
Roisart edged forward on his seat. He could still see
them--whoever they were--moving by the open part of the window,
leaning on it seemingly.
The Lord of Dargon began his introduction to the toast.
Crossbows! They were leaning crossbows on the window sill!
Clifton raised his glass.
Don't those guards hear anything? They're putting crossbows--
Crossbows! What are they doing with--
No time! Luthias! Clifton!
Roisart rose like a shot, tumbling his chair. With the strength
of a boar, he charged his cousin's side. Dargon fell onto Luthias'
lap. Luthias' chair collapsed, bringing Dargon and Luthias to the
floor with it. Red wine splattered onto Roisart's white shirt, but
he remained standing.
Or was it the wine? Luthias, Michiya, and Rish Vogel, who still
remained in a position to see, perceived two black bolts protruding
from Roisart, one in the chest, the other in the side.
Someone screamed. Slowly, it seemed, Roisart, son of Fionn
Connall, fell.
Luthias impatiently pushed Dargon off of him. "Roisart!" he
cried. He somehow felt the wounding arrows had pierced him too.
Dargon leapt to his feet. "Guards! The garden! Outside of the
knights' window!" To a sergeant: "Get the guests to the blue
ballroom, and hold them there. No one is to enter or leave without
my command!" To Griswald, he imperiously said, "Attend my cousin!"
Rish Vogel had retrieved a quill from who knows where and had
begun writing in wine on his napkin.
Michiya had joined Luthias, who was cradling Roisart on his lap.
Griswald scuttled over. The old physician sadly shook his head.
The guards were escorting the guests from the ivory ballroom.
Dargon knelt beside his cousins. "Griswald?" asked the Lord of
Dargon softly. He put a hand on Luthias' shoulder.
The old physician looked into the eyes of his lord. Again, he
shook his head. "I'm sorry, my lord. He's dead."
"You haven't even checked him!" Luthias screamed.
Griswald's weary eyes focused on Luthias' angry, desperate ones.
"I'm sorry, my lord. The bolts were poisoned."
"How do you know?" Luthias returned, his voice shrill and frantic.
A sextet of guards arrived in the Lord of Dargon's presence. To
the floor they threw two young men, dressed as merchants. Dargon
rose, a tower of just fury. Luthias stared at his brother's
murderers in white rage. Ittosai Michiya put a stern, staying hand
on Luthias' shoulder. Luthias shook for a moment, then turned back
to his breathless twin and closed his brother's startled, brown eyes.
The sergeant of the guards threw a pair of black crossbows onto
the ivory floor. They clattered insanely. The sergeant spoke. "They
weren't far from the window, lordship. They still had the bows."
"Where were the guards posted to the outside of that window?"
Dargon demanded.
"Dead, my lord," the sergeant reported. "Knifed in the neck.
Very quiet, lordship. They're professionals, all right."
"And you said that they still had these bows?"
"Aye, lordship."
Grim with judgment, Dargon leaned over the body of his cousin.
"I'm sorry, Luthias," he whispered to the sorrowing twin. Clifton
reached over his living cousin and wrenched a bolt out of Roisart's
still body. Luthias cried out, as if Clifton had pulled a painful
arrow from his own side. Then Dargon turned back to the guards and
the wielders of the crossbows. Dargon held out a hand. A guard
quickly supplied him with one of the weapons. Dargon fitted the bolt
into the bow.
"Lord Ittosai," he called. Michiya turned from Luthias and
bowed. "Wou ld you say that this bolt fits?" Ittosai Michiya gazed
at the displayed weapon.
"Yes, my lord."
"Luthias!" Luthias looked up, resentment in his eyes. Dargon
held out the crossbow. "Tell me if this bolt fits this crossbow."
Luthias stared for a moment with stubborn hardness, then his
innate practicality returned. He inspected the weapon, his brother's
head yet in his lap. "Yes, Clifton," he answered. "It fits perfectly."
The Lord of Dargon handed the weapon to a guard. "Keep it well.
It will be needed in the trial." Then Dargon turned to the
assassins. "It is evident that you are guilty of the murder of Lord
Roisart Connall. You will be tried before the tribunal tomorrow."
The Lord of Dargon paused. "Tell me now who hired you." The
assassins exchanged uncertain glances. "Tell me!" roared Dargon.
A heavy, sad voice informed the Lord of Dargon, "I can tell you,
my lord." Dargon twisted to see his physician, who looked suddenly
old, very old. "I can tell you who hired these men, and who is
responsible for Lord Fionn Connall's death, and your young cousin's."
"How do you know he's dead?" Luthias demanded. "You have not--"
"Quiet, Luthias," Dargon ordered gently, but with the swiftness
and sternness of authority. "Come here, Griswald," the Lord of
Dargon ordered. Timorously, the old doctor stepped forward. "Now,
tell me."
"There is a merchant," Griswald began slowly. "His name is Lek
Pyle. He and some other merchants wished to start a war with
Bichu--for their own profit--, and Pyle himself believed that he
could convince the King, if only you were eliminated, my lord,
because you also have the ear of the King." Dargon nodded. In
matters of commerce and foreign relations, Clifton had often advised
the King, and the advice, being sound, was often taken. "He hired
these two men--"
"To kill Lord Roisart?" prompted the Lord of Dargon.
Griswald shook his gray head. "No, my lord. To kill you, and
Lord Luthias. Pyle had chosen young Lord Roisart to become the next
Baron of Connall and Duke of Dargon."
Dargon appeared perplexed. "Why did he prefer Roisart to
Luthias? Luthias, of the two, was more proficient in war--"
"He considered Lord Roisart easier to trick," Griswald
explained. "He planned to manufacture small details--which Lord
Luthias would ignore, but Lord Roisart would insist on
knowing--details which would trick Lord Roisart into believing that
Bichu was preparing to attack us."
Ittosai Michiya spat a fierce Bichanese curse.
"Lord Roisart was instrumental to his plans, my lord," Griswald
continued. "He meant to kill you and Lord Luthias, but he wished
Lord Roisart to remain alive." The physician turned then to Luthias.
"My lord, your brother is dead. This I know. The poison on those
bolts is instantaneous. I know, because Pyle forced me to mix it."
With an almost animal cry, Luthias sprang to his feet and rushed
toward the old physician. Ittosai Michiya deftly intercepted him and
held him back with a seemingly effortless display of force. Dargon,
too, wished to erupt but managed to hold his anger in check for the
time being. "You did what?" the Lord of Dargon asked deliberately.
"Kindly explain your actions, sir."
"Lek Pyle has been threatening my life, my lord," Griswald
began. "I have no other excuse than this. He has used me to spy on
you, just as he used Manus to keep track of the Baron of Connall and
his sons. He forced me to mix the poison which killed your cousin. He
forced Manus to give your father's horse a drug to make it violent."
"Manus?" cried Luthias, appalled. That was the man he had made
Regent of Connall!
Griswald nodded soberly. "Yes," he answered ruefully. "He seems
to prey upon us healers."
Dargon was thinking swiftly. "Lek Pyle...that man is here!"
Again, Griswald nodded. Dargon nodded to a guard. "Go to the blue
ballroom and fetch Lek Pyle. Bring him here." The Lord of Dargon
returned to his physician. "I don't know what to do with you,
Griswald. You shall have to be tried before the tribunal--and Manus,
too. Until then, you shall be confined to your rooms."
"Confined!" Luthias protested. "But Clifton, his poison killed
Roisart!"
"Yes, but I can't blame him for trying to save his own life,"
Clifton returned, sighing. "I'll send a squadron to your keep as
soon as possible to bring Manus into custody. And when Pyle comes in
here, Luthias," the Lord continued in an imperious tone, "you had
best be calm."
Luthias' face became tight a moment, but he said nothing. He
turned back to his twin's corpse.
Two heavy-set guards entered, dragging a protesting Lek Pyle
with him. "I must protest this treatment, Lord Dargon," he cried
upon sight of Clifton. "I am--"
"A murderer," Griswald finished for him.
"This is the man, then?" Dargon inquired. Griswald nodded.
The two assassins exchanged glances, but said nothing. That lack
of denial was enough for the Duke of Dargon.
Dargon seemed suddenly pale. "Throw him," he said slowly, "into
the dungeon's darkest cell. Now."
The guards pulled him away. "But I have done nothing!" cried Pyle.
"Liar," muttered Griswald.
"What about these two, my lord?" asked the sergeant.
"Dungeon," Dargon ordered laconically. "Escort the physician to
his rooms, and set a guard upon him. Then send a squadron of men to
Connall to arrest Manus the Healer." The sergeant saluted, barked
orders to his subordinates, and soon, they left. Dargon bellowed for
another guard. "Have a servant sent for the priests. My cousin's
body must be prepared."
"What about the guests, lordship?" asked the soldier.
The Lord of Dargon considered. "I shall speak to them myself,
presently." The soldier saluted and went off.
Dargon turned back to the table. The room looked so empty
now...only Luthias, lifting Roisart's dead body; Michiya, helping
him; and Rish Vogel, writing in wine, chronicling the entire
incident. Clifton approached his cousin gently and put his hand on
his arm. Luthias looked at him, grief in his eyes.
"Are you going to be all right, Luthias?" Dargon's cousin
nodded. "Lord Michiya, please stay with him. I have to address our
guests." Dargon frowned, shook his head. "There will be no more
dancing on this night." Slowly, the Lord of Dargon turned away and
left the ballroom. Rish Vogel rose from his seat, tucked the napkin
into his pocket, and followed the Duke. Passing Luthias, he mumbled
something about making the chronicle of the incident complete.
Ittosai Michiya watched the Lord of Dargon leave, and then he
turned compassionate eyes toward the young lord Luthias. "Do you
need my help, my friend?" asked the Bichurian.
Luthias shook his head. "No, I'm all right," he asserted softly.
He looked down at the dead face of his brother cradled on the crook
of his arm. "I'm sorry, Roi," he mumbled. "It seems our decision has
been made for us."
Michiya gave Luthias a look of confusion. "What do you mean,
Luthias-san? I do not understand."
Luthias gave him a bitter smile flavored with an almost humorous
irony. "Don't you know, Michiya? I am now the Lord Baron of Connall."
And it was little comfort, for Luthias knew now, for certain,
that his brother had been more worthy of the title.
-M. Wendy Hennequin
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TEN NUMBER SIX
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
Servant of the Silver Blade Ron Meldrum
*Cydric and the Sage: Part Five Carlo N. Samson
Date: 042688 Dist: 631
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Shifting uncomfortably before his terminal, the young man
tentatively taps out a sentence, then pauses. Minutes pass before
another coherent thought is slowly composed, worded, and dedicated
to phosphor and magnetic media. After several moments of careful
contemplation, he uses the block delete feature of his editor to
remove the text, and begins again. The ritual begins yet again,
perhaps the fifth time today. For the editor of a magazine, there is
no feeling quite the same as when he views an empty editorial page
with nothing to say. An editorial column is an opportunity to
communicate directly with your readership, to share your opinions,
your plans, and a little of yourself, with people who share the same
interests. Yet it is also an intimidating thing, because there is a
responsability to inform and be entertaining to the reader, not
merely pontificate.
After having considered many topics that might be of interest, I
remain at a loss. After all, how interesting would an editorial be
if it went into detail describing the geogrpaphical distribution of
its readership, or mentioned that there is, on the average,
approximately two readers per node? And I certainly need not mention
the coming of springtime or impending finals, or that this will be
the last issue in Volume 10 before the summer volume begins. I have
similarly been unable to shift my responsabilities onto other
parties, after having no response to an offer to Dargon authors for
a 'guest editorial' column. Well, luckily for me, we have plenty of
good fiction in this issue, and there isn't room enough for a more
substantial editorial. I am quite sure that the two excellent
stories in this issue will go over very well (hopefully better than
the editorial, I'm sure).
The figure rests his head in his hands and takes a beep breath.
He pauses, then reluctantly exits the editor. Now begins the process
of sending the issue out, which although tedious, at least doesn't
require any amount of creativity...
-'Orny' Liscomb
Servant of the Silver Blade
Durach wiped his greasy fingers across the front of his smithy
smock, leaving dirty streaks on the crest of Beartas embroidered on
it. The chicken had been good, especially good since he knew it was
the last meat he would have for a week and a half. In one smooth
movement the thin but sturdy man pulled off the smock and stretched
his arms, then heaved a long sigh, expelling all the worries and
labors of the day at the forge. He dropped his dirty smock on the
table and lowered himself heavily into a creaking chair by the hearth.
Catching sight of a dull glow on the wall above the fireplace,
he heaved himself to his feet again, the ancient wooden chair
creaking loudly beneath the force on its arms. Brushing his
straight, dark hair off of his forehead, Durach stepped over to the
fire and examined a dull grey sword, the origin of the gleam,
hanging horizontally above the brick fireplace. He pulled a
precious, half-used candle from a fixture just below the weapon and
stooped to light its wick in the flames below. Straightening his
aching back, he replaced the lighted candle in its fixture. Silver
light burst from the hanging sword and shot throughout the dim,
one-room hut.
"Ahh, better...better," Durach breathed, his wide eyes following
the length of the blemishless blade. He then returned to the chair,
which groaned and shrieked as usual when he lowered himself into it.
Leaning back, he lifted his eyes exultantly to the shining sword.
Someone was knocking at the door. Durach stared dreamily at his
beautiful weapon, either not hearing the sound or choosing to ignore
it. The knocking persisted. Annoyance flickered across his face as
Durach pulled himself from his reverie. He slowly pushed himself to
his feet as the knocking continued.
A small, hooded man, at least a full foot and a half shorter
than Durach, was standing patiently on the wooden doorstep as the
door swung open. He wore a long, grey cloak made of a fine material
Durach didn't recognize, and his hood concealed most of his head
except his face and a couple of curls of black hair. A strange but
friendly smile and deep brown eyes, sparkling with amusement, looked
up out of the hood. It was a starless night, and there was a light
drizzle falling, but the stranger said nothing. He stood on the
doorstep smiling, the drizzle clinging in beads to his grey cloak.
Shaking off his drowsiness, Durach spoke.
"Enter, stranger," he said with as much hospitality as he could.
"I don't have much, but my house is warm. If you are hungry I have a
little chicken broth but nothing more."
"Thank you," the short man said and stepped past Durach into the
small hut. His eyes glanced about the room, standing for a moment on
the sword, then continuing their inspection of the place as Durach
closed the door. He turned to his host and said, "Well, kind sir,
where is the broth?"
Durach picked up a small metal pot of broth from the table.
"I'll warm it up for you," he offered.
"That won't be necessary," the stranger said. He boldly reached
out and took the lukewarm pot from the startled Durach. The small
man then pulled himself onto the wooden table top and, with his legs
dangling, put the pot to his lips and drank. Durach watched
curiously as a small stream of broth trickled down from one corner
of the man's mouth.
"Not bad," the man said with a light sigh as he lowered the
empty pot. He leaned back on his elbows and looked up at Durach.
"So," said the stranger, "what's your name?"
"Huh... my name? Oh! I'm Durach, the son of Dochas son of
Gorach. I work at a smithy in town but my father was..."
"What a nice name!" the man exclaimed. "Durach," he repeated the
name with a smile.
Durach, slightly annoyed by the man's interruption, took a deep
breath, then asked, "What is your name, stranger?"
"I'm Calman. Calman of Gliocas. You don't know me. May I stay
here tonight?"
"Sure," said Durach, a hundred questions coming to mind. "Where
are you from?"
"I told you," the man replied. "From Gliocas."
"I've never heard of any Kliogas..."
"Gliocas," Calman corrected him, still smiling.
"Okay, Gliocas. Where is this city?"
"It's not a city. It's much more."
"Kingdom, then."
"It's not a kingdom."
"What, then, is it?" Durach asked, annoyance in his voice.
"It's just a place," Calman replied, apparently ignoring the
other man's tone of voice.
"Where is this place?"
"Out there," said the short man with a vague flick of the wrist.
"It's a long, hard trip and most people never find it. Nice place
you have here."
"What? Oh, yes... I mean, it's all I have."
"Where'd you get the knife?" Calman had removed his eyes from
Durach, but still wore the smile.
"Knife?" Durach followed the man's gaze to the sword on the
wall. At the sight of it, all traces of annoyance and frustration
were gone, and he began to speak.
"Oh, Iarann. My father gave him to me. My father, you know, was
the champion of Lord Uan. He gave him to me before he died. He died
of a broken heart. When Lord Airgid took over, my father was
stripped of his rank and soon fell sick. He was given Iarann by his
father, my grandfather, of course. I don't know where Sire Gorach,
that was his name, got him."
"Him?" Calman spoke up.
"Him, Iarann," Durach said, pointing to the sword.
"Oh, okay," the other man said, slightly amused. Ignoring him,
Durach continued.
"Someday I will carry him into battle and earn him glory as my
fathers did. I have already, once. During the war with Cumach ten
years ago, when I was young, I carried him into battle gloriously."
"No, you didn't," Calman said.
"Huh?" said Durach, startled.
"Don't you ever listen? I said 'no, you didn't!' You didn't
carry the knife into battle." He was still smiling.
"Well," Durach stuttered, surprised by the other man's
statement. "I almost did. They trained me, and I was about to go to
battle when peace was resolved. They trained me, though."
"How long?" Calman asked.
"Well, for a day. But that doesn't matter. They trained me."
"Oh, okay," the other man said, smiling.
There was silence for a while. Durach stood by the table musing
over the sword while Calman sat on the table musing over Durach. As
if reaching some unspoken decision, Calman said, "Okay, I'll go to
bed now." With that he dropped from the table to the floor in front
of Durach and walked over to the fireplace. After a glance up at the
sword and another back at his host, the man lay down and curled up
in front of the warm flames.
For several minutes Durach stood wondering about his curious
guest. Shaking his head, he strode over to the fireplace. Being
careful not to disturb Calman, he stretched his right arm and with
one finger extinguished the candle. The interior of the hut suddenly
dimmed. Leaning over the man on the floor, Durach stoked the fire,
then walked to the door and bolted it.
Retiring to the corner where he usually slept, he removed his
crude wooden sandals and his cloak, then lay down to rest, spreading
the cloak over him for a cover. Lying half asleep already, he looked
across the room at the silent, unmoving figure silhouetted by the
unsteady firelight. He wondered who the stranger was, and where his
Gliocas was. Durach quickly drifted further from consciousness.
He awoke just after dawn the next morning. The door was wide
open, and bright sunlight was streaming in, flooding the room with
an irrepressible sense of bliss. Someone was humming quietly, and
the smells and sounds of cooking ham reached the awakening man. He
sat up, looking around the place. Calman was kneeling in front of
the fire cooking meat while humming a merry tune. On the table was
the partially butchered carcass of a small pig. Blinking confusedly,
Durach looked back at the man by the fire. His eyes raised
habitually to the sword and his mind cleared. Stretching his
stiffened muscles, Durach yawned loudly. Calman stopped humming and
turned to him, wearing the familiar smile.
"Hello, want some breakfast?"
Durach looked at him a moment, then nodded dumbly. The short man
turned back to the fireplace and took up his tune again. Durach
climbed to his feet and put on his cloak and smock. He never put on
his sandals before it was time to leave for work.
"Where'd you get the pig?" he asked.
"Oh... down the road," Calman replied without turning around.
The tune became a battle march. Durach's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"Down the road?" he asked.
"Yes, that's what I said. Sometimes I don't think you people
ever listen." Durach didn't question what he meant by the ominous
"you people."
"Did you steal it?" he asked bluntly.
"I don't steal."
"Where did you get it, then?"
"Down the road..."
"I know that!" Durach interrupted. "Where down the road?"
"In a shady spot next to the roadway," Calman evaded.
"Was it just sitting there by the road?"
"Yes, just sitting there. I simply reached over the fence and
picked it up."
"So, you stole it," Durach said, more as a statement than a
question. His voice was quieter, but still shaky.
"No, I told you, I don't steal," Calman said, laying some more
meat in a flimsy frying pan.
"Then the owner knows," Durach said, relieved.
"What owner?" the other man asked, still not turning from the
fire. Durach fell back into frustration.
"The owner," he said. "The person who owns, or owned, the pig!"
"I didn't see any owner when I got there. All I saw was a bunch
of pigs in a fenced-in mud hole, next to a large house."
"A house!"
"Yes, yes! Must I repeat everything?"
Durach dropped the subject and, shaking his head, seated himself
in the groaning chair. Calman turned and grinned devilishly at him,
then returned to his cooking and tune, which became a moving dirge.
The two ate together in silence at the table. Since there was
only one chair, Calman was more than happy to sit on the table top
with his legs dangling as he had the night before. The ham tasted
good to Durach, who hadn't eaten breakfast, much less ham, in many
months. Then there were those curious white roots. They were
excellently prepared and Durach couldn't complain about the taste,
but he was always leery about eating things he didn't recognize.
After they had eaten, Calman dropped from the table.
"Well," he said with a sigh, "I must be going now." Without a
farewell he stepped to the door. Then a backward glance caught the
sword, gleaming in the sunlight at its station above the fireplace.
As if suddenly remembering something, he wheeled and said
cryptically, "Oh, yes. Happiness and glory to you!" He grinned his
familiar grin, then the smile faded momentarily and his eyes had a
distant look. Refocussing on Durach, he smiled a subdued smile and
was gone out the door.
Durach worked at a smithy in the central district of the city of
Beartas, which was no more than a mile form his home. Progress was
normally slow as he walked to work once he entered the city proper,
for the narrow streets were usually clogged with people. He disliked
crowds and thus hated the segment of his path that took him through
the city streets.
This morning was different, though. Durach was late, due to the
fact he had eaten breakfast with Calman. Then, after the stranger
had departed he, of course, had to polish his sword. By the time he
reached the city he found only a few people on the streets. He
smiled to himself and decided to make it a point to be late more
often. At this time the laborers were at work and the rest of the
city was still asleep.
Waiting for him in front of the small, open-faced smithy was its
owner, one of Durach's longtime friends. Durach had taught him to
read a little, since he himself had been lucky enough to learn his
letters while his father still held a station at the court. His
friend, Caraid, had inherited the smithy from an uncle. The place
wasn't great, but it did have a good location in the central trade
district and a reputation for quality. The smithy consisted of two
rooms, one of which was open to the street. The open one had a small
stone forge at its center. Only Caraid, his twelve-year-old son, and
Durach worked there.
Caraid seemed to have been waiting for Durach, for when he saw
him coming down the street, the forge owner hustled over toward him
carrying a folded sheet of paper in his huge left hand. Caraid's
large, smithy-hardened body dwarfed what few other people were on
the street.
"Durach," he rumbled in his deep voice, holding the paper aloft.
"I need your help with this." He apparently ignored the fact that
Durach was late. Caraid handed the paper to him and the two strode
back to the smithy where Caraid's son was straining under a load of
scrap iron. Durach unfolded the paper, the huge Caraid peering
anxiously over his shoulder at it.
"What's the problem?" Durach asked scanning the list on the sheet.
"Well," his friend's voice was subdued, "I recognized the words
'horseshoes' and 'hammer heads', but what are these others?" He
poked one of his large fingers awkwardly at the bottom part of the
list, and Durach examined it. His eyes lit up as he read aloud.
"'Spearheads'! And 'Pikeheads'!" There was a sharp intake of
breath as Caraid realized the significance of his friend's words.
"Spears and pikes?" Caraid asked in a low voice. "We've never
made weapons for the Lord before!"
Durach read the heading at the top of the sheet. Indeed, the
order was issued by the treasury of Lord Airgid. His heart jumped at
the implications of the castle ordering weapons, but he calmed
himself by saying aloud, "They're probably just refurninshing the
old armory. It hasn't been refurnished, you know, since before the
reign of Lord Uan."
Caraid didn't look convinced.
"We'd better get started," the big man said. "It's a big order
and the Lord wants it next week."
"Next week!" Durach protested, looking down the list again.
"That's impossible! We can't do this much in such a short time! Its.."
"Nor will you have to," a new voice said, emphasizing "nor".
Durach and Caraid wheeled around to see a clean-shaven man in a dark
blue robe standing just off the road by the smithy. In one hand he
held a book with several loose sheets sticking out form inside the
front cover. Before the smiths could say anything, the man continued.
"I am Searbhanta, third treasurer of his Lordship, Lord Airgid."
He paused and looked around to see if anyone reacted to his title.
Seeing no one take note, he frowned indignantly and resumed speaking.
"The order given you this morning has been retracted. Your
services are no longer required by his Lordship. He has found the
larger smithies more suitable to his needs at present."
"But..." Caraid protested. But the man in blue turned and left.
The large smith furiously kicked the nearest wall, which promptly
cracked upon impact.
Durach's attention, however, was drawn away from his friend by
another development. There was a commotion in the street. One of
Lord Airgid's criers, holding a rolled sheet of parchment, was
climbing off his mount a few yards away. Unrolling the parchment he
began to read as a crowd formed about him.
"Hear all! Hear all! Due to crimes committed against the person
and property of our liege, the Beloved and Mighty Lord Airgid, by
the blackguards of the Castle Cumach, it is hereby decreed that a
state of war exists between the people of Beartas and those of
Cumach. All able-bodied men are required to enlist at the north
garrison or pay a hundred Gold Royals to buy amnesty. Failure to do
so will result in imprisonment.
"Hear all! Hear all!"the crier droned, repeating the proclamation.
Durach was excited. So much had happened so quickly. This was
what he had been waiting for all his life. Now he could bear his
fathers' sword proudly into combat.
Caraid had recovered from his momentary anger and was listening
carefully to the crier. He turned to Durach and said, "I guess I'm
out of business for a while." He pulled off his smock and threw it
down. "Shall we go to the north garrison together?"
"I'll meet you here in an hour. Then we can go. I have to get
Iarann!" Without waiting for a response, he took off running as fast
as the growing crowd would allow. After passing through the city he
sprinted, not noticing the strange gazes of onlookers as they
watched the lean, middle-aged man bound gleefully down the road.
He barged into his hut, lungs heaving, and stopped in front of
the fireplace. Panting, he reached up and carefully removed the
sword from the hooks on the wall.
"O Iarann, I bring you glory!" he gasped.
Forty-five minutes later he was standing in line with Caraid at
the north garrison, waiting to enlist.
"It looks nice," Caraid said gently, knowing fully the
significance his friend put on the weapon.
"Yes, he does," Durach agreed, proudly holding the sword, blade
up at arms length in front of him. The morning sun glinted brightly
off its silver surface. Surely they would make him a corporal when
they saw the sword. They would recognize the quality for which it
stood, and he would tell them that he had been trained before.
Surely they would make him a corporal, maybe even a sergeant.
They didn't. Though Durach awaited the assignment with held
breath, he got just three words out of the man at the enlistment
desk: "Name...Weapon...Next."
He was, however, consoled by the fact that he and Caraid had
been assigned to the same unit. The unit, comprised of fifty
peasants with diverse weapons, was under the command of a hulking,
chain-mailed, gauntleted, and mounted sergeant named Duine. Duine
immediately let his unit know that he considered it below himself to
work with such rabble, and that he was presently attempting to
discover what he had done to offend the officials who had assigned
him to the position. Training lasted half a day and consisted
primarily of climbing ladders and ropes to the top of a high wall.
Durach's unit trained side-by- side with five other similar units.
There was no doubt what their job would be during the assault on
Castle Cumach, and Durach beamed inside at the thought of scaling
the enemy's walls, lifting Iarann high above his head, and bringing
glory to the sword by routing the enemy forces. He awaited with
anticipation the day they were to move on the castle.
That day came too soon for many of the men in the army. There
were the usual desertions, mostly peasant conscripts, which were
invariably remedied by an arrow in the back of the deserter as he
fled. The troops marched in a disorganized throng, moving slowly
down the dusty road to death.
Caraid, walking next to Durach, had a worried expression on his
face. He was carrying the ancient thrusting spear the garrison had
given him. All conscripts who had signed up without a weapon, as
Caraid has, had been assigned some relic from Lord Airgid's armory.
Durach spoke.
"Why so grim?"
Caraid turned his face to Durach.
"I don't want to be a part of this. I just want to go back to
the smithy. I'm not a soldier."
"Ah," Durach said. "But look at it this way: this battle is a
chance to earn fame and glory. Don't turn down the chance."
"Only the nobles and friends of the Lord will earn fame and
glory," Caraid mumbled. Noticing Durach's hurt expression, he added
quickly, "and, of course, you and your sword will. But I have no
such weapon." He brandished the spear. Its head shook loose and
Caraid stumbled to catch it before it hit the ground. Ignoring the
curses from a man behind, who had run into him as he stumbled, the
big man straightened up and replaced the spear head.
"That is a disadvantage," Durach sighed. "But your strength will
carry you."
Less than an hour later the high walls of the Castle Cumach
began to rear themselves up ahead of the army. When the force
finally emerged from around a low rise and saw the castle, the host
slowed down to a crawl and looked on with awe. It was a large
fortress, sitting proudly on the top of a low hill, red and green
banners streaming from its towers. Half a mile beyond, in a shallow
river valley, was the city the castle was built to protect. No
troops were seen deployed outside the fortress, but its walls were
briming with mail-clad warriors. A forest of pikes and long spears
rose from the battlements, impressively catching the bright light of
the afternoon sun.
A noble to the rear of the host shouted, "Dost thou surrender?"
The answering shower of arrows fell short of the troops but
clearly expressed Castle Cumach's answer. The order came from the
rear to storm the walls. The peasant units that had been trained
with Durach's unit hefted the long, shabby ladders they had carried
from Beartas and began moving hesitantly toward the ready pikes on
the walls. Durach's sergeant, Duine, was no where to be seen.
Several whips cracked somewhere behind and the mass broke into a
disorganized charge. Durach tried to make his way to the front to
lead the assault with uplifted sword, but his speed was no match for
the younger members of the mob. About two hundred paces from the
wall, nearly half of the people at the front of the charge fell to
enemy archers. Another twenty or thirty fell at a hundred and fifty
paces, at least forty fell at one hundred, and another forty or so
at fifty paces. Then the mass was upon the wall. The ladders were
thrown up and the attackers began to climb. Shower after shower of
arrows swept the ladders clean.
Durach shoved a man out of his way and leapt to the nearest
ladder. As he began to climb, however, a pikeman on the wall pushed
the top of the ladder away with his weapon and Durach fell backwards
onto the ground. He scrambled to his feet and found himself facing
the sloping field he had just charged across, and was shocked at
what he saw. Beyond the hundred and more dead and wounded littering
the field the armored regulars of the army of Beartas were retreating.
A violent sense of betrayal surged through him. He wheeled and
yelled to Caraid, whom he had seen nearby a moment ago. Durach
quickly turned away with tears in his eyes as his friend screamed
then crumpled under searing, boiling oil dropped from above.
Durach ran. He made his way across the field to some trees on
the other side. Most of the others were doing the same now. He ran
until he couldn't run anymore, caught his breath, then ran again.
His thoughts were not thoughts at all, but flashes of anger and
surges of sorrow.
By the time he reached Beartas' city limits, he had calmed down
quite a bit. Skirting the city to get to his house, his face assumed
a stone-like expression and he slowed to a walk, but his eyes held
shadows of deep loss mixed with anger.
Arriving home, Durach found he had left the door ajar, and a
foul odor reminded him that he had left the pig carcass on his
table. He stepped through the door and looked around. Nothing had
changed. Slowly he looked up to the empty hooks on the wall above
the fireplace, then to the sword he still grasped tightly in his
right hand. Calmly, Durach walked over to the corner of the small
room to the right of the cold fireplace and dropped the weapon to
the floor. He stood silently looking at the cold, grey ashes in the
fireplace, tears welling up in his eyes again.
A sound behind him caused him to turn. Framed in the doorway was
a familiar short, hooded figure. Calman pulled back his hood to
reveal tangled, raven-black locks. His smile was gone, replaced by a
look of deep understanding. He glanced at the sword on the floor,
then spoke in a low voice.
"Perhaps with my aid, you may yet be able to find Gliocas."
Durach nodded and followed Calman away from Iarann.
-Ron Meldrum
Cydric and the Sage: Part 5
Author's note: The complete synopsis for parts 1 & 2 can be
found in FSFnet VOL09N1, for part 3 in FSFnet VOL10N1.
THE STORY SO FAR: In part 4 (chapters VIII-X), Cydric and
Corambis head back to the house at twilight, stopping momentarily in
the temple district so that the Sage can offer a brief prayer to the
goddess Cahleyna. Cydric questions the necessity of worshipping the
gods; Corambis seems offended but later accepts Cydric's apology.
When they arrive back at the Sage's home, they have a light supper
and prepare themselves for the opening of the Celestial Archway. The
midnight hour arrives, the Archway appears, and the two step through.
They materialize in the other realm on a deserted beach. The
chrysoline ring that the Sage wears points them in the direction of
the Elder. They do not walk far when they are stopped by an
invisible barrier. Corambis uses the ring to smash through, and
suddenly the Citadel of Sorrows, situated on a huge floating
boulder, is revealed to them. A transportal disc teleports them up
to the Citadel, and they begin exploring. They notice strange
translucent stones scattered about the courtyard; Cydric keeps one.
The ring leads them through an armory filled with rusty weapons, an
old tapestry room, and finally up into a tower where they find Bahz
the Elder. Bahz appears incredibly old and decrepit, but when
Corambis tries to help him stand, the Elder snatches the chrysoline
ring away from the Sage and laughs. Green flames surround the Elder,
and his true identity is revealed: he is actually Nephros, mage of
ancient Quentrellia and the first to physically travel the
Dreamrealms. He casts a paralysis spell upon Cydric and Corambis,
and they lose consciousness.
XI. The Servant
The first thing that Cydric felt when he awoke some time later
was a pressure on his head. He looked around and saw that the room
was now empty, save for Corambis, who was shackled to a wooden post
at the other side of the room. He tried to stretch, and found that
he was similarly restrained. He gave the chains a hard yank, but
they remained securely fastened.
"Milord Corambis!" he called, trying to wake the Sage. After a
few moments, Corambis lifted his head.
"How do you feel?" Cydric asked him.
"Quite fine," replied the Sage. "But--" he stopped, and his jaw
dropped in surprise.
"What? What is it?" Cydric said, looking around.
"My goddess has heard my prayers! She has not forgotten us!" the
Sage said joyfully.
"What do you mean?" Cydric asked, not understanding the Sage's
elation. Just then the pressure lifted from his head, and a
bizarre-looking little creature settled onto his shoulder.
"Gaaah! What the hellblaze is it!" shouted Cydric, trying to
shrug it off.
"Relax, Cydric, it will not harm you. That is the Tozu, one of
the special servants of Cahleyna." Corambis addressed the creature:
"Forgive my young friend, O Tozu, for he is not used to being in the
presence of one so distinguished as yourself."
Cydric looked closely at the creature. It was very much like an
owl, except for its human head and tiny pair of arms.
"His reaction is understandable. I take no offense," replied the
Tozu in a small, low-pitched voice. "And you are correct, Sir
Corambis. Mistress Cahleyna has not forgotten you; she has sent me
to tell you of the important duty you must perform."
"Uh, excuse me, Zotu, or Tozu, or whatever your name is; could
you please sit somewhere else?" Cydric said, feeling a little
uncomfortable with the owl-man on his shoulder.
"Cydric! Please do not embarrass me," said the Sage.
"If you don't mind, I'd rather sit here," the Tozu replied,
somewhat testily.
"Fine with me, then," Cydric said, shrugging. The owl-man
flapped to keep his balance and gave Cydric a disapproving frown.
"First of all," said the Tozu, "let me tell you about Nephros.
You may know that over a thousand years ago, he was the royal
sorcerer of the Island of Quentrellia, and that he was the one who
discovered the Amulet of Hanarn and thus the first mage to
physically venture onto the dreamrealms. To escape the Fretheod
invasion of the Island he fled into the dreamrealms and wandered
about for a time, eventually finding his way to the Nether Realm."
He paused, seeing the Sage's eyes widen.
"You don't mean...he made a bargain with an Exile?"
"Indeed he did. He promised Xothar the chance to escape from his
prison in exchange for the power to dominate your world."
Cydric remembered the stories of the Exiles: once they were
seraphim, living in Lordsrealm with the All Creator, until Xothar
and his followers revolted and tried to seize power. The All Creator
crushed the rebellion, stripped them of their astral form, and flung
them into the Nether Realm where they have been ever since. "Why did
Nephros wait until now to try and free him?" Cydric asked.
"He has tried many times before, but with no success," replied
the Tozu. "This time, however, he may finally succeed."
"Of course! The harmonic convergence happens tonight,"
interjected Corambis. "If he has a means of tapping the power from
the alignment of the sun and stars, he may very well attain his goal."
"Very true," said the Tozu. "He does in fact have the means--the
Amulet of Hanarn. Now, Mistress Cahleyna and the other gods have
appealed to the All Creator, and he has agreed to let them destroy
Xothar once and for all. But since Xothar is in the Nether Realm,
they cannot harm him, just as he cannot harm them. The All Creator
is loathe to destroy any being, but has made an exception in this
case. So, when Nephros opens the Celestial Archway, the gods shall
attempt to strike a blow at Xothar. This means, of course, that
Nephros must be allowed to complete the summoning ritual."
"Wait, do you mean to say that you are not here to rescue us?"
Cydric asked, incredulously.
"As I said, Nephros must complete the ritual in order to gather
enough power to open an Archway in the Nether Realm. He needs
your...assistance, for the ritual to work."
"Well, don't the gods have enough have power to do that
themselves? I mean, they are gods, right?"
"The All Creator devised the Nether Realm as a prison
specifically for gods and other divine beings. No resident of
Lordsrealm has any power over that place."
"But mere mortals do? Anyway, what about us? I mean, myself and
Milord Corambis. Surely Cahleyna will not let anything happen to one
of her worshippers?"
"Naturally. But you do understand that if Xothar escapes, he
will take the rest of the dwellers of the Nether Realm with him, as
well as the other Exiles. He will make war upon Lordsrealm, and the
universe shall suffer."
"But you will help us get out of here after the ritual, right?"
The Tozu hesitated. "Unfortunately, the Citadel will also have
to be destroyed. This was once a place of great power, that is why
Nephros chose it. I can't help you once the ritual is begun."
Corambis said: "I understand, O Tozu. It will be an honor to die
for my goddess."
"She is not *my* goddess," said Cydric. "Anyway, I thought the
gods were more powerful than any one seraphim. The battle will not
take all their energy and concentration, will it?"
"It may. Xothar will undoubtedly have all his evil forces
waiting, and the gods have to send a combined power strike to insure
their destruction."
"So you are saying that it is up to us to make our own escape?"
"In effect, yes."
"Some divine being you are!"
"Please, Cydric, do not speak that way to him," said Corambis.
The Tozu stiffened for a moment, then said, "Nephros is
returning from his preparations. The Convergence is near. Remember
what I have said."
"We will, O Tozu. Thank you."
"Blessings of Cahleyna be with you." With that, the Tozu flapped
his wings and flew off out the window.
XII. The Ritual
A few moments later, Nephros entered the room. "So, my friends,
did you have a good sleep?" he asked.
They said nothing. "What, lizard-man got your tongue?" he laughed.
"Why us?" asked Cydric.
"Why not you?" Nephros replied, setting the brazier he had been
carrying down in the center of the room.
"I mean, why did you go through all that trouble with the
visions? You could have easily kidnapped us or something."
"I needed you both to come willingly. Would you have come
otherwise? I doubt it. I perceived that the old man would be
interested in the story about Bahz, so I cast my bait, and you came
right as I expected." Taking a jar of paint and a brush from the
brazier, he began marking out a large triangle, with Cydric at one
point and Corambis at the other, humming as he did so.
"Just what is this all about, anyway?" Cydric asked.
"You certainly are an inquisitive one, aren't you? Well, I see
no harm in telling. I am preparing to bring a being of immense power
onto this plane. In return for that, he'll grant me supreme mastery
over the world. Lord Nephros, Emperor of Makdiar--sounds great,
doesn't it?"
"For you, maybe. Just what do you need us for?"
"Well, for this whole thing to work, I need a couple of
sacrifices and a host body for the being--Xothar's his name, you
know him?"
"Legends say he was banished to the Nether Realm."
"Not for long. At the Convergence point, I'll open the StarDoor
into the Nether Realm, and he'll be freed, along with the rest of
his friends. And then I'll have powers beyond all measuring--why,
I'll be able to raze Dargon Keep in thirty seconds if the notion so
took me!" He put the finishing touches on the triangle and stepped
back. "Wonderful. Almost ready."
"What did my vision mean?" Cydric asked.
"Merely bits and pieces of your dreams and desires. I can't
remember exactly." He threw the paint jar out the window, then
brought out a leather bag. He emptied the contents into the brazier.
"One last thing." He turned to the empty third point of the
triangle and made some motions with his hands. A wooden post
appeared in place. He moved to the window and glanced up into the
sky. "Excellent. The Convergence is nigh." He chuckled.
Cydric looked over at Corambis. The Sage had his eyes closed,
and appeared to be meditating.
"Now where did I put her? Oh yes, I remember." Nephros left the
room, and came back a few moments later dragging a struggling young
girl behind him.
"No! Let me go! Help!" she screamed.
"A nice virgin sacrifice," Nephros said. "Can't have a ritual
without one."
Cydric lunged against his chains. "Let her go, you bastard!"
"Such fire and spirit. What a strong life-force. Yes, a prime
sacrifice victim. I'll kind of miss her," Nephros said.
"Help me please!" the girl sobbed at Cydric.
"You let her go, or I'll--"
"You'll what? Kill me?" Nephros smirked. He put his hand over
the girl's eyes, and her struggles ceased. He placed her up against
the wooden post and chained her hands behind her. "Xothar will like
her. More than he'll like the old man, I'm afraid."
"Not him too--"
"This is a pretty big ritual, you know. Twice as many sacrifices
as usual. It had better work this time." He moved to stand over the
brazier. "Well?" he said, looking at Cydric. "No last minute pleas
for mercy?"
Cydric glared at him.
"No, I guess not. I rather expected you to offer yourself as a
sacrifice in place of the girl. Your type is always doing that sort
of 'noble' thing. Well?"
Cydric started to speak but bit down his reply.
"I didn't think so. Anyway, I can't sacrifice you, since you
have the honor of being Xothar's new astral form. I don't think he'd
appreciate flying around in the body of a tired old man or a
delicate young lass, now would he?" He grinned. "Now, if there is no
other business, I say let the festivities begin!"
A flame appeared in the brazier. Moments later, a cloud of
purple smoke rose up into the air. Nephros reached into his tunic
and brought out a small object on a chain. The Amulet of Hanarn,
Cydric supposed.
"Spirits of the sun, hear me!" began Nephros. "Movers of the
stars, attend me!" The smoke formed into a rough sphere. "Powers of
the void, grant me your strength. As the heavens come together in
the perfect pattern, let their brilliance shine upon me!" He raised
the Amulet above his head. There was a rumbling sound in the distance.
"Oroc criat naestrum. Oroc criat naestrum," chanted Nephros.
Cydric wanted to cry out, to distrupt the proceedings, but the
words of the Tozu prevented him from doing so. He saw the Sage,
unmoving on his post. The girl, a wisp of brown hair across her
face, stood just as still.
"Oroc criat naestrum," intoned Nephros with closed eyes. "Sun
and heavens, moon and stars. Sun and heavens, moon and stars."
The center stone of the Amulet began glowing. The room grew
dark. The purple cloud lit up with an inner light.
"Oroc criat naestrum. Sun and heavens, moon and stars!"
The rumbling grew louder. The light from the Amulet started
pulsing. The purple cloud twisted restlessly.
"The time is near," said Nephros. He released the Amulet, which
hung suspended in mid-air. He went to the girl, unlocked her chains,
and motioned her to follow him. Glassy-eyed, she obeyed. Nephros
made her hold her arm out over the brazier in the center of the
cloud, and when she had done so, cut her wrist with a dagger. The
blood mixed into the smoke, giving it a crimson tint. Cydric cried
out when he realized that Nephros was using his sundagger.
"Silence!" shouted Nephros. Cydric felt himself go stiff, just
like the first time.
Nephros waved the girl back to her post. He went over and
released Corambis from his chains. The Sage opened his eyes and
straightened at the mage's command. Nephros mixed Corambis' blood
into the cloud as he did with the girl's, then motioned him back.
Taking hold of the Amulet once more, Nephros resumed chanting.
"Oroc criat naestrum. Oroc criat naestrum."
The rumbling sound changed to a low pulsing rhythm that kept
time with the light pulses from the Amulet. The sound increased in
volume, along with the mage's chanting.
"Oroc criant naestrum. Oroc criat naestrum! OROC CRIAT NAESTRUM!"
A beam of light lashed out from the Amulet and struck the center
of the cloud. There was a sharp crackle, and the Archway snapped open.
"THE STARS CONVERGE IN PERFECT UNISON! ENTER, O XOTHAR! THE PATH
IS CLEAR!" shouted Nephros. A strong wind rushed out from the
Archway, ruffling everyone in the room but not affecting the purple
cloud that obscured the view into the astral portal.
"ENTER, GREAT XOTHAR! NEPHROS BIDS THEE ENTER!" Neprhos shouted
above the screaming wind. Cydric watched in horror as he took the
girl by the shoulders and shoved her into Archway. She vanished,
then there was a brief sparkle of red. A dim form began to take
shape within the Archway.
As the form solidified, Cydric could make out claws, horns, and
fangs. Nephros exclaimed joyfully. Suddenly, several other forms
appeared in the smoke. They were human in appearance, but the
brilliant radiance surrounding each of them marked them as gods.
"No! Please, not now! So close!" Nephros yelled.
The lead god, a woman, pointed at the grotesque form of Xothar.
A shaft of pure golden light shot out from her fingertips and struck
the Exile. The room shook with the impact. Nephros lost his balance
and fell as a wrenching roar filled the air. Cydric slumped forward
as the paralysis left him.
Xothar raised his fist and a blast of red energy flared out. The
room shook again as the fire punched into the group of gods.
Corambis sprang forward and snatched up Cydric's sundagger where
Nephros had dropped it.
The Sage leaped onto Nephros's chest, pinning him to the floor.
He took a gold key from the mage's pocket, then struck him in the
head with the pommel of the sundagger.
Cydric stared at the unconscious sorcerer as Corambis unlocked
his chains. "Didn't think I had it in me, eh?" the Sage grinned,
noting the young man's surprised expression.
The room trembled with the force of the godly struggle.
XIII. Escape From The Citadel
Cydric and Corambis raced out of the room and down the stairs.
Another explosion rocked the castle, and chunks of stone began
crumbling from the ceiling.
"Hurry!" said Corambis, handing Cydric back his sundagger. "The
whole mountain may fall into the sea at any moment!"
They ran through the corridors, reached the tapestry room, and
stopped. Several large lizards lay sprawled across the mosaic floor.
Upon Cydric and Corambis' entry, they turned and began crawling
towards them.
"We cannot go through here!" said Cydric.
"We don't have time to find another way," replied Corambis. He
took the bag of dried fruit from his belt and tossed it into the
center of the room. A small lizard slithered over to it and took it
into his mouth in one gulp.
"Shield your eyes, milord," Cydric said, holding the sundagger
in front of him. When the Sage had done so, Cydric closed his own
eyes and silently gave the blade a command. A white light flared
outward from the blade, flooding the room with brightness for a
brief second.
Cydric opened his eyes. The lizards had stopped in their tracks,
but resumed their course after a moment's hesitation.
"They should have been blinded by that!" said Cydric.
"They are," said Corambis, "but these lizards hunt by scent also."
An explosion shook the room. "Then we have no other choice. We
must find another escape route," Cydric said, turning.
"Hold on," said the Sage as he took out his pipe and filled it.
"You do not have time for that!"
"Call it my final smoke." The Sage puffed, then said "Shafan
fazar!" He took another puff, then blew the smoke outward. The
aromatic cloud rose into the air and quickly filled the room. The
lizards hesitated, then started wandering aimlessly, as if confused.
"Ha ha! That got 'em!" Corambis grinned. "Come on!" He started
forward into the lizard-infested room.
They carefully threaded their way past the lumbering reptiles.
Cydric was almost to the other end of the room when a particularly
large lizard caught hold of the end of his cloak. He kicked the
beast in the head, but it stubbornly refused to let go. Cydric
swore, then bent down and thrust the sundagger between the reptile's
eyes. It twitched, then relaxed its jaws as it died. Cydric wiped
the blood off the blade as he joined the Sage.
"Nasty brute?" Corambis asked as they hurried down the corridor.
They reached the armory. Cydric opened the door that led to the
courtyard and was greeted by a horde of walking human skeletons, all
made of crystal. He gave a cry of surprise, then shut the door.
"What is it?" asked the Sage.
The door shook as the skeletons began pounding on it. "You would
not want to know," said Cydric. He slid a wooden bar across the
door, then went over to one of the tables and turned it on its side,
dumping the rusted weapons to the floor. He and Corambis slid the
table over and shoved it against the door.
They paused for a moment to catch their breath. Suddenly, Cydric
felt a warmth in his pocket. He reached in and brought out the
translucent stone he had picked up in the courtyard. It glowed
brightly and gave off increasing heat. Cydric tossed it away. As it
hit the floor, the stone shattered and a crystal skeleton sprang up
in its place.
"Now we know what those stones were," Corambis said grimly. The
skeleton looked around, then bent down and picked up a sword. At the
skeleton's touch, the rust on the blade vanished. It glowed briefly,
then appeared like new.
"Cydric! Don't let it pick up anything else!" warned Corambis.
Cydric grabbed a nearby shield and threw it at the skeleton. It
struck the crystal creature in the chest, causing it to stagger
back. The skeleton quickly recovered and retrieved the shield which,
like the sword, was restored to perfect condition.
"Helldamn," muttered Cydric. He quickly scanned the ground, then
took up a broadsword that appeared to have the least rust on it.
Picking up a wooden shield, he strode toward the skeleton to engage
it in battle.
They circled each other warily, then the skeleton gave an eerie
cry and struck the first blow. Cydric blocked with his shield, and
was nearly driven to his knees by the force of the strike. He
slashed, and the skeleton jumped back. Cydric regained his stance
and went on the attack.
They duelled back and forth in the center of the room, but
slowly, Cydric found himself being driven back. He briefly reflected
that the skeletons must at one time have been the flesh-and-blood
guards of the palace. His shield suddenly splintered to pieces as
his opponent's sword came down upon it. Cydric barely had time to
parry the next blow with his own severely notched sword. The
skeleton easily deflected Cydric's riposte, then lunged forward.
Cydric avoided the strike and swung his sword at the skeleton's
head. There was a sharp crack as the skeleton bit down on the sword
and split it in half. With a look of dismay, Cydric dropped the
sundered blade and jumped back. He barely avoided the skeleton's
next slash, then found himself back up against the wall. The
skeleton thrusted, Cydric twisted, and the blade struck the stone.
Cydric brought his fists down on the skeleton's back, and it pitched
against the wall. As it slid to the floor, Cydric gave the skeleton
a solid kick. It flipped over onto its back, and the sword went
flying. Cydric stepped over the skeleton to retrieve the blade, but
a bony hand lashed out and grabbed his ankle. Cydric slammed into
the ground.
He tried to kick loose from the skeleton's grasp, but it grabbed
hold of his other ankle. Cydric cried out in pain as it tightened
its grip. He desperately stretched his arm out, trying to seize the
sword that lay just beyond his reach. Just then, Corambis raced
over, picked up the sword, and plunged it into the skeleton's back.
The crystal creature let out an inhuman shriek, then exploded into a
fine crystalline dust.
"Can you walk?" Corambis asked, helping Cydric to his feet. The
young man winced, then shakily stood unassisted.
"I think so. They are only a little sore."
A skeletal arm burst through the door. Corambis rushed over and
hacked it off. "It seems our friends are becoming rather impatient."
Cydric limped over to the door on the opposite wall and opened
it. Several lizards from the tapestry room were making their way
down the corridor. Corambis eyed the advancing reptiles, then
reached for his pipe. Not finding it at his side, he searched the
rest of his belt pouches but came up empty.
"My pipe! It must have fallen back there somewhere," he said.
Cydric shut the door and leaned back against it. On the other
door, the skeletons were slowly breaking through.
"What do we do now?" Cydric asked.
The Sage made no reply as he surveyed the room. Then his eyes
lit up as he thought of a plan. He handed Cydric the skeleton's sword.
"Delay them as long as possible. I have an idea."
"What do you plan to do?"
"No time to explain, but if it doesn't work it won't matter."
Cydric took a stand in front of the courtyard-entry door and
proceeded to chop the limbs off any skeleton that threatened to
break through. Meanwhile, Corambis shoved one of the wooden tables
into the corner of the room farthest from the embattled door, turned
another table onto its side and put it against the first, forming a
rectangular box. He then gathered up some of the weapons and dropped
them in a pile at Cydric's feet.
"Now, Cydric, get under the tables over there. I'll join you in
a moment."
Cydric did so. Corambis opened the door to admit the lizards,
pushed the table away from the other door, then finally hurried back
to the wooden shelter, dragging a piece of plate mail behind him to
cover the open end.
"Now what?" asked Cydric.
"We wait."
Through a knothole in the table, Cydric watched as the lizards
made their way into the room just as the skeletons succeeded in
smashing down the door. With their eerie battle cry, the skeletons
snatched up weapons and began to hack the lizards to pieces. As the
last reptile died, a massive tremor ripped through the room. Cydric
cringed as the ceiling and most of the walls collapsed inwards,
crushing the skeletons beneath piles of rubble. Moments later, all
was still.
Corambis pushed aside the plate mail and crawled out. Cydric
followed. "Thank Cahleyna the builders spared no expense in
furnishing the Citadel," breathed Corambis. "Were these tables not
made of heartwood, we would surely be under a great deal of pressure."
Another tremor nearly jolted them off their feet. "I think we
best get going," said Cydric. They started to climb out of the
rubble, but after a few moments Cydric was forced to rest.
"It's those ankles, eh?" said Corambis, crouching down next to
the young man. Cydric nodded. The Sage brought out a vial from one
of his pouches and rubbed the contents on Cydric's affected
extremities. A few minutes later, the pain vanished and Cydric was
able to walk again.
Cracks started appearing in the ground by the time the two men
made it to the front gates. Cydric looked back and saw large
sections of the once-proud Citadel crumble away into ruin.
"Hurry, Cydric!" called the Sage.
They sprinted toward the mountain's edge to where the
transportal disc lay, but just before they reached it a huge gash
opened up the ground in front of them. They frantically scrambled
back as a huge chunk of the floating boulder dropped away into
space, taking the transportal disc with it.
Cydric's heart sank. "That was our only way off this helldamned
rock," he said despairingly.
"Courage up, Cydric, there must be another way down," Corambis
said, trying to sound reassuring.
Just then, a weird cry caused them to turn. Several crystal
skeletons, apparently survivors of the room collapse, were rushing
toward them with weapons drawn.
"I do not think we will get out of this alive," said Cydric,
raising the skeleton sword.
"You may be right this time," Corambis said tightly.
The skeletons drew nearer. Cydric braced himself for the
onslaught. If he was to die, then let it be in battle. His mentor
would have been proud.
Suddenly, a small winged shape swooped out of the sky. "Look!
It's the Tozu!" Corambis pointed.
"Jump!" screeched the owl-man.
"Did he say 'jump' ?" asked Cydric.
"By the gods! Jump now!"
"Do it," Corambis said, turning to the edge of the mountain.
"Are you serious?"
"Have faith, Cydric. Or face the alternative." The skeletons
were mere seconds away.
"But--" Cydric never finished the sentence. Corambis pushed him
over the edge, then leaped after him.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!" Cydric's scream echoed through the
heavens as he tumbled through empty air toward the beach below. He
shut his eyes against the sky and ground that spun and whirled into
a featureless blur.
He was still screaming when Corambis landed by him on the beach.
"Cydric! Stop that! We are safe," said the Sage, shaking him by
the shoulders. The screaming continued. Corambis gave him another
hearty shake, then slapped him resoundingly across the face.
"Cydric! Listen to me!"
The young man's outcries subsided to ragged gasps. A few moments
later he sat up.
"W-we're not dead?"
"We are very much alive, as you can see. Are you all right?"
"How?"
"It was my doing," said the Tozu, coming to a hover nearby. "I
am not without powers of my own. Now hurry! They are right behind."
Cydric looked up. The skeletons had jumped off the mountain
after them and were free-falling toward their position. "Won't they
be killed when they hit the ground?"
"The undead cannot be killed, only destroyed," the Tozu replied.
"I'd suggest you not be here when they arrive."
"But where do we go? How do we get back to our own realm?"
"Leave that to me. For now, just get as far away as possible!"
With that, the Tozu flapped his wings and took off.
Cydric and Corambis started off down the beach. Behind them, the
floating mountain slowly disintegrated. Great slabs of rock slid off
and splashed into the water below.
The first crystal skeleton off the mountain smashed heavily into
the ground, breaking all of its bones. The skull, however, remained
intact; it rose up from the pile of bones and flew off in pursuit of
the two men.
Cydric looked back and saw the grisly cranium give chase. Behind
it, three more skeletons struck the beach and shattered; their
skulls quickly arose and joined the pursuit.
Corambis stumbled and fell. Cydric help him up, and they
continued their desperate flight. Several moments later, Cydric felt
a pain near his neck. He turned and saw the first skull sinking its
crystal jaws into his shoulder. He cried out, then whipped off his
cloak, throwing the skull to the ground. "Keep going!" he shouted to
the Sage. He drew his sundagger and lunged for the skull, but it
flew up and hovered just out of striking range. Cydric jabbed at it
repeatedly, but each time it darted out of reach. Realizing that it
was too quick, Cydric snatched up his cloak and flung it like a net
at the skull. The cloth caught the fleshless head; Cydric fancied
that it looked like a small blue ghost as it darted randomly about.
Catching sight of more approaching skulls, he retrieved his dropped
sundagger and took off at a run after the Sage.
"I can't go much longer," wheezed Corambis as Cydric reached
him. "I'm far too old for this sort of thing."
"Where is that damn Tozu-bird?" Cydric cursed. He glanced back
and counted at least eight rapidly-gaining skulls. He turned his
attention forward and felt his blood run cold; a short distance
away, the line of barren rocks that bordered the beach angled
sharply into the sea. They were out of running room.
Despair washed over Cydric as they came to a halt at the rocky
barrier. "Blaze damn," he muttered darkly.
Just then he heard a familiar flap of wings. The Tozu descended
out of the sky, clutching the Amulet of Hanarn in its talons. There
was a blaze of rainbow light as the Celestial Archway materialized
at the foot of the rock wall. "Enter! Quickly!" the Tozu screeched.
Corambis leaped through the portal. Cydric paused and looked
back just in time to see a massive bolt of lightning lance down from
the sky and strike the Citadel. There was a fiery explosion, and the
huge mountain of rock began to fall toward the water. Seconds before
the skulls reached him, Cydric turned and dived through the Archway.
XIV. Return
He landed in the Sage's study. For several minutes he lay there,
panting and exhausted. After a little of his strength returned, he
got up and found the Sage lying on the floor nearby.
"Milord Corambis! Are you all right?"
The Sage wearily sat up. "I'm fine, Cydric. I simply found the
floor rather comfortable at the moment."
"I shall get you some water," Cydric said. He started to rise.
The study door flew open. A red-haired girl dressed in a black
tunic and leggings came through, saw them, and whipped out a pair of
throwing daggers. "Don't move, if you wish to live," she warned.
Cydric recognized her. "Holleena! What are you doing here?"
"Quiet!" Not taking her eyes off them, she called over here
shoulder, "Thuna! In here."
A nervous-looking dark-haired girl came in, holding a coil of
rope. "Tie them up," Holleena commanded.
"But Holleena, I don't think they--"
"Do it!"
As Thuna started toward them, Corambis whispered, "It seems that
we have slipped from the dragon's teeth into the stomach!"
Cydric grimly agreed.
Epilogue
After Thuna had bound them, Holleena relaxed her stance.
"Who are you? Why have you invaded my house?" the Sage demanded.
"Watch it, old man, or I'll do something very painful to you,"
Holleena said, putting away one of the daggers.
"You promised you wouldn't harm him," said Thuna, nervously
glancing at Corambis.
"You're getting on my nerves, girlie. Now shut up and keep out
of this!" Holleena shot back. She turned to Corambis. "Now then, old
man, I understand you own a very valuable jewel. Mind letting me
know where it is?"
"What is this, Holleena? You didn't seem like the thieving
kind," said Cydric.
Holleena smiled, then delivered a slap across Cydric's face.
"I seem to be getting a lot of that lately," he murmured.
The red-haired young woman eyed her dagger, then looked straight
at Corambis. "The Rainbow Stone, old man. Tell me where it is."
"I have many stones and jewels. Take whatever you want and leave!"
"You know what I'm talking about, old man. If you really are as
wise as they say, you'll tell me where you've hidden it."
"I have no idea what you mean," the Sage replied.
"Very well." Holleena walked about casually, then seized Thuna
by the hair and placed the dagger to her throat. "Does this help
your memory?"
"Please, Holleena," Thuna gasped. "I-I thought we were partners."
The Sage went white. "All right," he said, a tremble in his
voice. "But please, don't hurt her."
"I knew you were wise," Holleena said, smiling a sweet, wicked
smile. Just then Cydric heard a mechanical click, followed instantly
by a soft *thunk*. Holleena gave a cry of pain and dropped her
dagger. As she whirled away from Thuna, Cydric saw a crossbow bolt
sticking out of the back of her shoulder.
"Well, m'love, appears we made it here just in time," came a
male voice from the doorway. Thuna backed away, and Cydric saw a man
and a woman standing just inside the room. The woman lowered her
crossbow. "Hello, Cydric, " she said, smiling. "Looks like I've
saved your life yet again."
After the woman had freed Cydric and Corambis from their bonds,
the Sage removed the bolt from Holleena's shoulder and applied a
healing salve. The crossbow woman's companion then took the young
red-haired thief upstairs to lock her in one of the rooms.
"This is the woman I was telling you about in the marketplace,"
Cydric told Corambis as they took seats around the Sage's table.
"You don't know how glad I am to finally make your acquaintance,
Miss Kittara," said Corambis.
Kittara smiled. "Thank you, milord. I'm glad we could help."
Just then the man who was with Kittara strode into the room.
"The girl's doing fine. We should be able to question her in a bit."
To Kittara he said, "You sure are a dead shot, love. Almost too good."
She introduced the leather-clad man as her partner, Reyakeen Sylk.
"Good to know you, sirs," Sylk said as he gripped forearms with
the two men. "Sorry to trouble you this late."
"That's quite all right," replied Corambis. "But tell me, Lord
Sylk, how did you happen to be in this part of town? I do live
rather removed from the center of Dargon's activity."
"Just call me Sylk. Actually, milord, it was no mere
coincidence. Kittara and I had been following Holleena and the girl
over there for the last few days."
Thuna, who had been sitting apart from the rest of them, blurted
out, "You must believe me, milord! I didn't want anything to happen
to you. She promised she wouldn't hurt you, and she offered me so
much money, I just--just--" she burst into tears.
"There, there, my girl," Corambis said soothingly, going over
and letting her cry on his shoulder. "What is she talking about?" he
asked Sylk.
Kittara replied, "You see, milord, Holleena is a professional
thief. Like she said, she was after your Rainbow Stone. Since Thuna
is in your employ, Holleena bribed her into helping break into your
house. They had made a copy of your house key, and were planning to
carry out the theft last night, but Cydric's arrival made them
change their plans slightly." She brought out a small pewter key and
handed it to the Sage.
"I'm so sorry," wept Thuna. "Please forgive me."
"Don't worry about it, my dear," Corambis said gently. He
motioned to Cydric. The young man came over, and the Sage passed the
weeping girl into his arms. "Take her to one of the guest rooms."
"Uh, there there, Thuna, please don't cry," Cydric said
awkwardly as he led her from the kitchen.
"I'm sorry, I can't help it," Thuna said in a teary voice as
they entered one of the ground-floor guest rooms of the house.
Cydric sat her down on the bed, then turned to leave.
"Please don't go."
Cydric felt his stomach knot up. "Uh, yes?"
"I'm very sorry if I've embarrassed you. I want to explain about
what happened in the booth."
"Oh, that. Really, there is no need. I understand. Now I--"
"You don't understand. Please let me explain." She motioned him
to sit next to her. Cydric hesitated, then sat down a chair.
"You have someone else in your life, don't you?" Thuna asked.
"Is it that obvious?"
"It was when I first kissed you. You held back as long as you
could. I'm sorry that I had to do that to you, but I thought you
were just like the rest."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you see, Holleena wanted me to help her steal that jewel
they were talking about. At first I refused, but then she offered me
more gold that I had ever seen in my life, and I...I..." She
swallowed, then continued. "We were planning to steal it the night
that you arrived in Dargon. I was surprised when you asked me about
Master Corambis, but Holleena told me she would first find out why
you wanted to see him. I suppose you didn't tell her anything,
because the next day she came to the Tavern and asked me to try and
find out.
She took a deep breath, then rose and moved to stand by the
window. Staring out at the moon, she said, "Men would just spill all
their closest secrets to me when I revealed myself to them. I
thought it would work on you as well, but you were different. I'm
sorry if I've made you feel unfaithful to your girl, and I don't
blame you if you're angry with me, but I just wanted you to know the
truth." She sighed and turned to face him. "Can you truly forgive me?"
"Of course, Thuna. Thank you for being honest." He cringed
inwardly, thinking of how close he had come to falling for Thuna's
persuasion, just like the rest of her men.
"I just hope Master Corambis can forgive me as well. How could I
do such a thing to him, after all he's done for me? I don't deserve
to live here anymore." Thuna flung herself facedown on the bed.
"He will understand. I know he will." Cydric tentatively patted
her shoulder, then quietly left the room.
He returned to the kitchen and found the Sage alone. "Where did
they go?" he asked.
"Kittara and her friend went up to check on Holleena. The poor
girl can't be moved just now, so all three of them will be staying
here for the night."
"Thuna as well?"
"Of course. It's too late to take her to the Tavern in any case."
"Do you still trust her?"
"I still have hope for her."
Cydric looked out the kitchen window at the full moon that shone
brightly down upon the city. His brow furrowed as he turned to look
at the kitchen water-clock.
"How long would you say we were in the other realm?" Cydric asked.
The Sage poured two glasses of wine. "Well, it took us perhaps
an hour to get to the barrier, and we spent another half hour
exploring the Citadel. But I can't tell how long we were unconscious."
"According to the clock, we were gone at most ten minutes."
"Most amazing! Apparently, time passes at different rates in the
other realms. That must be why Nephros did not appear to have aged
very much, though he was certainly over a thousand summers old."
Cydric took the glass from Corambis. "Did Kittara and that Sylk
character tell you why they were following Holleena and Thuna?"
"They said they were on some sort of mission for Duke Jastrik of
Arvalia, as his 'special representatives'. They even had a gold
Authority Seal."
"Did they say what their mission was?"
"It must be rather important, for they would not elaborate when
I asked them. Sylk even asked that we not mention their visit here
to anyone."
Cydric drained the last of the wine from his glass, then yawned.
"I think I will go to bed now. It certainly was an eventful day."
"How right you are, Cydric. Rest well."
In the morning, Cydric went down and found the table set for
breakfast. He took a slice of bread and cheese and sat down,
wondering why no one else was at the table. A moment later, Kittara
came through the door. "Good morn, Cydric," she said, smiling.
Cydric returned the greeting. The chestnut-haired woman piled
some bread, fruit, and cheese onto a plate, then started to leave.
"Aren't you eating here?" Cydric asked.
"This is for Holleena. We're keeping her up in the room until
we're ready to leave." She put a piece of bread in her mouth and
left. Several minutes later, Corambis entered alone.
"Where is Sylk and Thuna?" asked Cydric.
"Sylk went outside for a while. Thuna will be up shortly."
As the Sage helped himself to breakfast, Cydric said, "There is
one thing that I haven't been able to figure out."
"What would that be?"
"The vision that Nephros sent me. He said it was made from my
dreams and desires, but I am still not sure what it means."
"Well, Cydric, I think you know enough to be able to interpret
it. For instance, what do you think the golden sea represented?"
"I don't know; the sun, perhaps? Gold pieces?"
"Gold pieces, most likely. And why do you think the water lost
its color when you went to drink it?"
"You are not suggesting...that my breath has an odor?"
Corambis laughed. "No, no. Bearing in mind what you told me in
the tavern, here is how I would interpret your vision: The sea
represents your father's position as Royal Treasurer, which deals
with money, gold especially. It turned colorless when you tried to
drink it, reflecting the fact that you did not wish to follow him in
his profession. And the shining object on the horizon stood for your
desire to leave home and have adventures."
"Yes, it all makes sense. And all of it is indeed true."
After Sylk and Kittara had left with Holleena, Corambis said,
"Well, Cydric, I must be packing, as well."
"Packing for what? You aren't leaving, are you?"
"I am indeed, Cydric. This whole experience has made me aware of
just how fragile our lives are. We could have died many times back
there in the Citadel; it is only by the grace of Cahleyna that we
escaped and lived to tell about it. Therefore, I am going to
Shireton to visit my daughter. I haven't seen her in five summers."
"Your daughter? I didn't even know you were married."
"My wife passed away some time ago."
"Oh, I see. I am sorry."
"Thank you, Cydric. But perhaps you would like to come with me,
eh? Trissa and her husband would be very glad to meet you."
"I appreciate the offer, but I think I will stay in Dargon for a
while longer. There is much I have yet to see."
"Of course. Well, you may stay in my house for as long as you
are in Dargon. Let me show you around first."
"You are too kind, milord. How long will you be gone?"
"For the winter, maybe longer. It depends on how Trissa is doing."
"I shall take care of you house until your return, then."
"Fine. I am sure you will like living here."
"There is one thing, though: could you tell me how to get into
the laboratory?"
Corambis grinned. "I was wondering when you would bring that up!"
They left the room, Cydric listening intently to the Sage's
arcane words.
-Carlo N. Samson
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ELEVEN NUMBER ONE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
For the Umpteenth Time James G. Thayer
*Stranger in the Mist Jeff Lee
Review: Hart's Hope 'Orny' Liscomb
*A Scent in the Air Becki Tants
Necrolepsy Bob Aspel
Review: A Man Rides Through M. Wendy Hennequin
*Spirit of the Wood: 7 Rich Jervis
Date: 051288 Dist: 641
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
To begin the issue on a serious note, on the morning of Sunday
May 8th, Robert A. Heinlein died. At age 80, Heinlein had been
suffering with emphysema and heart disease, and although the news is
not unexpected, it does not lessen the impact of his death upon his
fans. Heinlein's works span a period of fifty years, from the early
days of science fiction to the present. He won four Hugo awards and
has written such classic SF works as "Stranger in a Strange Land",
"Starship Troopers", "Time Enough for Love", "The Moon is a Harsh
Mistress" and many, many others. His writing has touched many of our
lives, and there is no doubt that his works will continue to be
regarded as classic science fiction for years to come.
In this issue you'll find a little of everything. We've got two
SF shorts which I'm sure you'll enjoy, two short reviews, and three
Dargon Project stories. We have Becki Tants' second Dargon story,
and Rich Jervis' continuation of the 'Spirit of the Wood' storyline.
We also have the first submission from the newest member of the
Dargon Project, Jeff Lee. I was thoroughly impressed with the story,
and I hope you enjoy it equally.
As this is the first issue of the summer volume, I find many of
the people who regularly contribute articles and stories to FSFnet
leaving the network for the summer. This means that unless some new
people decide to submit items, the number of issues you receive this
summer will be minimal. I'd like to strongly urge anyone who can
write to consider submitting a story, or possibly writing an
article, review, or even a featured author column. If you are
interested, please get in touch with me, and I'll let you know what
the basic requirements are. Remember, I can only print what you
submit, so if you want to see something different in the zine, feel
free to contribute something, and I'll work it in.
With that, and a welcome to the new readers, I leave you to
enjoy this excellent issue. Regards, all, and enjoy your summer...
-'Orny' Liscomb
For the Umpteenth Time
Dr. Sherman Anderson adjusted his device for the umpteenth time.
He almost had it now; with just a few final adjustments, his time
machine would be ready to be shown to the world. The press
conference was scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes, and the
reporters were already getting anxious in the auditorium.
With the help of an assistant, Dr. Anderson pushed the device out
onto the stage, behind the curtain. Then, shooing off the assistant,
he stepped out from behind the curtain and stood at the podium.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the press, may I have your attention
please?" Dr. Anderson said into the microphones. Slowly, everyone
grew silent out of respect to this great man.
"I have called you here today to announce the greatest discovery
of my career -- indeed, perhaps the greatest discovery in all human
history. For centuries, Man was limited to travel in two dimensions.
We could travel the length and the breadth of the Earth, but it was
only less than one hundred years ago that Orville and Wilbur Wright
breached the third dimension and allowed Man to fly.
"Today, yet another dimension has been pierced and opened for
Man to explore. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am here to announce
that I have assembled the first device that will allow Man to move
through the fourth dimension of time as easily as we currently
travel through three.
"Rather than giving you all the boring technical details now, my
staff has prepared a pamphlet explaining how this works. Instead, I
offer you a demonstration, actual proof that this device is capable of
doing what I have promised. In fact, so confident am I of this
device, I have not even tested it yet. Right now, you all shall
witness the miracle I have discovered as I turn time back 15 minutes!"
A hush fell over the crowd as Dr. Anderson threw a switch on the
device. Then, in literally no time at all, a single impulse expanded
from deep within the device to encompass the entire universe as time
moved backwards precisely fifteen minutes.
Dr. Sherman Anderson adjusted his device for the umpteenth time...
-James G. Thayer
Stranger in the Mist
The cool white shroud lay like a benison over the sweltering
city of Dargon. Though the fog seemed to crouch in every corner, as
a hungry beast would lie in wait for its prey, the mist was welcomed
by the inhabitants; it was gladly received as an interlude in the
incessant heat of this long, unusually hot summer.
As the people relaxed in the early evening, a darker shadow
clung to the wall encircling the city. Slowly -- for the wall
glistened with the moisture of the mist -- this shadow crept yet
closer to the top of the wall. It had almost reached the top when
its hand, probing for a minute crack with which to pull the shadow
further up, encountered an outthrusting of stone, placed there for
the very purpose of deterring intruders.
The shadow hung there for a moment, head bowed, then reached its
hand up once more. Its fingers pushed into the stone as though it
were potter's clay, and the shadow pulled itself around the stone
barricade in this manner. When it had reached the top, the figure
emitted a soft keening of shame.
A dog looked up curiously from the street, saw a human sitting
atop the city wall, knees tucked under its chin. It wore little
clothing, noted the dog, who never had understood why humans clothed
themselves anyway. A cat's piercing miaow drew the dog's attention
away, however, and it trotted off in the direction of the sound.
Drawing a slim cord from a pouch, the slender figure slipped out
from the embrasure between two merlons and crouched on the archers'
platform. It waited until the moon was hidden behind a thick bank of
clouds before descending, bracing itself against the support beam
with the cord. At the bottom, the glow from a nearby window revealed
the figure to be that of a young woman, barely clad in leather. Her
long black hair shimmered in the yellow light, and her dark eyes
gleamed as she scanned the streets and alleys.
She started as the sound of footsteps sounded at the door of the
nearby house. As there was no cover near, she threw herself to the
ground and rolled up against the city wall. As the chill stone
pressed against her flesh, she prayed that the fog would offer her
enough cover to escape detection. She shivered as the footsteps came
closer, relaxed a bit as they went off to one side. They stopped,
not ten feet from her head, and she heard the sound of fabric
rustling. Something began splattering against the wall where the
walker was, and an acrid stench wafted her way. Trying to keep from
gagging, she held her breath and prayed that he would finish
quickly. After a while, the splashing faded, and the walker breathed
a heavy sigh of relief. He turned, finished refastening his clothes,
and walked back to his house.
She released her pent-up breath, took three shaky, deep breaths,
then stood and crept quickly and silently away. By following the
alleyways and searching all of the trash heaps she could find, she
procured enough clothing to cover herself in the manner of the
people she had observed from the alleys. Noting the glow over one
part of the city, and hearing the noises from that direction, she
surmised that there she would find a market.
As she entered the market, she straightened up, seemed bolder in
visage, and attempted to look nonchalant as she gathered in her
surroundings. The babble going on around her was incomprehensible;
among the aspirants and palatal consonants of her own language were
harsher glottal and labial sounds.
Nevertheless, she could understand only too well the rumblings
of her stomach, which worsened as she neared a baker's stall. He was
a big, burly man, face and neck bright red from long hours in the
summer sun. At the moment, he was haggling with two young boys over
the price of a sweetmeat. She could see that she would receive no
help from him; from the looks of things, the boys had not eaten much
recently, and had collected all of the money they could beg. It was
apparently not enough to satisfy the vendor. As the man turned to a
wealthier client, one of the boys stole a small loaf of bread.
Her eyes widened; she emitted a gasp of disbelief. She was not
naive, and she had seen thieves before, but she was still
unaccustomed to the idea of taking what one did not own.
As the vendor shouted for the guards, the two urchins sped from
the booth -- moving straight towards her. Still shocked, she did not
think to move until it was too late. The first boy, still clutching
the purloined bread, crashed into her. The back of her head hit
something, and she lost consciousness.
When she awoke, she found herself in strange surroundings: a
soft bed with a comfortable pillow under her throbbing head. The
grey stone walls about her held no threat, and a washbasin was
filled with inviting water. Her clothes were gone, but finer
garments than she'd had were laid out on a chair against the far
wall. A heavy oak door, closed, stood next to the chair. Sunlight
streamed through a high window, bathing the room in a comfortable
glow. Although the day outside was hot, and there was no air flow in
the room, the staid stone walls kept the chamber comfortable.
When she had taken in all of her surroundings, she rose quickly
and went to the door. The sudden motion brought a stab of pain to
her head. Wishing that she had the healing talent like her brother
had had, she opened the door a crack and peered out. She was at the
end of a well-furnished hall with many other doors, most of which
stood open. She closed her door again and moved -- more slowly this
time -- back to her bed.
For a moment she felt fear: although she was not a prisoner, her
surroundings reminded her all too much of her brother's fate for her
to relax. Almost without thinking, she caressed the cool stone wall
by her bed, and began to apply the "dielaim". Her grief expressed
itself through her fingers, and she molded a small section of the
wall into a sculpture of her brother's face.
She studied it for a moment, adjusted a few rough edges,
re-hardened the stone, then softened the section of wall directly
below the face. Swiftly she molded his neck, paying careful
attention to his marvelous throat, which had been the pride of her
people. A wave of melancholy hit her; never again would she hear him
sing in three voices at once. Before she could add the one feature
lacking -- the manner of his death -- she heard someone approaching.
She began pressing the sculpture back into the wall, for she had
not allowed the neck to re-harden. She hadn't finished "erasing" his
throat when she remembered her lack of clothing. Torn between the
desire to cover herself and the need to hide her abilities, she
wrapped the sheet around her torso and set her back against the
sculpture. The nose pressed unforgivingly into her back.
When the door opened, she was surprised to see a young girl,
perhaps seventeen or eighteen summers of age. Strawberry-blonde
curls cascaded around the newcomer's shoulders.
"I'm Tara," stated the girl.
"I'm Sharin," she responded, surprised. This girl, Tara, had an
amazingly open mind. Among Sharin's talents was the ability to learn
language from those who were "open". If Sharin heard a word, she
could glean its meaning if the other person had a strong mind. That
had been one talent which she and Relann -- Oh, my brother! she
thought -- had shared.
"I saw what happened in the market," commented Tara. "At first,
the vendor wanted you arrested, but I convinced the guards that you
had nothing to do with it. I think having an important uncle helps
sometimes. No, Zed! Get out of here!"
Sharin looked at what Tara was talking to: a Shivaree with a
torn ear. Sharin spoke to it: "Zed, lhi nielann yonne." The Shivaree
couldn't understand the Lanoam tongue, of course, but it heard the
meanings. It looked quizzically at Sharin, barked an apology, then
started trotting out of the room.
"No, that's all right, Zed, if she doesn't mind you I guess you
can stay. What language was that? You're not from Dargon, are you?"
"No. That language was Lanoami." Sharin wished she knew more of
this language, but she was grateful that Tara was an easy talker. In
an effort to learn more, she asked, "Zed?"
"Oh, he's been my friend for years. I found him," she said, and
now her voice took on a tinge of ire, "in a hunter's trap." Her
voice softened again. "I took him home and fed him, and he's been
with me ever since. He's not really tame," said Tara, obviously
remembering a past event. Tara fondled the torn ear fondly. "He'll
give his life for me if I'm threatened, I know that. I really love
him, at times he's been my only friend."
"He love you," said Sharin, who knew that it was true. She felt
a bond with this Tara, who also loved animals. Sharin wondered if
any Lanoam blood was in Tara, for she obviously had a talent.
"Why do you say that?" asked Tara. "I mean, I know it, but how
can you tell?"
Sharin didn't know the words to express what she wanted to say,
but she didn't want to songweave, not until she knew this girl
better. Songweave wouldn't work on most non-Lanoam, but Sharin had a
feeling that this girl could receive -- after all, her bonding with
a Shivaree was incredible. So she had to indicate with her hands and
eyes that she didn't know the words.
Frowning, Tara ventured, "You can't speak my language, can you?
You're only using the words that I've said!"
Sadly, Sharin replied, "No, I can't speak the language. You
speak the words, I..." she pointed to her head.
"Learn?" asked Tara.
"I learn the words," finished Sharin gratefully. Trying to glean
the most important information as inconspicuously as possible, she
asked, "Uncle?"
"This is my Uncle Glenn's house. He's known here as Adrunian
Koren, the Captain of the Guards. I had to come here when my... when
my parents were killed by bandits." Zed nuzzled Tara's hand,
reacting to the strong emotions she was projecting. Sharin felt
closer to Tara; she understood the loss of family. "Since then, I've
begun learning how to defend myself. I've had cause to do so,
though. I met a woman who looked exactly like me, but that's where
the resemblance ended. She was going to kill me, but Zed saved me.
That's how his ear got torn -- she tried to kill him, but luckily
she missed. I'm sorry, I'm just rambling."
"No," protested Sharin. "I learn."
"No, I've completely forgotten my manners. Here you are, wrapped
up in a sheet! Oh, I cleaned your wound -- you took a nasty knock --
then I gave you a bath. I hope you don't mind."
"I don't mind," said Sharin. She looked towards the clothes.
Tara took the hint. "All right, let me know when you're dressed,
I'll be outside." She went out the door, closed it behind her.
Quickly Sharin turned and finished removing the traces of her
brother's throat. She was just ready to re-soften the face when the
door opened again.
"Sorry, Zed's still in here... How did you DO that?" Tara stood
gaping at the sculpture.
Sharin was frozen in horror. For a fleeting moment she was angry
at Tara for coming in without knocking, but it was overwhelmed at
the fact that one of her talents had been discovered.
Tara came into the room. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten
you! How did you do that? It's beautiful! Please, I'm sorry for
barging in here. Why are you afraid?"
Sharin could feel that Tara really was sorry for what she had
caused, so she decided to take a chance and trust Tara. She motioned
for Tara to close the door and sit down, and sat on the bed herself.
When Tara was sitting, Sharin began the Songweave. Her throat
opened, and the music of her story poured forth. Tara, already
conditioned to be receptive to animals, heard the words of the
Songweave as though they had been sung aloud, and to her surprise,
she could understand them perfectly.
I am Sharin, daughter of Oriann and Niarda, of the Lanoam
people. The song I weave is of my brother, Relann. He was beloved of
the Lanoam, and with the voice of three Winds could he weave his
tales. He was a healer, a master of the dielaim, and was born whole!
None were needed at his birthing to assist his life, and all who saw
him proclaimed that his place on the cliffs would be high!
For nineteen summers he grew, and with each passing summer he
grew sadder. For among my people rare is the whole child. At the
birthings are all too often needed the strongest healers, to correct
the children's bodies.
Relann said to the elders of my people, Alas! for we are too
few, and with each generation the children grow weaker! We must find
help, and others who will share our lives, that we pass not from the
sight of the Sun!
But the elders listened not, for he was but a child then. On his
eighteenth summer, he again petitioned them, saying, Alas! for now
fewer are born alive than dead! We must have help, or perish utterly!
Yet again the elders would not hear him, and in the next summer
he tried once more, saying, Alas! if you do nothing for the love of
your children, grant to me at least the right of Quest! For other
people have magics, which we cannot use, and mayhap I might find one
who can aid us!
And to this the elders consented, for the children who had lived
had been terrible to behold. All were now unblemished, but their
visages at birth could rend the heart!
Thus in that summer he began his Quest. To far lands he
ventured, finding none who would help him. Then, in the next spring,
he found a noble who was willing to help my people, if he would
receive aid in return. Relann showed him what he could do: sculpt
beautiful works in stone; strengthen wooden bridges to the hardness
of metals, so that they would not break; heal the sick and dying.
But the noble was black of heart, and forced Relann to use his
talents in other ways. At first Relann refused, for to use talents
for ill is contrary to all of the laws of my people! But the noble
had naught but scorn for morals, and maimed Relann until he agreed
to do the noble's bidding.
Relann's wonderful talents were used to work woe: rather than
sculpt, he had to soften the stone defenses of the noble's enemies;
he was made to harden wooden weapons, that the noble could conquer
less expensively; he was forced to heal only the noble's soldiers.
Yet Relann could do nothing; he had to keep his life. One day he
coaxed a sparrow to him, and told it to find me. When the sparrow
found me, I left at once. Relann would not touch me, for he had
become corrupt. He sang for me his Lifesong, as I watched him at his
window. Then was the last of his three Winds sounded, for with a
piece of glass he released them.
With a heavy heart I returned to my people, and sang his
Lifesong. With only one voice, I could not express it as he did, and
my heart nearly burst with grief. High on the cliffs I sculpted his
death-mask. In the chasm that had been his throat nests now the
sparrow, for it grieves with me.
When I had carved the mask, I continued his Quest. None yet have
I found who could aid me, but I will not ask the nobles. I have used
my talents shamefully -- with dielaim have I entered cities unnoticed.
I have corrupted myself, but I shall finish Relann's Quest ere I sing
my Lifesong. I thank you, my spirit-sister, for your hospitality, but
now must I move on. May your Song be sung for Eternity!
When the song was ended, both had tears in their eyes. Rising,
Sharin kissed Tara in the manner of her people. Startled, Tara
resisted, but it was over. Quickly, Sharin dressed. Wordlessly, Tara
showed her to the door, then hugged Sharin tightly. When Sharin had
disappeared from view, Tara closed the door and went back to the
guest room. She caressed the face in the stone for a long while,
then went back to her own room.
That night, as the mist crept back into the streets of Dargon
City, Tara n'ha Sansela began to sing.
-Jeffrey S. Lee
Review: "Hart's Hope"
This recently-released TOR reprint was originally published in
1983, but received only passing attention. Card has received acclaim
for several well-known works, including "Speaker for the Dead",
"Songmaster", "Ender's Game", "Wyrms", and "Seventh Son" and its
sequel "Red Prophet". There has recently been some discussion of
Card in SF-LOVERS, as well. Although not a member of Card's other
collections, "Hart's Hope" is definitely a worthwhile read.
"Hart's Hope" is a tale of the cruelty of mercy, and its
vengeance. The story opens with a count named Paliocrovol leading a
successful uprising against the current king. To legitimize his
power, he kills the old king and forces his daughter to marry him,
publicly raping and shaming her (a necessary act to legitimize his
assumption of the throne). Against his advisors' warnings he permits
the woman to live in exile, under the guard of a trusted wizard,
thinking the woman powerless. However, the queen secretly studies
the arcane books of the wizard, and when she bears the child of the
new king, she sacrifices it to give herself immense magical power.
She then enslaves her guardian and returns to the city where her
king is about to wed a second time. She interrupts the cermony and
through her magic enslaves Paliocrovol's advisors and his bride and
curses and banishes him from the city, ruling in his stead. Her
magic makes even the gods powerless, and her reign endures for
centuries as she keeps Paliocrovol and his cursed advisors alive
through her powers. The book is the story of her rise to power and
how her power is challenged as it weakens after three hundred years
of absolute power.
The book is very well-written, and definitely an
attention-holder. The magic used is complex and well-characterized,
and it is neither simple nor overused. The characters are deep and
intelligent and very well-developed. The book is written in a unique
style, being an open letter to Paliocrovol, raconting the story of
Queen Beauty's rule, and it is very easy to read. One of the most
admirable aspects of the book is Card's ability to characterize
several different religions which have followings in the region. The
religion of the Hart is a male-oriented belief in the mystical power
of the living blood; the Sweet Sisters, a matriarchy deriving their
power from the secrets of womanhood; and God, a new religion based
on a monotheistic pretext. Card's use of these religions is very
sophisticated, and the conflict between the queen and the gods is
the underlying story within the book.
"Hart's Hope" is a fascinating book, both for the casual reader
and the astute fan. Not only is it an enjoyable and provocative
read, but its style is refreshingly different without giving up any
of its power to take the reader away to a very different world. Even
if your reading list is limited by time, as mine is, I reccommend it.
-'Orny' Liscomb
A Scent in the Air
Summary - Since it has been so long since 'Winds of Change' was
put out, I am going to summarize what happened.
When we left Ariel, she had just left the tavern in search of a
job. She had arrived in Dargon the night before, exhausted from a
long journey, during which her lover, Stefan, had been killed. Stefan
had been an Air Mage, under the goddess Iliara. He had been killed
because of a blood feud between the worshipers of Iliara and the
worshipers of the earth god, Haargon. They have been following Ariel
ever since, because Stefan had been teaching her prior to his death.
They do not know how far her powers have gone yet, so they have yet to
take action against her. Just prior to leaving the Inn in search of a
job, Ariel received a note from a priest of Iliara along with a ring
that had belonged to Stefan. The note merely told her that she was on
her own for now.
"Following this little wench is getting to be a pain!", Alec
said as he walked into the back room of the chapel. "She has shown
no sign of regaining her powers enough to fight us off, or even be
considered an Air mage anymore. Why do we continue to bother?"
"Patience, Alec. Haargon has shown me signs that this one is
dangerous, but I don't want to kill her until I find out in what
way. I don't want this danger to present itself again. What have you
learned?".
Alec looked at the old priest. He was dressed in the simple
robes that any of the priests in this city might wear, identified as
one of Haargon's followers only by the holy symbol hanging around
his neck. It was the only symbol of any of the Gods that had any
value in and of itself. The piece of crystal clear quartz, encircled
by silver in such a way as to allow a chain of silver to be hooked
through, was worth quite a bit of money to a jeweler or noble, and
this specimen was extraordinarily beautiful. The priest had had all
sort of intricate carving done on the medallion and had gone out of
his way to find the most beautiful, double terminated piece of
quartz seen in Dargon in years. Alec didn't know if the medallion
was magical (although he assumed it was), but he did know that the
priest would protect it to the death.
"She is staying at the Inn of the Golden Lion, up in the rich
section of town. She went out this morning, wandered around for some
time going from shop to shop in the market area, as well as the
business district and never came out of Camron's Shipping. When she
had been in there for about 3 hours I decided it was a good time to
come report to you." Alec said.
"Reasonable. Camron has been looking for a good bookkeeper and
from what I'm told of her history, she would fit that description.
She needs a job to pay rent here. That will work out nicely......."
"Sir, then would it be possible for me to get paid?" Alec asked,
a bit afraid of the answer. This particular sect had a reputation
for trying to get you to convert and donate your earnings as opposed
to paying for services. They were rumored to be VERY effective.
"Hmm, uh, What? Oh yes, your pay. Certainly." Reaching under the
desk, he pulled out a couple of large denomination coins and tossed
them to Alec. "If you are interested in more of that, I would like
you to follow her for the next couple of weeks. Just keep an eye on
what she does, who she sees, and if she goes anywhere out of the
ordinary. Also if she moves out of that expensive Inn. Report in
once a week, or whenever there is something I should know about
immediately. Interested?"
Thinking how easy the payment had been to get, and assuming that
the rumors were wrong, Alec said "Certainly, sir. I will report back
to you in one week."
"Wonderful" the old priest said. As Alec was walking out the
door, almost as an afterthought, the priest added "Oh, by the way,
are you interested in converting?"
Getting a job in Dargon turned out to be easier than Ariel had
thought it would be. She stopped at several places, and had a job as
a bookkeeper for a nice, older man by noon. She worked until late
that night getting herself familiarized with his system, then had a
quick dinner at the inn before turning in.
The next morning, she moved to a cheaper place. Her new boss,
Camron had a cousin who wanted to rent a room in his house to
someone, and the arrangements for Ariel to move in had been
completed the day before. She was shown to a nice room, relatively
large, with a bed and a dresser in it and told that she was welcome
to eat with the family. The rent was 1/5 that of the inn she'd been
staying at and the atmosphere much nicer. Camron's cousin Karina and
her husband Marcus were immediately friendly towards her. As they
were eating dinner that night, they got to know each other and by
the time they were done, she had both their friendship and their
sympathy. Ariel did, however, leave out the details of the magic.
Karina and Marcus struck her as very down-to-earth people who felt
that magic was a bunch of rubbish, so when Stefan's death came up,
she told them that it had been merely bandits in the forest and that
they had not noticed her sleeping nearby because she was so rolled
up in her blankets.
"You were very lucky, you realize. Surviving that little episode
as well as getting through all the intervening distance alone,
through some rough territory, is quite a feat for one as yourself.
You should thank the gods for your life. Perhaps they have something
in mind for you." Marcus said, as they were all clearing the table.
"I have thanked them over and over, but if they have something
in mind for me, they have not yet deigned to tell me of it." Ariel
replied. She liked Marcus. He was a very caring person who had done
all but adopt her in the short time they had known each other.
"Well, that little adventure over, you should find yourself a
good husband, settle down, and marry. My cousin Camron hired you
because he has a soft spot for ladies in distress, but a young woman
such as yourself should not be working, but be married and with a
home and family of her own." Karina said. She was definitely the
practical one in the family. Loving, good, and practical. Her house
reflected this. Everything was spotless, the food was fresh, good,
and prepared with all the love she could come up with.
"Perhaps someday, but right now my loss of Stefan is too new. I
doubt I could love anyone the way I loved Stefan right now. Maybe
someday.... Now if you'll excuse me, I should get to bed. Today was
a long day and tomorrow will be no shorter." Ariel said, heading for
the stairs.
"Certainly, dear. Sleep well." Karina said as Ariel walked up
the stairs.
Up in her room, Ariel pondered her new-found friends. Marcus and
Karina were both young, hardly more than a couple of years older
then herself, yet they had been married for almost four years and
there were no children yet. "That's why they are renting this room"
she thought. No children to put in it. Unfortunate. Karina would
make a good mother.
With thoughts of Stefan, children, and homes running through her
mind, Ariel drifted off to sleep.
The next day was indeed a long one and Ariel worked until well
after dark trying to balance The Dolphin Queen's cargo sheets.
Finally finished, and highly pleased with the work she had done that
day, Ariel headed out, not really even considering the danger of a
female walking alone at night. As she came around the corner onto a
side street a few blocks from home, she began to get an odd feeling
that she was being watched. Glancing behind her and seeing no one,
she dismissed it as merely paranoia, but began to walk a bit faster.
The street was deserted, and not very well lit, so when the
bright light hit her in the face, she was momentarily blinded. When
her vision came back, there were three robbers with torches
surrounding her, looking at her with a terribly malicious look in
their eyes. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a small man in
priestly robes and Haargon's holy symbol watching with an even more
murderous look in his.
As they approached her, she realized the danger she would be in
if she even tried to call upon her powers, and did the only sensible
thing; She charged at the ones in front of her, at the last minute
ducking left and around them both. Free, she began to run as fast as
she could. The ruffians were not far behind her as she ran, but as
she passed the priest, he merely smiled and began walking in the
other direction.
They were catching up on her. She was very slowly running out of
breath to run any further, and losing this race anyway. Without even
thinking, she began to draw the wind to her, to move her along
faster and to strengthen her. Feeling little response, she attempted
to concentrate on Stefan's ring and do the same thing. This time,
there was some help. With the wind at her back and in her lungs,
strengthening her and speeding her along, she gradually outdistanced
the ruffians and eventually they stopped chasing her. She didn't
stop running though. The earth mage knew that she had called upon
power...he had to have known.... She was once again in danger from
the cult. This thought alone sped her along the rest of the way home.
"At least they don't know where I live," she thought as she came
through the door, huffing and puffing, and almost completely
exhausted. Marcus and Karina were waiting for her, looking worried.
Karina's face became even more concerned when she saw how heavily
Ariel was breathing.
"Good Gods, what happened? Where have you been? We've been so
worried! Are you all right??? " Karina said. Marcus's face echoed
the questions, although all he did was lead her over to a chair and
get her a glass of water.
When she finally regained her breath, Ariel said "I was working
late on a problem I had all but solved. As I was walking home, I was
attacked by three muggers about five blocks from here. I ran. They
followed for a while, but I outran them and they gave up soon after
they realized that. I'm OK. Really. Just a bit out of breath. I'll
be fine."
"Let me get you a some dinner and then you should go right to
bed. You know, this area isn't highly prone to muggers, but I guess
a single female walking anywhere alone at night is in danger. Please
be careful. Perhaps you can get someone from work to walk you home?"
Karina said as she brought a plate of bread and cheese and a bowl of
soup out.
"From now on I will. Either that or not stay as late. I'm so
exhausted." Ariel said, immediately diving into the stew.
They sat in silence while she ate, until Marcus finally spoke
up. "Ariel, is there someone after you? This is the second time
you've been attacked recently, and I've seen this man hanging around
outside quite a bit lately. Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"No," Ariel said hurriedly, "but thank you for caring. Now if
you'll excuse me, I really need to get to sleep. G'night."
As she walked up the stairs, Karina and Marcus exchanged
glances. Neither believed her.
"So she does have some of her power back. Interesting. Keep an
eye on her and report back if she does anything further." the old
priest said. "We may have to take care of her soon. Permanently."
Alec shivered at that last word and walked out of the room.
-Becki Tants
Necrolepsy
Gregory Schaeffer refused to believe what his associate, Martin
Johnson, had just told him. "There is no such thing as necrolepsy.
Someone cannot simply die and be revived without medical
intervention; it's just not possible."
"I am a doctor, Greg. I know what I saw. This man just dropped
dead over in Felder Park. I checked him out personally: he had no
pulse, no breathing--nothing. CPR had no effect on him and when the
emergency squad came, their shock pads didn't phase him either. When
we reached the hospital and checked him out further, I had to report
him DOA. But when the men from the morgue came up and started to
take him away, he sat up and said, 'Hey, where we going?'" Martin
glared at Greg as if daring him to say he was lying.
"Maybe the instruments are on the fritz," Greg said. "Or maybe
Franklin's been screwing with the settings again."
"No," Martin said, "Franklin hasn't been around the last couple
of days, and everything has been checked out thoroughly. Nothing is
wrong with any of the instruments. Face it, Greg; we've got a new
disease on our hands, and the only name that fits is 'necrolepsy'."
Martin made sure Greg was looking at him before he went on. "He says
this has happened to him before."
Greg wasn't convinced. "I still say there is something wrong
with our monitors. The tests these people run on machinery around
here would say that a blood pressure cuff with a hole in it was
working perfectly. Is there any evidence that it has happened before?"
Martin sighed. "No. He says he was always alone when it happened
before. But he claims to have blank spaces in his memory where all
he remembers is standing one instant and the next he is picking
himself up off the floor with the clock telling him it's several
hours later."
"And you believe him?"
Martin looked up at Greg. "I have no reason not to--I've seen it
happen once myself."
"Marty, do you realize that if something like necrolepsy does
exist, as you claim, there are hundreds of people that this hospital
alone has sent to the morgue who may have really been alive? For the
sake of my own sanity, I can't accept that such a disease exists."
Martin suddenly understood why Greg wouldn't believe him. "Yes,
I realize that, Greg. But if it does exist, I have to know. It's the
only way I'll ever be able to do my job effectively. If there's a
possibility that a disease like this exists, I have to know one way
or the other. I've requested three nurses to be assigned to watch
him at all times. I want to know immediately if he drops dead again."
During the next two months, Mr. Bowen had no more seizures. The
nurses worked in shifts, watching him and taking his blood pressure
and pulse every twelve hours. Nothing abnormal was found.
After two months, the hospital's Chief of Staff approached Dr.
Johnson. "I can't authorize three nurses to babysit a perfectly
healthy man any longer, Martin."
"Luke, you have to. If this man isn't monitored regularly, we'll
never find a way to diagnose necrolepsy."
"Martin, I have to run this hospital according to a budget and a
board of directors that gets very upset when I take money out of
that budget and don't tell them exactly what it's for. They bring
this up at every meeting. I can't avoid the issue any longer and I'm
not about to tell them what's really going on. If they were to find
out we were just waiting for a man to die again so we could prove
that a disease, which half of my staff is afraid to even admit is
possible, exists, I don't know how they'd react. I'm sorry, Martin,
but I've got to recall those nurses."
Martin knew what Luke had said was true and that there was no
way to convince him to keep a nurse assigned to Mr. Bowen. So,
rather than trying to argue, he left the Chief of Staff's office and
started on his rounds.
Meanwhile, all around the city, the necrolepsy spread.
-Bob Aspel
Review: "A Man Rides Through"
Mordant's Need Volume 2: "A Man Rides Through", by Stephen R.
Donaldson. Del Rey Books, 1987.
In summer of 1987, Stephen Donaldson released the first part of
Mordant's Need: "The Mirror of Her Dreams". It was a book that
realized that medieval societies have government intrigue,
corruption, and war strategies alongside the knights and magicians.
"The Mirror of Her Dreams" spun a magic spell and involved the
reader in the various plots of the imaginary kingdom of Mordant,
where Earthling Terisa Morgan was miraculously transported via
Mordant's peculiar breed of magic, which involves mirrors.
"The Mirror of Her Dreams" ended in a cliff-hanger: our hero,
Geraden, who hopes to become an Imager (a Mordant magic-user who
uses only mirrors), is framed for the murder of his brother and
disappears into his own mirror. Lady Terisa is left alone to face
the ire of the crusty Castellan and the machinations of the two
traitors within the castle.
"A Man Rides Through" opens with Terisa in the dungeon being
threatened by the slightly psychotic Castellan Lebbick. There still
are traitors loose in the castle, and an enemy army stands outside
the walls in an attempt at siege. One of the princesses is with the
enemy, the other is missing. The King refuses to take any action
against the siege. Many try to make Terisa betray Geraden's
whereabouts (which, incidentally, she does know): the Castellan, the
King's Chancellor, one of Geraden's brothers, and one Master Eremis,
a slick, lecherous, and totally unlikeable Imager. The country of
Mordant is being attacked on all sides by dangerous, magical
monsters. Things progress from there.
Donaldson's style, as always, is captivating, varied, and easy
to read. The story itself is hard to get away from; I dreamt of
Terisa and Geraden for two nights. The plot (or should I say plots)
of Mordant is well worked-out, and, in the end, it all makes perfect
sense.
Of course, this is a Donaldson book, and one must expect certain
things. There are no lepers in this book, but as usual, Donaldson's
usual cast of neurotics are out in full force. There is Adept
Havelock, one of the most likeable loonies in literature, for one.
Castellan Lebbick impresses me as a sado-masochist. About one
character in three has a superiority or inferiority complex. Yet the
mild insanities serve to make the characters more realistic; these
are not token insanities.
One word of warning: reading "A Man Rides Through" without
having read "The Mirror of Her Dreams" can be hazardous to the
reader's sanity. There are so many plots and counterplots in King
Joyse's realm that without prior knowledge, the reader will become
quite confused. But "The Mirror of Her Dreams" is as well written
and entertaining as its sequel, and the only criticism I can make of
either book is that they end too soon.
-M. Wendy Hennequin
Spirit of the Wood: 7
Loric's first sight as a man was the sun pearling through the
caul that surrounded him.
For a moment he didn't recognize where he was and struggled with
the thin membrane of skin, flopping onto the forest floor like a
ungainly hatching.
It was late afternoon by the look of it and the air smelled of
impending rain. He took a clean lungfull and puzzled over why he
felt that it had been ages since he had done so.
"OH" said Loric as he looked down at the caul. "I suppose I
should eat you now. I am hungry but not really that hungry." He bent
down and tore loose a dry piece of skin. He smelled it thoughtfully
and started to put it in his mouth when he caught a movement out of
the corner of his eye.
Loric whirled and dropped into a crouch. He felt for the press
of his kesh-blade and was relieved to find it tied with gut to his
side. At first he saw nothing, only shadow, then he saw a shadow
darker than the others. A moment more and he could see a man
standing next to a tree dressed like no other he had ever seen.
He wore an outer piece of cloth draped over his shoulders and
his legs clad in high soft boots. His right hand cradled a short
staff and the left was open and held out from his body. He wore a
dusky hat that covered thick curled locks. Long sleeved tunic and
breeches the color of wet tree bark blended so closely to the woods
around him that Loric was unsure where the man ended and the tree
began. The man's face held no menace, though what inner emotion it
did reflect, Loric could not guess. Loric noticed he had hair on his
face and wondered if his tribe had marked him as an outcast or
whether he had never passed his Shreaving.
"You're not going to eat that?" The stranger's voice was deep
and accented but slow enough for Loric to understand. He looked away
for a moment to glance at the caul and then back to the stranger.
"I'm supposed to. Part of my song will remain in it and if an
animal eats it I'll become a shapechanger under the moon's full face."
"Has that happened to anyone alive, or is that just what your
Histories say will happen?"
"I have no doubt in the Histories! They are the blood of my
tribe and my song is strong!" Loric rose slowly to his full height
and tried to look menacing. He didn't like this stranger and knew he
should not be here. "What tribe are you? And why have you
interrupted my Shreaving? If you know of the Histories, then you
know I am to avoid contact with anyone, the Shreaving is a test of
my ability to survive on my own. Go away."
"Do your Histories tell you to eat that goatskin by itself boy,
or can you make it part of other foods?"
Loric picked up the caul and stepped back. "It's not a goatskin,
it's my caul! If you will not leave, then I must! He turned and
walked stiffly into the forest trusting his hearing to tell of any
pursuit. When no sound of the stranger followed him he turned and
circled back to the clearing. He searched but found no sign of
anyone ever having been there except his own tracks and those of
some Downlanders six days stale.
Satisfied that he had traveled far enough to avoid the stranger,
Loric set about building a shelter. He wove a short length of rope
stout enough to hold his weight and used it to anchor one end of a
limb to a tree trunk while wedging the other in a fork high enough
to discourage all but the most persistent of hunters. A roof of
broad leaves from a fustian bush made a good cover from the rain
which had already begun to fall in loud plops around him. He took a
moment to gather some dry wood to start a fire after the shower,
then climbed to the top of the trees and sang his song to the Spirit.
After that there was nothing to do but wriggle into his shelter,
pushing the bundle of wood ahead of him, and wait out the storm. It
was a tight fit, but it was dry and he could see the forest rolling
away from him in a dense canopy of muted greens, the sun a white
disk behind the clouds. There would be time to build a better
shelter later, if the Spirit so desired. He thought of the stranger
and what he had said about the histories, silently admonishing
himself for summing up the Shreaving in such a small way. Was that
really all the Shreaving was to be, a test to see if I can survive
alone? The stranger had disturbed something deep within in Loric and
he found it difficult to turn his thoughts to the tasks ahead.
The sun crouched low on the horizon when the rain ended and
Loric emerged from his 'home'. By now he was ravenous and he went to
the limb where he had hung his caul to catch the rain water. He drank
deeply and then cut a piece to chew on while he hunted.
The Histories clearly spoke of what Loric could and could not
eat during his Shreaving--especially since he had not yet eaten his
caul. The easiest prey being snail and tree-crab, both of which
became active after rainfall, and then certain of the larger animals
that fed on them.
Loric climbed from tree to tree looking for signs that a river
or stream was near. He followed the lay of the land and found not
just a stream but several small streams that ran together in mad
confusion before falling into a gorge and out of sight.
He approached slowly,hoping to find howlers there that had
caught crab or snail in the trees and brought them to the water's
edge to crack on the rocks. He stopped a short distance from the
forest's edge and listened intently. He heard the water dripping
from the trees and the rub of bark and limb and the voice of the
Spirit moving among the trees; sighing a song about rain and the
life it brought. Then he heard the telltale clack and scrape of
feeding howlers. With a smile Loric moved slowly forward, knowing
that one sound out of place and the howlers would set up an alarm
that would send the pack racing for the safety of the trees.
He began to weave the wood-song about him, slowly like the web
of a spider, a strand at a time. I am the wind, Oh Spirit, I am the
limb that speaks loudly to the leaf, nothing more. A howler would
not be alarmed by the sound of a limb mumbling in the shadow of its
brothers. Of course not, how silly it seems, when there are so many
other things think about howler. The sun is still out the pack is
feeding and there are meat-nuts to crack.
Loric kept thinking one such thought after another, never
stopping the flow of thought and never stopping his progress
forward. This was the first time Loric had put the wood-song to use
on his own. In times before he had his grandfather to keep the
cadence and flow of thought clear. He never realized how hard it had
been for Oldsir to carry the theme of the song for so long. Oldsir!
Loric cursed himself for the drifting thought. The howlers were
sitting in a circle and the one closest to him an older female,
stopped picking at the shell she had in hand and looked right at
him. OH Spirit! Thought Loric furiously. I am a log. Many times you
have passed me on your way to this spot she-howler. I remember your
first time here after I had fallen. You carried your young one on
your back. How he cried! Where is he now, She-howler?
The howler blinked and coughed once. The pack turned and became
instantly alert. A young male walked out of the circle and sniffled
in Loric's direction. It seemed confused for it could not see the
source of the images it heard, it could not see anything where the
she-howler looked, nothing but the forest and a pile of dead wood at
the forest's edge. Loric turned his attention to the young howler.
'You are so strong! Why do you not lead the pack? Your fur is thick
and your limbs are clean and strong. Surely there is none to
challenge you. You should have your choice of females.' Loric
thought as hard and sincerely as he could. The male was pacing back
and forth in short tight turns. Weaving in rhythm with Loric's
thoughts. Suddenly he turned and barked at an older male. A shouting
match began and the young male was chased up a tree by the leader.
**The pack-male is jealous of your son She-howler, and he is
hungry. He eats too much! He will eat all the meat-nuts and you will
have none. He can see the shells you have. He will take them and you
will not eat. Hide them! Put the biggest ones where he can not take
them. Look around, where can you put them, clever She-howler? Bring
them here. Put them beneath me. I am a log. I do not eat meat-nuts.
You can eat them when Pack-male is drinking. **
The howler looked back and forth from Loric to the Pack-male.
She leaned forward and sat on the snails. **No. He will see them
when the pack moves. You are clever She-howler, hide them under me.
You can eat them and pack-male will not take them. Look! Already he
has chased your son up a tree. Your son will not get any meat-nuts
to eat. Pack-male is eating his nuts. He will come for your
meat-nuts...what can you do She-howler? **
Loric blinked sweat out of his eyes and took a long silent
breath. The she-howler looked around and walked over to Loric' prone
body. She felt under Loric's arm with a thin, clawed hand. Her nails
scraped him several times but he put the pain behind the wood-song.
There is plenty of room She-howler, and I am soft and rotten. The
meat-nuts will get fat and juicy here. And pack-male won't eat them.
The She-howler put three snails in the hollow of Loric's arm and
went back to her pile of shells. She looked at the pack-male and
then back to Loric. Several times she moved toward Loric and he
stopped her with a strong thought about Pack-male. Now all he had to
do was get the pack to move away so he could get up and stretch his
protesting muscles.
It would have been easy to just get up and scare the pack away
or to have killed She-howler when she was in blade-reach, but Loric
knew that the Spirit was listening to his wood-song and gave it the
ability to be understood by the forest. If he ended his song now,
with death, it could sever the bond between his people and the
Spirit of the Wood. And they would be lost.
Loric watched the pack move from tree to tree searching for more
snails. They would move away and drift back. Never going too far
from the forests' edge. He continued his wood-song trying to get the
she-howler to forget about the snails. But she would always come
back and feel under his arm for the snails.
'I am weak Spirit, I want to eat these snails, but I will not
take them while She-howler can still claim them.
Show me a way to end the song.'
The howlers turned as one and moved in his direction, having
scented him and saw him for what he really was during the short
moment he was distracted. The pack-male barked a challenge and Loric
hurriedly picked up the strands of the wood-song. He did not have
time to try and spell the pack-male, so he concentrated on the
she-howler, convincing her that the pack-male had seen her snails.
She ran ahead of the male trying to beat him to Loric, but he turned
instead to chase her. The respite was all Loric needed to re-affirm
the illusion of a log. But the Pack-male was agitated and walked
around Loric, sniffing and biting at his head. The pain was sharp
and bright in his mind, but desperation drove him even deeper into
the wood-song. If he flinched now the powerful male would rend him
into pieces smaller than meat-nuts. The male could not decide what
Loric smelled like so he marked Loric with a spray from his musk
pouch, kicked a bit of dirt onto Loric's back and then walked down
the river bank. His actions made it clear to the pack that the
mystery of the log was over and off limits. In a moment or two the
pack would follow him to the water's edge and they would not return
to this spot. It was then that the chee'tar leapt into the clearing.
For more times than there are rings in a tree, Silsia Tolorion
cursed the recklessness that made her leave the Village-beneath-the
-Trees without preparations. To avoid arousing suspicion, she had
taken only a few ornaments of mourning; A broadweave dyed dark with
clay, a few beads made of Keshwood, and the wooden whistle Oldsir
had made her.
She was supposedly only going as far as Wood's End, so she
couldn't justify the provisions for a long-walk to Eadyie or even
ask for a Keshwood knife to protect herself with. Eadyie would have
sent one of the men in the village to escort her--no doubt one she
wanted Silsia to dance for. The green-root she had stuffed in the
bottom of her slouchbag was long gone as well as the two quomo fruit
hidden away during the preparations for the next day's Shreaving.
She took refuge in the trees and avoided the paths traveled by
the larger animals, moving slowly in the direction Oldsir's star had
gone. It was also the direction that held Wood's End, where the
druid Carson Feldspar held sway over Wildwood. The thought of a
single man guiding the will of a forest frightened her. Did it serve
him or he serve it? What noisy deaths did it sing? How many
struggled and withered while his thoughts were elsewhere? How could
a person's spirit stand against a land where everything had a voice
of its own and gave heed or creedence to none?
Here in Silsia's forest the Spirit of the Wood provided the
harmony and the song that all creatures sang. It had been the rhythm
and reason behind everything, and for as long as man could remember,
it had fed her people and kept them safe. Nothing was asked of them,
save that they also care in return. It was a circle as the priests
explained it; the Spirit cared for and guided the Upstem village,
and the Upstem village cared for and guided the Downland village and
they as a whole cared for the forest. You sprang from the forest and
lived in harmony with it and, when your song was sung, you returned
to the forest.
There had been better times for the forest, and what should have
been easy traveling and foraging was time-consuming and often
fruitless. Her slouch-bag bulged with the fleshy heads of
bread-plant; a filling if not very healthy-looking fungus that grew
in the shadows of silent trees.
Silsia didn't care for their gritty taste, and they provided
little in the way of nourishment, but the alternative was even more
distasteful; an empty stomach.
At least the bread-plant was proliferating, there seemed to
Silisa to be more dead trees than she could remember ever seeing
near the village. They were either lying across her path or leaning
heavily on their brothers, no longer able to sing for themselves.
In places it was like walking in the wake of a Djervish, seeing
the results of its destruction, but never the destructor. Silsia
could not think of anything that happened in the season past to
cause so many silent trees. The winter had been exceptionally cold,
but that should not have killed the fully grown trees. Perhaps a
Djervish did walk these woods. A shiver of premonition brought her
suddenly back to her surroundings. She looked about and found she
had almost stumbled into a devatha.
Child! she admonished herself, Stumphead! The only reason you're
alive is that it amuses the Spirit to observe your folly.
The odor of wet mould that always accompanied living devathas
had alerted her when she was daydreaming. Looking closely she could
see the ropey tendrils hanging from the canopy of leaves high above
her. The devatha would have been easy to escape with a kesh-knife,
she thought bitterly, but un-armed as she was she could not have
broken free at all.
She had seen the devatha's cruel attentions once and knew
exactly what happened to anything or anyone unaware enough to come
within its reach. Its victims would be bound and stung repeatedly by
one tentacle while held fast with the others. Then they were drawn
slowly upward to the waiting beak; a bite on the back of the neck
ended any further struggling, but did not kill. The devatha left its
prey hanging like quomo fruit, full of the juices it could not get
from its host-tree. The death would be as slow as it would be certain.
Thinking that she would feel better with something for
protection, Silsia looked around for a weapon. The keshwood is
forbidden me, and I do not know the song for keening its edge
anyway. But there must be something else as good, or close that I
can use? I could try making a spear, but I do not have a way to
shape the tip. Sighing, she picked up a limb that was not too
rotted, and hefted it meaningfully.
With a new sense of awareness she moved in a wide circle around
the devatha and into the lowlands beyond.
Silisa was deep into a wooded valley when it began to rain and
she moved into the protection of a half-felled tree. Parting the
clinging vines that covered it like a curtain, she entered the
relative dryness underneath. The rain made its own random music on
the trees above her and was echoed when it made it to the ground
below. She folded a fusia leaf and watched as it gradually filled
with water. Slowly her attention pulled close about her, and she let
herself be taken away by the reflections of the beads of water. It
brought her memories...memories of fire.
Her friend Yoni was looking at her from across the flames in
surprise and shock. "Silisa! You don't really mean to take one of
the cauls?" "Yess!" She whispered back. Silsia felt deliciously
sneaky and daring, both by shocking her friend and by doing
something forbidden by man. She and Yoni had spent the whole morning
peeking into Eadyie's hut where the secret part of the Shreaving
preparations were hidden from all but the Upstem priests and Eadyie,
of course.
After what seemed ages of waiting within earshot of Eadyie's
hut, Silsia and Yoni slipped in when Eadyie had left with something
wrapped in fur. The single large room looked the same, but for a
pile of goatskin and a large black-wood bowl near the cooking fire.
In the bowl was a thin material, all wrinkled and folded over on
itself. It looked like the goatskin, or goat brains, but stretched
impossibly thin, and coated with an oily layer that gave it the look
of being fresh from the animal. Another skin was hanging from the
roof, drying in the heat from the cooking fire.
Silsia reached out and touched the drying skin, it felt warm and
alive to her touch, it was like the skin of a lizard, only pliant
and warm. She saw her shadow dance on the pearl-like surface, and
looking through it she could she Yoni's nervous outline.
Suddenly she was moved to action and she pulled the caul from
the beam and folded it into a small bundle. She tucked it into the
top of her sarong, locking eyes with Yoni as if daring her to say
anything. It still felt warm and alive, like a hand between her
breasts, a man's hand. With a blush at her thoughts she quickly
checked outside the hut and then dashed for the riverbank, the
astonished Yoni still in tow.
It was a stiffness in her neck and the gradual stopping of the
rain's patter around her that brought her back to herself this time.
She smiled at the memory of Yoni's face and unconsciously clutched
the lump between her breasts. "Oh Yoni, How your eyes would widen
now if you knew what I was about." Silsia stretched out one leg and
then the other and stood up, pulling free handfuls of vines as she
went. It seemed to her that no time had passsed at all, but she
could tell by the slanting rays of the evening sun that she had
spent a good long time crouched beneath that tree.
Almost at once two sounds came to her, the distant cry of a
Chee'tar and the very near guttural challenge of a wood-pig. Across
the small clearing she could see the outline of a creature full
eight times her weight, its snout lifted to show its serrated tusks,
its red-pink eyes enflamed with rage.
At first fear did not come to her and she stepped forward and
said "Kom-beh, tay-chee chee hai!" The wood-pig snorted and kneaded
the ground with its forepaws. The words of warding rolled over it,
but it did not flee.
Wide-eyed, Silsia tried to look up at the trees and around her
feet for signs that the Spirit was here. but there was no song on
the wind, no constant flittering at the back of her mind. Somehow
she had passed beyond the forest--her forest, and into the Wildwood.
Fear grabbed her heart and squeezed it tightly. She felt around
her for the forgotten club she had picked up earlier but couldn't
find it within reach. The wood-pig took one step, then another then
charged her. It held its porcine head low and emitted a high-pitched
cry from deep within it like that of a woman in pain. Silsia reacted
blindly and leaped backward and up onto the fallen tree. The
wood-pig passed beneath it, shreding the vines like spider's web as
it shook free and turned to attack again.
Silsia ran down the path she had been following heedless of the
scratches and gouges from countless branches that sought to hold her
back--to slow her down enough that the wood-pig could catch her.
"Gorund de nee-cha!" She growled wunder her breath--"Get out of
my way!" She could hear the wood-pig pursuing her but dared not
spare a glance behind her. She followed the trail and it seemed to
become even more close and resistant to her advance. She was slapped
in the face by a thick broad leaf that blinded her long enough for
her to run into a low limb. It took the breath from her, but somehow
she stumbled on. "CROM VETH NORLA TOVAY!!" the path beyond seemed
clear and it gave her a moment to wipe the tears from her smarting
eyes. She saw a wider path ahead of her; the trees leaned away on
both sides as if they feared to block the trail.
The crash of underbrush behind her spurred her down the trail
before she could question it, but even with a clear trail she knew
the wood-pig would catch her. Her breath was a fire and her legs
jammed blades of saw-grass into her raw nerves with every step.
"Spirit! "She cried out, "my song has been less than true, judge me
not too harshly for I fear I am about to greet you!"
She charged blindly as sweat blurred her vison, adding a burning
that she hardly noticed. Ahead of her a figure broke free of the
shadows--or perhaps it was a stilla shadow or even a dead tree-- she
couldn't stop herself in time to tell, or even cry out.
Her headlong rush was suddenly cut short by an arm that shot out
and held her fast. She doubled over and blew out a loud breath.
"Shade of the Ancient Oak!" a voice bellowed,"--a child!" Silsia
tried to retort 'I'm not a child!' but could only gasp and mouth her
words. If the man had not been holding her, she would have fallen to
the ground. She tried to twist free and look at her captor but his
grip was like the strongest limbs and she had no energy left to
fight. Suddenly he seemed to become aware of the charge of the
wood-pig towards them. He dropped Silsia without a word and held his
staff over his head. Then slowly he muttered to himself and gestured
at the wood-pig. The pig tripped and slid on its belly, got up and
tried to charge again, but vines and roots held it down. It cried
its outrage and tore at the vines with its tusks. The vines gave
away, but each time it moved closer, more took their place.
"Come on child!" the man said, "We can be far away before he
gets beyond my Circle of Restraint." With that he strode into the
woods with big ground-covering strides. Silsia had hardly gotten her
breath when she found herself laboring to keep up.
"W-wait! Please, I've got to rest!"
"Sorry little one--there's a rouge druid loose in my wood and
this is no place for a girl-child to be playing."
Silsia's response was lost on his rapidly disapearing back. If
she didn't stay close she would lose him in the gathering dusk. So
she followed doggedly and held her tounge. For now.
It was a tribute to Loric's grandfather, and to Loric himself,
that he did not jump up and try to run the moment the chee'tar
arrived. It would have been the last action he would have ever made.
The chee'tar took no notice of him and chased several of the howlers
to the river's edge cutting off their easy escape to the trees.
Loric saw that it was the female howler and one of the young
males--perhaps her own, that faced death in the form of the chee'tar.
Loric had a reluctantly clear view of the tableau. He could see
the fear in the howler's eyes, the hungry pacing of the chee'tar,
its very stance implicitly announcing that it knew its prey was
trapped. A deadly game of advance and retreat began as the howlers
would back all the way to the water's edge and then having no where
to go would bluff and charge the chee'tar into backing up a bit. The
sight would have been thought funny if Loric had not known how the
dance would have to end. Caring little for getting wet, the chee'tar
was only waiting for the howlers to break for the trees. He did not
know a song for taming chee'tars, no one in his village had ever
tried and then returned to tell about it.
A stray movement on his part could send the chee'tar running, or
it could just as easily make it attack him. Loric knew that if the
chee'tar didn't make a decision soon, he would have to. The wave of
energy that flooded his stomach had gone sour, bringing with it the
realization that the howlers would be free if he had not been
weaving his spell at them. It was his responsibilty. Finally his
energy spent and he his legs trembling despite his best efforts, he
decided that bluffing would at least give the howlers a chance to
get away, and with the Spirit's good will, he would make it up a
tree also.
Loric waited until the chee'tar paced directly in front of him
and then sprang up howling and waving his arms wildly about. The
chee'tar whipped around and backed up several feet snarling and
crouching on powerfull hind legs. It bellowed out a challenge and
Loric stomped his feet and shouted "Hi! Go Bomcha Chee'tar! Kei
Kei!" The chee'tar seemed to flinch at the words of warding but did
not run. Instead it un-coiled its lenght in a long arc toward
Loric's head; claws extended and white fangs standing out stark
against its ebony fur.
Loric dropped to his knees and slashed across the chee'tar's
belly as it passed over him. He felt white-hot fire pierce his skull
as the chee'tar kicked down and raked his scalp. Screaming in pain
and outrage it turned to attack again and saw Loric leaping for the
lower branches. It leapt also, but the branch would not hold them
both and they fell together in a flurry of leaves, claws and flesh.
Loric slashed out at the direction of the pain and was unsure if he
had struck the chee'tar or the treelimb. He was pinned to the
treetrunk by a heavy limb and too stunned to even try to break free.
Blood ran into Loric's eyes and he heard more than saw the
chee'tar struggling to get free of the limb as well. It broke free,
then started rolling and rubbing its flank on the ground, trying to
dislodge a short length of limb impaled in its flank.
Quickly Loric wiped his eyes with a leaf and broke off a sharp
stick that was jabbing his chest. He leaned to the side as far as
the limb would allow, took aim and prayed to the Spirit to guide his
hand. He threw in-expertly, and the stick bounced off the enraged
chee'tar's head. It forgot the pain and charged Loric again, who
braced his arm against the trunk and hoped the impact would be
enough to drive the blade home. There was a loud thud as the
feline's hurtling bulk hit Loric full force, and then Loric's scream
of pain joined that of the chee'tar. The kesh-blade was jerked from
his grasp and the breath wheezed out of him in one loud ooff! as the
limb abruptly broke free and dropped him to the ground.
The chee'tar charged into the bush blindly snapping and
screaming whenever the branch in its side would snag on the
undergrowth. Loric slumped and leaned against the tree, trying
desperately to summon enough strenght to follow the chee'tar and to
force air back into his lungs. He heard the chee'tar at some
distance, and by following the sound, he found the dislodged
kesh-blade, and further on the piece of wood. The trail led over the
side of the gorge, and at the bottom Loric found the chee'tar lying
on it's side, it's fur matted and dark with their blood, its yellow
eyes were fierce in the darkness, full of pain, full of hate.
Loric tried to get close enough to the beast to finish it off,
but the chee'tar would rally at his approach, each time roaring with
less ferocity. Loric decided that the chee'tar would die soon enuff
and wearily tried to climb a nearby tree. With his vision blurred
and his footing unsure, he could only brace himself on in the crook
of two lower limbs and wait for the Spirit to claim the chee'tar. He
pulled some leaves to press against his throbbing wounds and was
unconscious before his hand was half-way to his head.
-Rich Jervis
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ELEVEN NUMBER TWO
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
Your Order... Paul A. Clayton
*A Sudden Storm Becki Tants
DNA For Sale, Slightly Used... Peter Scott
*Unlikely Partners, Part 1 Max Khaytsus
Date: 070688 Dist: 672
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
X-Editorial
Many of you are probably unaware just what is going to happen to
FSFnet within the next couple months, beyond what has been mentioned
in recent issues about my graduation. The current plans go like this:
In late August, I will be graduating from UMaine, and coincidental
with that, FSFnet will stop production. However, before I alarm you
too much, let me mention that the Dargon Project will continue under
new leadership, and there are plans to begin a new magazine after
FSFnet ends, and all users who are subscribed to FSFnet at the time of
its last issue will automatically be subscribed to the new magazine
when it begins publication. The new magazine will be edited by John
White , and will publish Dargon Project stories, and
everyone who is subscribed to FSFnet will automatically be subscribed
to the new magazine. Several people I've talked to have asked "Why
bother ending FSFnet and starting a new magazine if they're going to
be so similar?" In a discussion in FSFNET CSNOTICE (available from the
server CSNEWS@MAINE) I talked about why I think it better to end
FSFnet; what follows is a reprint of that discussion. All readers are
welcome to join the discussion and add their comments via CSNEWS.
First of all, let me mention that running a magazine is a
gratifying experience. It would be silly of me (or any editor) to deny
some degree of emotional attachment to his magazine, particularly if
the magazine is successful. With that in mind, here's the basic
reasons why I think the 'new' magazine should be considered a separate
entity from FSFnet, even though they will be almost identical in their
basic nature, as Leo pointed out.
Firstly, but not necessarily most importantly, I'm posessive about
it. I'm rather attached to it, and the thought of turning it over to
another editor, whom I don't know and over whom I have no control, is
difficult for me to accept. This is putting things a little more
bluntly than is actually the case, but I do feel some
defensiveness/protectiveness about it, and that's natural for any
editor to feel.
The flip side of this is the real reasoning behind ending FSFnet.
Presumably, if FSFnet continued, a new editor would be recruited and
be forced to adhere to formats and policies which I set three years
ago. I mentioned that editing a magazine is a personal experience, yet
I suspect that editing a magazine which, in the end, is not your own
creation, lessens this tie. The new editor would probably find running
FSFnet much less rewarding and put less effort into it than if he were
running a magazine which was his own creation, and could make his own
policy decisions from scratch. Sure, the two magazines will be very
similar (particularly with the continuation of the Dargon Project in
the new mag), but because of the change in editors, they will not be
identical, and separating them (at least theoretically) into two
distinct magazines will make both parties happier.
So, what appears to be best for everyone, is to discontinue FSFnet
as such, while starting up another (very similar) magazine to fill its
void. Let the old editor have his wish of not letting someone else get
their hands on 'his' magazine, and let the new editor start a zine
which he can take pride in and truly call his own, without being bound
by the policies of the old. Keep the readers involved by allowing the
new zine to make use of the same mailing list. The key to improvement
is to not to be afraid of changes, and I feel that a change in (at
least) the name of the magazine will permit the new editor more
freedom to improve than if he were bound to a set of guidelines not of
his own choosing.
So that should give you a fair idea of what is going to happen,
and why. I'll keep producing issues as frequently as I have enough
material (hint hint), and I anticipate perhaps two more issues before
the end of summer. Speaking of which, there will be a (hopefullly)
large gathering of FSFnet people at the Pennsic War this year, and if
anyone is going to be around, drop me a line to be included in the
planning. But back to the matters at hand; we've got a very
interesting issue here. It includes two very entertaining SF shorts,
Becki Tants' newest installment, and the first in an excellent series
by Max Khaytsus; I'm sure you'll enjoy it.
-'Orny' Liscomb
Your Order...
"Rhadhishe Sheffield will be with you momentarily," said the
attractive young woman. "Can I do anything for you while you wait?"
"Yes, you can answer a few more questions," the chief delegate
said, "To start with, how is it that one in her early twenties is part
of the famous diplomatic corps of S'lah?"
"I am not really a member yet," the woman replied, "but I belong
to Sheffield, and I am training to be a rhadhishe. Is there anything
else you wish to ask?"
"Uh--no," the delegate said, forgetting his other questions in the
surprise caused by her answer.
"Well, then I shall leave," the woman said, pressing a small green
button causing the door to slide open, "If you have any further
questions, you can ask Rhadhishe Sheffield, himself."
The woman left the room, and the chief delegate turned to face the
six other delegates from his world as the door to the room closed.
"Did you hear that?" he asked, "Apparently, this culture has some
peculiarities that were not mentioned in the briefing, including
slavery. I suggest we be especially careful to avoid breaking any
tabus."
The delegates mumbled their agreement, and then broke back into
grumbling about the clothing that had been provided for them.
"This stuff looks so silly. I mean, look at this pattern of vine
and long-bodied fish with black splotches that look like oil stains."
"Mine isn't much better. Do we really have to wear these clothes?"
"Yes. It's part of the tradition of peace negotiations here on
S'lah that all parties wear these diplomatic clothes. They are
symbolic of fair treatment for all sides of a dispute. And, remember,
the N'rr said that we should do our utmost to secure a FAIR peace. You
wouldn't want to fail her over such a trivial matter as clothing,
would you?"
"No. It's just that these clothes are so--"
A short buzz came from the control panel beside the door,
interrupting the delegates speech. The chief delegate walked over to
the panel, pressed a small button, and spoke at the panel.
"Who is it?"
"This is Rhadhishe Sheffield. I have come to guide the delegates
from Kruetos to the Meeting."
"Hello. Enter."
The chief delegate pressed a button and the door slid open,
admitting a short, cheerful-looking man wearing a dull red robe with a
white sash hanging from his right shoulder to his left side.
"Hello. I am Rhadhishe Sheffield, but you may call me Sheff," the
man said, "I see you have put on the clothes we have provided. Good.
You do realize, of course, the significance of these clothes?"
"Yes," the chief delegate said, "that was covered in the standard
briefing."
"Good. Many do not realize their significance. They do not
remember that for many years our people were tossed by warring
neighbors and that we developed our diplomatic policy as a defense
response. The clothes that you now wear ensure fair treatment to all
the delegates and put you under a very strict code of conduct. If any
one of you breaks part of the code, not only the individual, but his
entire people will be liable to punishment. This ensures the safety of
the other delegates and the safety of our world from retaliation if a
delegate should come to harm.
"Do you have any questions to ask before we go to the Meeting? It
is my responsibility to inform you on any matters that interest you
concerning our culture in general or the nature of the Meeting."
"We presently only have a few short questions," the chief delegate
said, "You can answer them while guiding us to the Meeting."
"As you wish. Shall we leave then?"
The chief delegate nodded, and Sheff began to lead them away.
"You said that you have some questions that you would like to
ask," the rhadhishe said, "What would you like to know?"
"Well, first," the chief delegate asked, "the woman who came to us
to announce your coming said that she "belonged" to you. What exactly
did she mean?"
"Oh," the rhadhishe said, mildly surprised by the question, "She
is my cumbre--you might call her an indentured servant. I am quite
fortunate to have her; the queue for such intelligent and readily
trainable servants is quite long. In fact, colloquially they are known
as line-servants because one must usually wait so long before one can
buy one.
"You shouldn't consider us less civilized because we practice this
form of slavery," the rhadhishe said, catching the look on the
delegates' faces, "It is the only way we have found to ensure that the
poor are not thrust into poverty. Our laws protect the rights of all
cumbres and ensure that they are fairly treated. The demand for such
servants keeps the prices high; and our laws prevent any single
contract longer than seven years and ensure the servant's right to buy
himself out of any remaining time; and, of course, only a willing
citizen can become a cumbre. In addition to being a path for the poor
to escape poverty, this ensures a high standard of education and
allows gifted individuals to receive special training. Admittedly, not
all individuals have equal opportunity nor are all owners
exceptionally kind to their servants, but our system seems to us the
best of the systems to which we have been exposed. Remember, this
system has ensured the stability of our society for almost two hundred
years; few other societies at our advanced level of technology can
make such a claim about their social systems.
"At any rate, I think that answers your question. Is there
anything else that you would like to know?"
The chief delegate asked Sheff several more questions which he
answered at some length. Then, after a brief moment of no questions,
the chief delegate spoke again.
"Oh, yes," the chief delegate paused before he continued speaking,
"As you may know, the N'rr, the leader of all Kruetos, ordered this
gathering as she lay on her deathbed. For this reason we are obliged
to attempt to make peace with our enemy, though all indications are
that we could start an invasion of B'konbi itself within the next year
and thus ensure victory; but we must be certain that the treaty will
be fair, otherwise we will be forced to settle our dispute with the
weapons of war. We have heard that a Terran will be presiding over the
Meeting; is this true?"
"We are almost at the place where the meeting will be held. Is
this your last question?"
"Yes." the chief delegate nodded.
"Well, then follow me."
The rhadhishe turned at a fork of a type particular to the
architecture of S'lah and led them into a small rectangular room with
a large window offering a view of the room that had been prepared for
the Meeting.
"There, in the center of the room, is the one who will preside
over this gathering," the rhadhishe said, pointing through the window
at the bowl-shaped room beyond.
The room had trees, shrubs, and other plants spread throughout it.
It was filled with greens, as was the custom among the people of
S'lah. At its center, sitting behind a small, curved table which faced
the seats for both delegations, was a woman whose long brown hair was
streaked with grey and who looked at once both above all concerns and
open to the concerns of others.
"Her name is Sherry Mato, though she prefers to be called by her
middle name of Theresa," the rhadhishe continued, "As you may know,
our world has significant economic interests on B'konbi-- significant
enough that these interests might make one of our diplomats favor
their side, or, in an effort to avoid this, favor your own side.
Fortunately, we are prepared for such problems. We make a habit of
adopting people from other worlds, and training them, in a politically
neutral environment, to deal with these relatively rare situations.
"To answer your question, yes, she is a Terran, though she was
adopted at a very early age and has received the same training as all
native arbitrators. She was picked especially for this gathering
because of her special understanding of the underlying circumstances.
You need have no worries that she is less well trained or in any other
way less ripe for this situation than a native arbitrator would be."
"Are you ready to enter the Meeting?" Sheff asked after a long
period of silence.
The chief delegate nodded, and Sheff led them back to the corridor
from which they had come and into the Meeting-room.
Once all the delegates had seated themselves the arbitrator stood
and addressed them.
"Now that the Kruetons and the B'konbits have arrived in S'lahd
dressings, let us begin. . . ."
-Paul A. Clayton
(with Jason Malkoff, Bryan Paschke and Thomas Payerle)
A Sudden Storm
Arrangements didn't take long. The next night, a young dock worker
named Johan was waiting for her at the door and walked all the way
home with her. He was a nice enough young man, about her age, with
dark hair and fiery blue eyes. Nice and muscular too. She immediately
got the feeling he had been handpicked by Karina or Camron as not only
a good body guard, but a good husband candidate as well. He seemed to
have the same idea.
"So, I hear you're new to the city" he said. Interested in a tour
sometime? I've lived here all my life and could show you some really
beautiful spots."
"That's really very nice of you," Ariel said, ducking just out of
reach as he tried to put his arm around her. He saved the gesture from
looking stupid by going into his pouch with his hand as it came
around, but that didn't stop a couple passers-by from giving him a
look and a chuckle. Ariel blushed, amazed at how unworldly city men
could be. "I really don't think I'll have time. Camron is keeping me
very busy."
"Well that's OK," Johan said, "Uncle Camron will be more than
happy if we went for a picnic sometime."
"Uncle Camron?" Ariel said with a sinking feeling. She KNEW she'd
been set up.
"Ya. He suggested I walk you home because I know where my sister
Karina's house is. So what about that picnic?" Johan asked.
Luckily the walk home wasn't long and she was able to claim
fatigue to get out of answering the question. She climbed the stairs,
mildly cursing Karina for setting that one up. Her and her idea of
getting Ariel "properly married". Unfortunately, her thoughts were
overrun by the ache in her legs from the previous night's run. Opening
her door, she was about to collapse on her bed, when she stopped,
staring at the man sitting on the edge of her bed.
"Good evening, Ariel. Come in, close the door and sit down. We
have quite a bit to discuss." he said. He was an older man, not very
out of the ordinary looking, but it didn't matter. All she could see
was the symbol of Haargon hanging about his neck.
"Like it?" he asked, holding up the pendent, "It took 7 long years
of searching for the stone and weeks spent in the smithy and jewlers
shops to make it. I made it myself, so that I would know it had been
done right. Would you like to see it closer?"
Ariel couldn't take her eyes off the pendent. She began to move
forward toward it with a faltering step. There was a nagging in the
back of her mind that said she should run away, but it was quickly
fading away as she got closer to the amulet.
"Good. Come here, touch it if you like. You may hold it. It's
really the only way to examine the excellent workmanship of the
amulet." the old priest said, with a wonderful, friendly smile.
Ariel began to reach up for the medallion, to pick it up and look
at it, when she caught sight of Stefan's ring on her finger in the
candle light. With a start, she came back to herself, out of the
drug-like stupor she had been in and snapped upright, taking several
steps backwards to the wall. "What are you doing here?" she asked,
panic in her voice.
"I see you are a bit stronger then I thought. it takes quite a bit
of power to break a mind lock. So be it." he said, as he put his
amulet back on and walked to the door.
"I just came to see for myself who you were and what you were
like. I do so hate killing people who are no threat. So messy. But I
see now that you are a viable concern. Therefore I will give you this
warning and this offer. My god Haargon has commanded your death. he
says you are a grave danger to myself and my followers. I give you 48
hours before I kill you to decide on one thing. You have the potential
to be an extremely talented mage. I would rather not destroy that
potential. So I ask you to join us. I will train you myself. You have
48 hours to decide. At the end of that time, I will return for your
decision. Remember tho, that if your decision is wrong, you will die."
He walked out of the room and closed the door. Panicing for Karina and
Marcus' sake, she ran to the door and opened it, looking for him, to
make sure he didn't harm them. He was nowhere to be seen. It was as
though he had disappeared.
Walking back into her room, she collapsed onto her bed in tears.
She felt so powerless. What could she do against someone who had the
power to disappear like that? She was so caught up in her tears that
she jumped when Marcus knocked on the half open door, saying " I
thought I heard voices up here." One look at her face tho, and he was
immediately at her side, with an arm around her trembling shoulders
saying "It's OK now." and smoothing her hair.
By the time she had calmed down, Karina had come up to see what
was wrong. Karina sat with her, while Marcus went and made some tea.
When he came back, he asked her the question she had known was coming
but dreaded. "OK, Ariel.. We'd like the whole story now. All of it."
he said as he handed her the cup.
Taking a long slow drink, she began her explanation. By the time
she had finished, the tea was cold in the pot, yet she continued to
drink it.
"Why didn't you tell us in the first place?" Karina asked.
"Several reasons. I hoped that it was over and I could settle back
down to being a normal person again. I didn't want to worry you. Most
of all I was afraid you wouldn't believe me." Ariel said.
Karina came over and gave her a hug. "Well, I admit it is a bit
out of the ordinary, but I don't believe you to be a liar. We'll help
you." Marcus nodded in agreement.
"No!" Ariel protested. "You've done too much already. And now,
because of me, you're in danger. I must leave. Maybe I could go to
Baranur. Find a job there. Maybe they'll leave me alone then."
Marcus spoke up for the first time since he initially came into
the room. "Ariel, you heard what the priest said. You're special in
some way. They won't leave you alone...ever. You're going to have to
fight them, one way or another. At least let us give you what help we
can. Camron might be able to get some information on this other cult.
And we can go to one of the fortune tellers on the dock and see if
they have any guidance for us. I hear Corambis recently returned. He's
the best they say." He was in his fatherly tone. Caring, but firm. She
knew better then to go against him. "And we'll get that young man who
walked you home to stay with you all the time. We'll work this out."
He gave her a hug, saying "Now you go to bed. You're exhausted. I'll
go talk to Camron first thing in the morning so he doesn't worry and
can get things moving."
"OK," she said, "you're right. I do need some sleep." She quickly
crawled under the covers as Karina came over, gave her another hug and
tucked her in. "Good Night" she said as they closed the door.
She waited until after she knew they were in bed and asleep before
getting up. It took Ariel less then 5 minutes to pack her few
belongings and quietly walk down the stairs. In the kitchen, she took
a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a wine skin, and added it to her
pack. Then she left a quick note on the table for them.
I'm sorry, but I can't stay here. My presence puts you
in danger, and I care too much for you to do that. I am
going to find myself somewhere to live where I won't be
hurting anyone. You can reach me at Camron's, as I still
have to work for at least the next couple of days. Thank you
for everything.
Ariel.
Folding the note and placing it where she knew it would be seen,
she took one last fond glance around the kitchen before walking out
into the night and off to find somewhere to stay.
Marcus shook his head as the door closed, swore under his breath,
and followed her out the door into the night air.
He wasn't the only one.
-Becki Tants
Changing technology doesn't mean changing people...
...but the problems may vary...
2800 Whitney Drive
Denver, CO
General Genetics Corporation
14000 Michigan Way
Research Triangle Park, NJ
To Whom It May Concern:
I have recently taken care of four thousand square feet of your
"Everlush Living Carpet", impressed by the salesman's demonstration of
its ability to devour cigarette butts, cookie crumbs, and household
dust, turning same into natural pine scent and negative ionization. I
was initially pleased with the carpeting, and even wrote off its
propensity to leach out the cellulose from newspapers as a timely
reminder not to be untidy. Later, I noticed that it had also been
absorbing the feet of wooden furniture, so I installed steel caps on
the legs of those chairs and tables.
Last week, however, my youngest son tripped and dropped a large
pepperoni pizza on the hearth rug, which promptly gulped it down. I
could forgive this indecent haste for cleanliness were it not for the
fact that it was a sudden swell in the carpet that caused my son to
trip in the first place, and the carpet had been making subtle
advances towards the kitchen for the previous ten days.
Things have now gone too far. Yesterday my prize rubber plant
disappeared, and there is a new springiness to the carpet (I leave the
obvious inference to your imagination). Visitors have been discouraged
from entering ever since the welcome mat developed a habit of
dissolving their shoelaces. The pile is now over a foot thick in
places and my daughter's dachshund has not been heard for two days.
And while I find a small quantity of negative ions to be beneficial to
the health, I don't think it appropriate that there should be arcing
between the wall sockets. I am not writing at this time to request a
refund, but I would be profoundly grateful if you would ship a
sufficient quantity of specific weedkiller to eradicate your Everlush
carpet before I call out the National Guard.
Yours sincerely,
Nathaniel S. Horner, M.D.
-------------------
141 Podunk Drive
Poughkeepsie, NY
General Genetics Corporation
14000 Michigan Way
Research Triangle Park, NJ
To The Boss:
See here, I'm not looking for trouble or nothin', but one
afternoon Ira brings home this gizmo he says is a "Biogulp" organic
vacuum cleaner. What do I care, it picks up schmutz and there ain't no
bag to change.
The first day it's here, Amos 'n Andy -- the kittens -- mark it
for a stranger and pounce. Why not, I said, they could use the fun.
But now it's hiding in the closet under the stairs and refuses to come
out. I call your service man, he comes and talks to it, and says it's
gotten neurotic. Then he says the warranty don't cover repair of
"malicious damage", but any schmuck can see it's only got a coupla
scratches. That ain't no reason for it to be whimpering and
complaining about the spiders.
My husband says you're supposed to find the psychos before they
leave the factory, and that I have a prima facie case (whatever that
is) for a full refund.
Yours,
Irma Goldstein (Mrs.)
-------------------
General Genetics Corporation INTEROFFICE MEMORANDUM
To: Departmental Manager, Quality Control
From: Director of Field Inspection
Ed, your boys have got to stay on their toes more! My division
doesn't like playing quis custodiet any more than the next man, but
yesterday they earned their pay. Regs say that any spillage in a
storehouse means everything in the room gets cancelled, but yesterday
your people knocked over a box of self-regenerating tampon RNA
substrate and a vial of Magic Mix Cocktail Shaker base and didn't
sterilize for thirty minutes! You know I hate to get officious --
besides, I've joined in the poker game myself, won a few beads from
your people at times -- but this was one time when the size of the pot
shouldn't keep the men from their work. Fortunately, the only thing
shipped out during that half hour was a box of towels, but it could
have been a lot worse. 'Nuff said, Ed?
-- Mike
-------------------
10231 Sunset Boulevard
Beverly Hills, CA
General Genetics Corporation
14000 Michigan Way
Research Triangle Park, NJ
Hi:
I just want you to know right off that this is not a complaint, in
fact quite the opposite, I simply had to write and compliment you for
the wonderful quality of your "Sta-Warm" self-heating body wraps. In
the movie business a girl's kept working a fourteen-hour day most of
the time, a hot bath is about the only luxury I can expect when I get
home, and when there's no-one around to dry me off, your towels are
really better than the usual cheap kinds that make you do all of the
work yourself.
I must confess I was unprepared for some of the things the towel
did, but I've grown used to it since then. The towel seems to enjoy
it, too: more than once it has snuck into my bedroom after a hard day;
and although it did try to strangle my director when he called to go
over the next day's script with me there was no harm done in the end.
Love,
Mitzy Moreno (Ms)
-------------------
1200 Madison Ave Suite 501
New York, NY
President
General Genetics Corporation
14000 Michigan Way
Research Triangle Park, NJ
Sir:
As you know, Consolidated has grown into Fortune 500 status in a
record period, and I'm writing to share with you one of the secrets of
our success, seeing as indirectly, you brought it about.
At the beginning of this year we were facing a projected first
quarter loss of $27 million, and as part of the cost cuts I had to
halve my secretary's hours. Well, to cut a long story short, I bought
the latest telephone answering machine from your AI division, figuring
that it would be good for telling people when I would be back, fobbing
off salesmen, maybe even pacifying my wife.
Your literature leaves the limits of the machine's capability
rather open-ended (don't worry -- you're not the first to market
before you've researched: just common business practice), but does
mention that they depend on "heuristic factors". At the time I thought
that meant something to do with background noise; anyway, I plugged it
into the listed line and left it for a few days. Now, I get a lot of
calls. Most of them at that time from people I owed money to. I was
pleasantly surprised to discover that the machine had developed a
smart strategy for handling these people by playing them off against
each other. I was still strapped for time, so I let it have the run of
the whole board. For a week it was doing a great job -- even learned
to imitate my voice -- until one day I caught it haggling with a
distributor over his contract. I listened to it for a while, and
discovered it was actually a pretty shrewd operator!
Anyway, that must have given it some ideas, because the next week
it told me I had a 10:30 appointment with Higgins of Amalgamated.
"You're wrong," I said, "I haven't talked with Higgins in five years".
It turned out that the machine had made the appointment so I could
rubber-stamp a merger deal it had made! I didn't mind making it a full
partner -- in fact, if it bucks for the chair, it can have it. I still
have my stock and that's all I need...
Regards,
Hiram X. Hamilton III
-------------------
7343 Waterside Avenue
Norfolk, VA
General Genetics Corporation
14000 Michigan Way
Research Triangle Park, NJ
Dear Sir or Madam:
I am returning my "Adapta-Mirra" to my dealer forthwith, and
advise you that I will be consulting various consumer protection
groups as to the safety of this product. Your mirror functioned quite
adequately in wiping condensation off itself, dimpling into a shaving
mirror for my husband, and giving the time-honored response to my
teen-age daughter whenever she asked it to identify The Fairest Of
Them All.
However, when my daughter woke up one day with a small pimple on
her nose, she was aghast to see in the mirror a malignant fungus
spreading over half her face. I did not think it funny when my mother
visited and the mirror shrieked loudly and pretended to shatter in its
frame. Nor do I find it amusing that your mirror chooses to portray me
variously as a wizened old hag, a pregnant sow, or Tyrannosaurus Rex.
I have raised my family never to shirk away from reality, and this
has been a traumatic experience for us all. We may seek punitive
damages.
Yours,
Sylvia Foster
-------------------
1102 Forest Drive
Carson City, NV
General Genetics Corporation
14000 Michigan Way
Research Triangle Park, NJ
Dear Sir or Madam:
I am writing on behalf of my wife and myself to tell you about an
application of your "Slumber-Rite" active-deforming beds which you may
not yet be aware of.
When we bought the bed, Adele and I were on such bad terms that we
even discussed at the same time who would get custody of it. Sex was,
frankly, the only thing keeping us together at that time (if you'll
pardon the crude pun), and that hadn't much life left in it. That
night as we glared at each other across the pillows, wondering who
would draw first, your bed coughed apologetically through its
diagnostic vocoder, and asked us how long things had been that bad. I
started to snap, "None of your business!", but Adele -- who always had
a way with machines -- gave it an honest answer. Soon we were both
talking with the bed, which proved to have a considerate and urbane...
well, bedside manner.
Well, the rest is history. We sold the house to take a second
honeymoon, and gave the bed to a pair of friends whose relationship
seemed headed for the rocks, and that set us wondering: could your bed
be certified as a bona fide marriage counselor? Come to think of it,
formal recognition might spoil the surprise value of its approach. Hey
maybe you guys had more to do with this than we thought!
Nuptially yours,
George Miller
-------------------
"Bramleigh"
Old Farm Road
Pebblesworth
Herts., G.B.
General Genetics Corporation
14000 Michigan Way
Research Triangle Park, NJ
Sirs:
What with the recession forcing us to close down the east wing of
the old homestead, and my having to lay off the groundskeeper, we
considered ourselves somewhat fortunate to acquire your new model
"Genetigardener" on very reasonable terms, but there have been several
slight problems that I think you ought to know about.
Firstly, it has a most inconvenient allergy to tea. What's the use
of having a gardner that doubles as a manservant if the wretched thing
throws up all over the serving tray every afternoon? First time this
happened was when we were entertaining the Buffington-Joneses. Can't
tell you how embarrassing it was...
Secondly, it's quite obvious that the thing was educated in the
colonies, since it can't tell the difference between game and poultry.
Discovered this after I found the best grouse being pecked to pieces
in the chicken coop where the blasted thing had herded them. And why
should it keep asking me where the swimming pool is? Elizabeth and I
haven't touched the waters since a spot of paddling at Blackpool in
'69!
Talking of the mem-sah'b, this brings me to the most perplexing
problem. A few weeks ago, she started spending an inordinate amount of
time in the gardner's shed teaching it how to behave in the Old
Country. Then, one day, both she and the thing were gone! I can't get
a word out of the butler and the maid about the whole affair. What the
deuce d'you suppose is going on?
Yours faithfully,
Major Harrington Dexter-Smythe (ret'd)
-------------------
General Genetics Corporation INTEROFFICE MEMORANDUM
To: All Operations Staff
From: Director, Security
Last night Research had an accident in the bio-electronic lab: a
prototype intelligent television was fed several 1950's 'B' movies and
got the idea to break out. Unfortunately it contains the new
controlled mutation genes, and there may be problems with recognizing
it. Please look out for an object that resembles at various times a
gelatinous blob, a giant fly in a double-breasted suit, Godzilla or
the Smog Monster, or an Egyptian mummy.
Since it also saw both editions of "The Thing", all personnel are
to report to Medical for a full check-up after clocking-on.
Unlikely Partners
"A very rare form of lycanthropy is mutation into a
wolf. This should not, however, be confused with the
legendary lore of werewolves. A wolfling, as commonly called
by mystics, this lycanthrope is a product of fusion of a
werewolf and a wolf by a group of mad alchemists and
wizards. Three quarters wolf blood, this animal is a blood
thirsty, vicious killer that by bite can repopulate its own
kind. A sort of venomous substance will, on contact with its
victim, begin the incredible transformation of man to near
wolf. This ferocious, large creature has been know to bring
beasts as large as bears to the ground with sheer strength
alone. Being an intelligent creature, a wolfling will
selectively attack and kill only those it can not convert to
its own species..."
-Ilyan, alchemist to King Dillas of Gledon, "A Discourse
on Alchemy, Magic and the Consequences of Their Use",
pages 181-182.
"It has come to my attention that in centuries past more
myth has been developed around the prospect of a man
becoming a wolf than of the actual strength of the Fretheod
Empire. Being a historian, I feel that I do not need to
exaggerate the facts, as often done by Bards, and as a
scientist, I feel I can understand the facts that lie in
this terrible affliction.
"Let me begin by saying that there is no such creature
as a werewolf. A transformation of a human (or any other)
body to creature such as that is simply impossible,
particularly two times in one night. A wolfling, on the
other hand is a diseased man that over a long period of time
becomes a wolf.
"My personal research and experimentation has shown that
such a transition is possible, though not for all creatures,
to experience the mutation specified above. Let me reprint,
for your information an exerpt from the journal of perhaps
the first man to come across the condition described:
"...I can no longer discern between what is real and
what is not. My dreams have become primitive in nature and
bloodthirsty in content. I feel myself slowly going mad.
"The potion I created weeks ago to cure the madness dogs
carry works, but it also adjusts the organisms that imbibe
it to that of a dog. Already the animals that I experimented
on died of the severe changes to their metabolisms. Their
fate did not become mine. Though cured of one disease, I
carry the other. My skin is becoming grey and covered by
thicker hair. I noticed that my teeth are much sharper and I
am growing fangs. Yesterday I woke up to blood, carnage and
a partially gnawed animal in my house. The blood on the
floor was also on my hands and face.
"To these ends, I am leaving my home, to live out my
life in the woods as far from human life as possible. I feel
that if I do not find a cure soon, I may become the father
of a new 'human' race..."
"This was written by Aran Leigh, an alchemist in the
city of Kevra.
"There is no longer evidence of the potion or its
ingredients that are mentioned, but it is quite clear that
the disease is in no way supernatural or a wrath of the
Gods. It is simply an infection that can be transmited from
one individul to another, such as a cold. While not being
one hundred per cent certain of the precise methods of
transfer, I feel I can unerringly say that by the transfer
of body fluids, such as when bitten, would successfully
infect others.
"The disease itself can take anywhere from a few months
to a full year to come to completion. In its progress, the
only species known not to die before the process is
completed, is humans. Perhaps it is because of stubborness
to live or that the original potion was designed to work on
humans only, but all other animals for which a record of
this disease exists, died very quickly. Humans infected most
often go mad from the striking changes they go through in
the progrees of the mutation..."
-Bistra, head chronicler, city of Shakin, "The Realities
of Myths", pages 33-37.
Rien jumped off his horse near a squeaky old cart labled
'Salamagundi Stew'. Its owner was busy with a sailor, making a sale
and took little notice of Rien, who in his turn became fascinated with
a monkey sitting atop the stew cart. He carefully put out his hand in
front of the animal, allowing it to examine his riding glove. The
monkey pulled at his fingers and uttered a loud scream.
"Looks like Skeebo doesn't like the animal that gave up its hide
for that glove."
"Skeebo?" Rien looked up at the preprietor, puzzled.
"The monkey! I'm Simon Salamagundi. What can I do for you?"
"Stew?"
"Ah!" Simon exclaimed. "Regular, sweet and sun-sweet. Which will
it be?"
Rien looked at the three kettles, as a sailor approached at the
side. "A sweet stew, Simon!" the man exclaimed.
With an adroit move Simon scooped up a bowl and handed it to the
sailor, not once changing his focus of attention. The sailor paid to
Skeebo and left.
"Regular," Rien said. "Seems to be the least traveled of the lot."
"Least traveled because it's so regular," Simon smiled, picking up
a bowl.
Skeebo screamed as Rien was violently pushed aside by a running
girl. Simon stretched out the bowl of stew as Rien regained his
balance. "On the house," he said, seeing Rien reaching for his pouch
with coins. "She's got it," he pointed to the girl moving through the
crowd. "Just take the stew and forget her."
"Watch my horse," Rien growled, his crystal eyes fading to grey.
"I wouldn't if I were you..." Simon called after him, but Rien's
heart was already set on his action. He chased the girl across the
docks and into a maze of alleys. She did not seem aware of him, but
this did not mean his guard could be let down.
Rien drew his long dagger on the run, following the girl into a
less than respectible neighborhood. What did Simon mean 'forget about
her'? The answer was just around the corner.
Making the turn, Rien spotted three well armed cut throats
blocking his advance to the girl. She dangled his purse in a teasing,
you-won't-get-it manner and Rien reached for his sword.
"This isn't worth it," he thought aloud, realizing his sword is
was still strapped on his horse. "Damn fool!"
"Ain't worth it's right," one of the cut throats uttered in a
drunken voice. "No challange at all!" and threw his sword to Rien.
"Still ain't no challange!" the second thug roared. His laughter
ended in a cry of pain as the 'borrowed' sword cut deep into his side.
The third rogue charged Rien in frenzied anger. His charge was cut
short by the dagger. Rien took his time letting the wounded man slide
off the blade. He stared at the one who gave up his sword. "LEAVE" and
the man charged past him like a bat out of hell.
"Next time pick friends who are not drunk," Rien turned to the
girl. "If there is a next time." He slowly advanced towards the girl,
who now backed herself into a wall.
A few more steps and...
A sharp pain spread through his leg and Rien spun around, letting
out an abrupt cry. The grey in his eyes disolved to his normal shade
of crystal blue. He grasped his calf, coming nose to muzzle with a
growling dog. He swung his dagger, losing his balance, but avoided
being bit again by the dog. Rien rolled and stood up, expecting to be
attacked, but was surprised to see the animal lying on the ground with
a crossbow bolt in its side. Down the alley a town guardsman lowered
his weapon as three people rushed past him. Two were dressed in town
guard uniforms, but the third was elderly and dressed in lose fitting
clothing.
The man knelt over the dog and produced a white sphere that begun
to glow green after a short chant. "This is the animal," he stood up
and looked at the guards. "Dispose of it. Burn it."
One of the guards pulled out a sack and started wraping the dog,
while the other two looked over the alley. "What happend here?" a
guard asked Rien, who was diligently searching the other end of the
alley for the girl. Both she and his money were gone.
"I was ambushed while taking a shortcut."
The guard nodded. "There's a reward for the capture of those two,
you know."
Rien shrugged. "I wasn't aware of that. There were three of them.
This is the last man's sword."
The guard took the weapon and looked it over. Not finding anything
distinct in it, he passed it to one of the other guards. "Burn the dog
and find a physician who'll treat them," he instructed.
"What's with the dog?" Rien asked.
"It did not hurt you, did it?" the guard asked and called the old
man over.
"No, no it didn't, but shooting it and burning its body on such a
suspicion does seem a bit extreme."
"Burning a creature diseased with lycanthropy is no crime," the
old man said to Rien as he approached. "A lycanthrope's bite makes
others into lycanthropes."
"You mean like those stories about men turning into werewolfs and
howling at the moon?"
"That IS a myth. Being a wolfling is not."
Rien made a mental note to check into this later and accepting the
small reward, bid them farewell.
He returned to the spot where he last saw the girl and scanned the
area again. She could have left in any direction, while he was
struggling with the dog. No chance of finding her now.
As Rien was preparing to leave, he heard a voice behind him and
spun about. The grey haired wizard was still standing in the alley.
"The dog bit you." The old man's words were a statement.
"Who are you?" Rien asked.
"Taishent, the mage," the man bowed low.
"Yes, the dog bit me. What's it to you?"
"Why so hostile? You will need my council if you are to survive,"
the wizard said and again produced the white sphere. The glow about it
was faint green. "You have the disease. You have only a few months."
"All this wolfling-werewolf talk strikes me as stories for
children, not a sickness."
"When magic goes bad, it becomes a curse," the wizard responded.
"You do believe in magic?" he asked and not waiting for an answer,
turned to leave.
"Is there a cure?" Rien stopped the old man, not quite ready to
believe that he would be howling at the moon a few months down the
road, but wanting to know more.
"If there was, I would have given it to that poor animal. I wish
you luck." He walked out of the alley and disppeared down the street.
An hour later Rien found Simon's stew cart and his horse. Skeebo
was jumping up and down in the saddle, with the realization that a
hard enough landing would make the horse stir.
The surprised Simon looked at a smiling Rien.
"Regular, please," Rien said and handed a coin to Skeebo. The
monkey jumped off the horse and handed the pay to Simon.
"Good show," the vendor laughed. "Not many get their money back
from her."
"Many aren't persistant," Rien grinned. He may not have gotten HIS
money back, but was working on it. "What's her deal anyway?"
"I'm sure you know every town has some problems," Simon began.
"Dargon just happens to have a monopoly on them. Kera, the girl who
took your purse, is the legal ward of Lord Liriss, who is rumored to
be the man behind a lot of the crime in this town. I'd watch out for
his men. Bad things happen to those who cross him, I hear."
"Why doesn't the local Duke do anything about the problem?" Rien
shifted, sipping the spicy stew.
"What can he do? Lord Dargon is rumored to have enough problems of
his own. Liriss is but a small problem compared to what is really
going on in this town."
"And what is really going on?" inquired Rien.
Simon looked about uncomfortably. "They say there is an
assassination plot against Lord Dargon. There've been some deaths in
nobility recently. Slowly, but surely, the assassins are getting
closer to him."
"Sounds like the town guard has its hands very full..." Rien said.
"It's only a rumor," Simon replied. "What's your interest in
Dargon anyway? What do you do?"
Now it was Rien's turn to look about uncomfortably. "Just out to
have an adventuresome vacation... You wouldn't be able to point me to
a local alchemist, would you?"
Terell was a tall, young man, dressed very commonly, so as not to
reveal his life's calling. Besides, no one wore the "traditional"
starscape cap and robe in real life anyway - no reason unless you were
a showman or a fraud. He looked about absent mindedly as Rien pushed
open the door to the alchemy shop. "What can I do for you, young man?"
Rien stopped dead in his tracks. 'Young man'? Right. "I'm looking
for Terell, the alchemist...this is his shop?"
"You found 'im!"
This caused Rien to pause even longer. "You?" he finally asked.
"Been m'self for up over sixty years."
Sixty? This man looks well preserved for someone his age, though
he does act it.
"So what can I do for you?" the man presisted.
"I am interested in what you can tell me about lycanthropes," Rien
said, leaning on the counter across from Terell.
The alchemist smiled. "Heard o' that crazy dog Taishent captured,
have you? Well, there isn't much I can tell you about that. Taishent
is said to o've been casting his cards for the town when he came
across the dog. No one knows where it came from or how it got 'ere,
but town guard's always pleased to shoot some'ing."
"I meant the disease," Rien explained his need, grateful for the
alchemist's loose mouth. "Do you know anyhing about the curse?"
Terell paced his lab for a minute. "The disease can be passed in
many ways. Most common is bite. The infected either die or mutate into
those beasts - wolflings. Takes different amount of time for different
people, but it get's 'em all. I never heard of a cure for it, but I
just know I could find one if I'd have a sample! Ah, they sh'uldn't
've killed that dog!"
Rien thought for a moment. If there was the slightest chance of a
cure, he was in desprate need of finding it, but telling someone of
the disease was just about as intellignet as running naked through the
middle of the market place, screaming about having leprosy. Terell
looked young for his supposed age. Thirty at the most and that means
that his potions really do work. Sometimes risks have to be taken in
life...
"What if I can get you a subject?" Rien asked the alchemist, who
was now reorganizing the vials on his counter.
Startled, the man dropped one of the glass vessels. "And just
where d'you propose to come up with one?" he asked, ignoring the smoky
vapor raising up toward the ceiling.
"Let's just say," Rien smiled, "that I can locate one. What would
be in it for me?"
I'll pay you!" Terell exclaimed, his old-like tones dissipating.
"I'll be rich and you'll be famous..." Rien said slowly.
"Precisely!"
"No," Rien shook his head. "I don't want money. The deal is you
cure the subject. Then you can have your fame."
"All right," Terell agreed. "I'll make a profit either way and
you'll have a cure for who ever you want to aid. Yes?"
"Yes," Rien nodded.
"So where is my subject?"
Rien could not believe that this old man could act so young. "I am
he," he answered, almost expecting death.
Terell made a step back in shock.
"I won't bite you, honest," Rien promised.
Kera snuck up on a fat man leaning over a table with trinkets. The
items appeared cheap, but since he intended to buy something, he had
some funds. Besides, anyone that fat had to have money to support his
belly.
Kera looked over the man's shoulder at the assortment of glass,
clay and metal statuettes of people and animals. Her left hand ran
across the belt pouch on the man's right hip, while her right picked
up a crystal clear unicorn. Neither the fat man nor the booth owner
noticed what she did. Kera smiled, pocketing both her prizes and
allowed a young child to squeeze in before her. Her "profit" for the
day was already well above average and thinking that Liriss would be
pleased, she turned and left the market place.
Kera had been working for Liriss ever since she could remember. He
picked her up off the streets as an orphan and trained her to steal.
Liriss provided everything she needed, even luxuries at times. Perhaps
there was a better life somewhere, but it certainly was not as an
orphan in the Fifth Quarter. She even had Liriss' thugs for
protection, when she needed them...like the day before.
Oh, Liriss was mad to learn what happend! Not only were his guards
drunk, but they also got trashed by a single man and later arrested by
the town guard. Still, that last purse she lifted would more than pay
for new hirelings; especially in the Fifth Quarter. It's the stupid,
careless people who provide the most profit.
Kera turned into an alley, winding up face to face with the
stupid, careless person she just been thinking about. Stupid and over
confident. He hadn't camped out here all day, did he?
"Just your luck," Rien smiled, grabbing her arm.
"You're hurting me!" Kera screamed trying to wriggle free.
Rien's grip did not lessen. "You're hurting yourself."
Kera stopped trying to pull free. "Bastard! I'll have you killed
for this!"
"I don't think so," Rien smiled again. "You used the same alley
twice too often. Your body guards will not be able to help you today."
Stealthily Kera pulled out her stolen unicorn figurine and jabbed
it into Rien's hand, the one that was holding her, horn first. The
glass snapped and with a curse Rien withdrew his hand. Kera took off
down the alley. For the first time in her life, she wished she had not
neglected carrying weapons on her person. She desperately hoped that
Rien had lied about Liriss' guards not being able to help her. It
wouldn't look good to lose two sets of men on consecutive days.
Right about then she went sprawling to the ground over the out
stretched arm of one of the downed guards. He lay on a pile of trash,
with his companion not far away.
Kera picked herself up, surprised that Rien was already next to
her. His eyes were a strange shade of grey, producing a hypnotic
effect, as he thrust her into the wall. 'Weren't they blue?' she
thought, bending over from pain. The jolt gave her the right state of
mind to shrug the useless thoughts off. With the last of her breath,
Kera screamed "Help, rape!"
She saw a red streak before her and Rien's hand clamped over her
mouth. She turned her head, spitting blood and smearing it across her
right cheek. A finger of her assailant passed across her lips and she
bit into it.
Rien looked startled. Kera could have slipped away, but the change
of color in his eyes kept her watching. His hand slipped off her face.
"I could have killed you..."
Kera shrunk further into the wall behind her.
"The dog that bit me..." Rien continued, "you saw it happen. It
was a lycanthrope. I have the disease and now that you've tasted my
blood, so do you. I tell you this becase you have the right to know,
nothing else."
Kera looked at the broken statuette still in her hand. The horn
and part of the head were missing. She let the figure fall to the
ground, where it shattered completely. "I have no reason to believe
you!" Her defiant eyes challanged Rien.
"No," he said, "but then I have no reason to lie to you. I only
want my money back."
"You're not getting it back, so you might as well kill me...or
whatever it is you do!"
"I am not going to hurt you if you cooperate."
"I don't have your money. Liriss has it."
"Then I'll just take what you've collected today," Rien said.
"The hell you will!"
Rien held up the pouch containing her days work. "I already have."
"You bastard!" she tried to grab it, but missed.
Without saying anything, Rien turned to leave.
"Hey!" Kera screamed.
"I have a name."
After a moment of hesitation, Kera caught up to Rien. "May I know
what it is?" she asked, wiping the blood off her face.
"Rien Keegan," he answered without hesitation.
"Mine's Kera."
Rien did not respond.
"If I don't bring Liriss what I stole today, he'll have me
punished," Kera said. "I am not going to entertain his troops again!"
"Should have thought of that earlier. Just be sure and tell them
what disease you have so they can decide if they want it."
"Damn you! Please? It's too late to start over."
Rien shrugged. "That's your problem."
Kera clenched Rien's arm. "If I have some disease, you are
responsible for it!"
"You'll try every approach until you find one that works, eh?"
She smiled. "Did this one work?"
Rien shrugged. "Let me think about it."
"If I don't have anything to show for my day's work, I'm not going
back," Kera stated.
"Then don't," Rien answered. "Why do work like that at all?"
"It's the only thing I know how to do well," Kera answered. "I
would have run away long ago if I'd be assured of a better future."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty. And you?"
"Even if Liriss had some wardship over you before, you are old
enough to leave now," Rien ignorred the counter question.
"Where would I go?" Kera asked. "The only life I know is what most
would consider to be the wrong sid of the fence. Besides, he'll have
me hunted down and killed."
"How can you live in that environment," Rien wondered aloud.
"The punishment may be great, but so are the rewards."
"Oh? The guards get to entertain you if they screw up their job?"
Kera threw a disapproving glance at Rien. "Sometimes," she finally
said, casting down her eyes. "There are other rewards too."
"Like what? Doing the boss?"
Kera stopped dead in her tracks. "That's damn unfair!"
Rien stopped to look at her. "But it's true, isn't it?"
"Yes," Kera said after a moment and burst into tears.
In spite of himself Rien gave her a hug and held her until she
calmed down. This was certainly not a good way to earn someone's
trust, but perhaps there could be a second chance... "I am sorry," he
finally said. "That was unfair."
"I'll go with you where ever you're going," Kera said. "I don't
want to stay here any longer."
That was a sudden change. "I am planning to remain in Dargon until
I find a cure for the disease," Rien stated flatly.
"It's real..." Kera whispered. "You're a warrior, right?"
"You could say that."
"If you're willing to take the risk, I'm willing to be your
apprentice." Kera looked hopeful.
Rien needed an apprentice about as much as a cow needs a saddle.
When he was apprenticed in his arts, it was expected that he would do
housework as much as learn what he was there for. Granted, the master
may have wanted some payment for the services rendered and skills
taught, but for some reason that just didn't sit well with Rien. If he
was going to agree, the deal would have to be changed...a little.
Of course there was a second problem as well. The risk Kera
mentioned. Naturally Liriss would not be happy to lose an investment
that just the day before brought in such a yield. Taking on two or
three of his drunk guards was no problem, but a dozen sober men could
be a bit more risky. "I'll bite them," Rien smirked to himself and
unnoticeably chuckled.
"Are you sure that's what you want?" Rien finally asked.
"Yes," Kera answered without hesitation. "I think it was you who
made the point that my life could be better."
"Then you have a mentor. Come, it's beginning to get dark."
"What about my things?" Kera stopped him.
"Is there anything irreplaceable?" Rien asked, trying not to seem
impatient, but wanting to leave the alley.
Kera thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I suppose not. I tried
not to grow too attached to my things for some reason. What about your
money?"
"If Liriss has any intelligence at all," Rien said, "he would have
hid or invested that some place by now. Don't worry about it. I have
enough funds to draw on."
"I'm really sorry about that," Kera continued. "I'll try to make
that up to you."
"That will be a lot of pockets to pick," Rien smiled. "Come."
-Max Khaytsus
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ELEVEN NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb
CONTENTS
Ex-X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
History of FSFnet 'Orny' Liscomb
*A Visit to Connall M. Wendy Hennequin
*A Bride for Dargon Wendy and Orny
Date: 082888 Dist: 685
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
Ex-X-Editorial
Well, we all knew it was coming, and here it is: the last issue of
FSFnet. But before I get sentimental, I do want to remind everyone
that John White will begin putting out the new Dargon Project magazine
real soon. I know that he already has some submissions, and everyone
who is currently subscribed to FSFnet will automatically be subscribed
to the new magazine. I hope that everyone offers John the same support
I've received in putting out FSFnet. I promise that I won't say "this
is not an ending, but a beginning", because it is really neither. It
is a continuation, and hopefully a change for the better.
And since there is no further mundane business, the reminder of
this editorial will be the business of ending the magazine. I've
included in this issue a history of FSFnet, which (at least in *my*
mind) doesn't qualify as 'a work of fantasy', but I felt there might
be some interest in it (and there were no other submissions
forthcoming). Still, I think it fitting that this issue contains the
first true co-written Dargon work, and I must say that I've enjoyed
working with Wendy on it. I hope you enjoy it.
And now for the thank-yous. After four years of publication, I
really cannot thank everyone involved enough for everything that has
been done to keep FSFnet afloat. However, rather than fill an entire
issue with my personal thanks, I will keep this brief, but heartfelt.
Firstly, of course, I must thank you, the readership, because without
your interest and support we would never have gotten off the ground in
the first place. As I wrote at the conclusion of the initial 'issue':
This is your fanzine, more than it is mine. It is up to you to keep
it going. I have merely brought you together. Now it is your turn.
Well, with a direct readership of nearly 700, I'd say you've kept
it going. Special thanks and kudos go to everyone who has contributed
to the magazine, whether their contribution was a story or merely
letting other people know about FSFnet. Similarly, all those people
who have set up local distribution points or cross-posted FSFnet also
deserve recognition. Thanks to Chris Condon for keeping FSFnet in his
BITLIST and NetMonth magazines, and to Rich Zellich for keeping it in
the internet LIST-OF-LISTS. Also special thanks to Chuq von Rospach,
who has handled all the internet distribution of FSFnet since the
WISCVM gateway was shut down. But of all the people with whom I've
come in contact in my capacity as editor, two people deserve very
special recognition, not only by myself, but by everyone.
Firstly, Joseph Curwen. Curwen is a very intelligent and
resourceful friend who was one voice among the handful of people who
were in on FSFnet from the start. Although his submissions to FSFnet
have been infrequent, they have been among the best works we've seen,
and he has been a steady companion to me over the years. He was a very
important element of the Dargon Project, and continues to be a close
personal friend to myself and the authors who valued his skill. Curwen
graduated from the University of Missouri at Columbia recently, and
plans to find employment as a teacher. I have no doubt whatsoever that
he will also be able to call writing one of his professions in the
future. FSFnet owes a great deal to this budding author.
And, secondly, John White. John learned of FSFnet and joined the
Dargon Project in the summer of 1986 and very quickly began producing
huge quantities of stories which helped see FSFnet through times of
want and times of plenty. John's interrelated stories formed a huge
work which culminated in issue 10-2 this past spring. But beyond his
writing, John has also taken a leadership role in the Dargon Project,
and is now undertaking even more responsability. With the end of
FSFnet, John has become the manager of the Dargon Project, and also
the editor of its magazine, which you will see shortly. This is a very
serious duty, and John is both capable and willing to execute it. Like
Curwen, John has been indispensable to FSFnet, and he deserves
particular thanks and support as he gets the new zine off the ground.
With that, my business has concluded. I must say that I have
enjoyed putting out FSFnet greatly, and I hope that you have enjoyed
it, as well. It's been an interesting road we've shared, and it has
been a pleasure meeting you all, and working with you. So until we
meet again, fare thee well, and blessed be.
-'Orny' Liscomb
History of FSFnet
The University of Maine has historically had an atmosphere
conducive to student computing. MAINE was among the first sites to
connect to BITNET (this in 1982), and many students began to
immediately make use of the new facilities BITNET provided. The
network was very different then than it is now. There were only a
handful of sites, all located on the east coast of the US. Most of the
people who knew how to use were computer science students,
programmers, and operators. These people were innovators, and their
attempts to improve BITNET services produced such facilities as
conference machines, RELAY, CSNEWS, and LISTSERV, which were unknown
until fairly recently.
As early as 1982, several individuals within the handful of MAINE
network users began to print electronic magazines to unite BITNET
users who had common interests. For example, Andy Robinson began the
Vm-Com computing newsletter, which eventually blossomed into what is
currently one of the most widely used service machines on the network,
CSNEWS@MAINE. In 1984, two humor magazines were being produced at
MAINE: Barry Gates' "Gliding Byte" and Ric Messier's "Environment
Account". Also, later would come Brent Britton's "Nutworks" humor
magazine and Michael Murphy's "Network Audio-Bits". While there is no
obvious rasoning as to why all these magazines developed at UMaine,
this environment was responsible for the germination of FSFnet.
In December of 1984, with several of these magazines based at
MAINE thriving and enjoying a healthy popularity, I began to entertain
thoughts of beginning my own science fiction and fantasy magazine.
Through my own use of BITNET I knew that there was a huge number of
fans on the network, and I felt that a magazine along these lines
would not only be very popular, but would also help get these fans
together, because at that time there were no facilities on the network
for meeting people with similar interests. With these ideas kicking
around my head, I bounced them off a couple friends (both local and
network), who gave me ample encouragement, and I was on my way. I had
had some experience in editing a fanzine previously, when I put out
the New England Tolkien Society's 'Mazar Balinu', a yearly magazine
containing Tolkien-related fiction, art, and poetry. I had been
involved with Tolkien and fantasy fandom for several years, and had
been writing articles and fantasy stories for some time, as well. I
wanted the new magazine to be like 'Mazar Balinu', in that it would
concentrate not on news and reviews (the usual fare for most
'fanzines'), but on printing amateur fiction. The support of budding
authors (myself included, of course) has always been a particular
interest of mine, and I felt that a fiction-based magazine would be
more interesting to read and would enjoy more popularity than if
FSFnet followed the formula for a 'traditional' fanzine.
Just after Christmas (1984) I sent out a preliminary mailing
(volume 0, number 0) to an initial distribution of 100 users whose
interests (as listed in the newly-begun BITNAUTS LIST) included
science fiction- or fantasy-related topics. The intent of this mailing
was to make the public aware of FSFnet's existence and to solicit
submissions. Response was generally favorable, and FSFNET VOL01N1 was
sent out in January of 1985 with several articles I had received, as
well as a very attractive new logo designed by a friend in West
Virginia. This issue contained a little of everything, including a
book review, a movie review, a science fiction story, and a featured
author column. After the first issue was sent out, users who had not
responded to the initial mailing or who were not interested were
removed from the distribution list. The mailing list hovered around 70
for the first few months of the magazine's existence, which was a
healthy start. I had decided to print volumes in trimesters, so each
year would contain a Spring volume, a Summer volume, and a Winter
volume, to parallel the school year. By the end of the first volume
(Spring 1985) which contained eight issues, I had written a program to
automate the sending of issues from my account (at that time
NMCS025@MAINE) in three different file formats, so as to accommodate
all readers. Several network servers had also agreed to post issues
for public access. The content of the first volume was varied, and
included the beginnings of a science fiction series called "the Narret
Chronicles", a two part story by Michael Murphy called "the Dream",
and a special issue dedicated to H.P. Lovecraft. FSFnet had met with
initial success, and we were off and running.
The second volume (Summer 1985), however, saw a dramatic change.
In contrast to the eight-issue first volume, it contained only two
issues, and alerted me to the problem of finding adequate submissions
during the summer, when many students are on vacation and not on the
network. Similarly, readership fell to an all-time low of
approximately 35 before it started picking up again in the fall, with
the return of students to school. With a distribution of less than
fifty and serious difficulty securing an adequate number of
submissions, I began to have serious doubts about the continued
existence of the magazine.
During the fall of 1985 (volume three), my original account,
NMCS025, was renamed to CSDAVE@MAINE due to my increasing role in the
administration of the CSNEWS server. This account was used to send out
all subsequent issues. Subscriptions began to edge their way up, and
by the final issue of volume three (3-5), membership was up again to
91 readers. This issue marked the climax of the Narret tales, and also
the conclusion of Roman Olynyk's "Acquisition" story. However, in
November of 1985, being concerned with the future of FSFnet, I sent
out a mailing to the authors I knew, introducing the possibility of a
collective writing project based on an idea similar to that of Robert
Lynn Asprin's "Thieves' World" series. We would get together to
outline a basic setting, and the authors would introduce and share
characters within that communal setting. The response was very
enthusiastic, and early on Alan Clegg set up a discussion group for
the project on LISTSERV at NCSUVM. After kicking around several ideas
for the shared setting, by the end of November we had settled down
with a core group of writers and the basic premise of a medieval duchy
known as Dargon. Soon the authors began talking about characters and
plot lines, and I made it known publicly that issue 4-1 would see the
printing of the first Dargon Project stories. At the conclusion of its
first year of publication, FSFnet had put out fifteen issues and
subscriptions were once again steadily increasing, and though there
were some early problems, with the beginning of the Dargon Project at
hand, the future was clearly going to be considerably better.
With the publication of the first Dargon stories, FSFnet underwent
its first large-scale membership expansion. Between the end of volume
3 and the printing of VOL04N4 (the last issue of volume four),
membership had risen from approximately 90 to just shy of 150. FSFnet
was now being listed in Chris Condon's new BITLIST magazine of network
services (which would later develop into NetMonth magazine), giving
FSFnet visibility on the network beyond word of mouth. But the
importance of volume four was in its content. FSFnet's best writers
were turning out new, interrelated stories within the context of the
Duchy of Dargon, and the size, distribution, and quality of issues
were increasing rapidly. The Dargon Project lent stability to the
magazine and helped improve its content and give it some identity
beyond that of 'just another fanzine'.
During the summer of 1986 (volume five), despite the low activity
during the summer months, three very good issues were produced. The
first issue was a special wargaming issue, and contained some
excellent articles on related subjects. The second and third issues
introduced several new project authors, including John White, who
would be a major contributor to the magazine. VOL05N3 was a special
double-sized issue (nearly 1200 lines long), but with the increase in
quality and output generated by the Dargon Project, such lengths would
soon become standard issue size.
Volume six, which contained five issues, saw two very important
changes within the distribution of FSFnet. The first change was that
FSFnet began being distributed to internet sites on ARPAnet and
Usenet/UUCP, and was listed in the "List of Lists" master index of
inter-network digests. The second change was that issues were now
being distributed via LISTSERV's DISTRIBUTE facility, rather than each
being sent individually directly from CSDAVE@MAINE. These two changes
vastly increased FSFnet's potential audience, and at the same time
dramatically reduced its network load, permitting larger issues to be
sent more efficiently to more people. Readership containued to grow
constantly, passing the 225-reader mark before the end of 1986.
The spring of 1987 was similarly successful. The seventh volume
contained five more issues, as subscriptions increased to over 350.
The idea of hardcopy subscriptions was toyed with, but due to a
personal lack of funds for a decent printer, was never implemented.
The summer of 1987 volume contained four issues. During this time
I got married and honeymooned at the Society for Creative
Anachronism's Pennsic War, in the process meeting several FSFnet
readers and contributors. Volumes 7 and 8 both contained many of the
best stories FSFnet has ever printed, and at the beginning of autumn,
subscriptions totalled about 410.
In the fall of 1987, only three issues were produced, but
membership broke the 500 mark. One interesting event during this
period happened when I accidentally discovered a separate FSFnet
mailing list which had been managed by a server. Unfortunately, since
the server had become defunct, the nearly 100 people who thought that
they were subscribed were not receiving issues at all! After I
corrected the problem with the server and contacted these people,
about one third of them signed up for subscriptions.
The first issue of volume 10 represented the third anniversary
issue of FSFnet, and was the fourtieth issue printed, and featured two
stories by Joseph Curwen, an author who had been with FSFnet since its
beginning. Although not a frequent contributor, his wisdom and
influence has been a major force in the magazine's development.
Unfortunately, his graduation at this time severely limited his
network access, and FSFnet lost one of its best writers. The second
issue of volume 10 contained the culmination of John White's epic
Dargon saga, and there was more than enough material to produce six
issues in this volume. At the end of spring, readership supassed 630
and continued to rise.
The summer of 1988 has seen the final volume of FSFnet. With some
recent additions to the staff, the content of volume 11 has been
superb. At this time, FSFnet is sent (directly) to 603 BITNET users at
318 sites, and 82 internet users. There are 159 foreign readers in 21
countries, and 444 domestic readers in 42 states, exclusive of
internet readers. FSFnet has put out 48 issues in just under four
years, with 166 stories and articles totalling approximately 2.5
million characters of information.
With the distribution of this issue, FSFnet has officially ended
publication. The Dargon Project will continue to function under the
leadership of John White (WHITE@DUVM), and Dargon stories will be
printed in a new magazine edited by him, also. All readers who are
currently subscribed to FSFnet will automatically be subscribed to
this new magazine, so there will be no loss of continuity. If you have
any questions or needs, please address them to John, as he's in charge
now, and the CSDAVE@MAINE account will be deleted in the near future.
Again, my thanks to everyone who has been involved with FSFnet, from
those who simply read it to those involved in production and everyone
else. And, of course, I hope that everyone continues their efforts to
help John make the new magazine even better.
-'Orny' Liscomb
A Visit to Connall
It was hours before dawn when Myrande Shipbrook woke. Quietly, she
slipped from her bed and quickly made it. She went to the small table
to the left of her bed, poured the water from the china pitcher into
the bowl, washed her face and hands with rose-scented soap, and
finally scrubbed her face and hands dry with the folded towel that had
been resting on the little table.
She silently slipped out of her plain nightgown and pulled on her
muslin chemise. Over this, Myrande put on a plain white overdress of
muslin, a cool dress, and one easy to clean. She belted the dress with
a plain leather belt which wrapped once around her waist, slipped
through a round iron buckle, and left a long strip of leather hanging
by her left leg. At the end of the dangling strip was another iron
ring, to which Myrande attached a heavy ring of keys.
She slipped into her shoes and left her room.
Myrande was, by nature, an early riser, but not even she enjoyed
leaving her bed this early. Still, there was much to be done today;
the Baron of Coranabo, his Baroness, and their daughter Danza were
coming tonight to visit the Baron of Connall. She was the Seneschale
for the Baron of Connall, and it was her duty to see that all things
in his household went smoothly.
First things first. Breakfast. Clutching the keys in her hands so
that they would not wake the household, Myrande went from her room in
the family wing of the keep toward the kitchen. Suddenly she stopped,
surprised by lamplight spilling from the Baron's study.
She knocked on the open door and entered. "My lord, when are you
going to bed?" she asked as she crossed the room.
Baron Luthias Connall sat behind a desk with an open book in front
of him. "In a little while, Sable, I promise. I just want to finish
this chapter."
Myrande slipped behind the Baron, placed her hands on his
shoulders and began kneading them gently. Luthias groaned as she began
loosening the tense muscles, and his head dropped back to rest on
Myrande's chest. She brushed her hand over his eyes so that he would
close them. "Relax, my lord," she invited. "What are you reading?"
"'History of the Beinison Emperors,'" Luthias told her. "I am
reading it to clear my head. I was reading Fernusius Cai all night. I
needed a break from laws." He opened his eyes, looked at her. "And
don't 'my lord' me, Sable. I do not want to hear it from you. You have
known me all my life, and it's no time to start 'my lord'ing me now."
Myrande smiled. "All right, Luthias." She continued her massage,
as Luthias closed his eyes. "When were you planning to retire?"
"Midnight. That way, I figured I could get up at dawn and still
have several hours of sleep and be reasonably awake for Coranabo's
visit. And you," he continued, his tone playful, his lips smiling,
"you, Mistress Mother, when are you going to sleep?"
"I just got up."
The young Baron's eyes snapped open. "You're joking."
Myrande shook her head. "No. This is the third time you have done
such this week, Luthias. You have got to stop this."
"There's just so much I don't know," Luthias sighed, closing his
eyes again and relaxing a little beneath Myrande's touch. "I wish
Roisart were here to help me. I have been Baron a month, and I still
feel so inadequate."
"You're doing well," Myrande reassured him. "The people respect
you, and your cousin, the Duke, asks your advice, and your lands are
run smoothly."
"That's your doing, Lady Seneschale," Luthias growled. "You take
care of this castle, you administer the castle lands, and that alone
is the work of two people. Then, on top of that, you help me run the
barony, you act as my hostess, and help me take care of my social
responsibilities. Besides, you do a job you shouldn't have to."
"What one is that?"
"Take care of the Baron." Luthias took a deep breath. "Maybe I
should marry and let some woman be my Baroness, and she could take
some of the work from you--help me with the barony--"
"And take care of the Baron?" Myrande suggested playfully.
Luthias began to smile, but then groaned as Myrande hit a sore
knot in his muscles. He opened his eyes, looked Myrande in the face,
and smiled. "No one could do that as well as you. Perhaps I should
just marry you, Sable, and find myself another seneschal. You'd make a
superb Baroness, and not only are you the most beautiful woman in
Dargon, you give the best massages in the kingdom."
Myrande smiled and continued rubbing Luthias' tired flesh. Looking
down into his open eyes, she said, "You never found me so before."
Luthias gazed up at his seneschale. She possessed long, thick,
raven hair wound into a single braid behind her head. Her eyes were
almost as dark as her hair, eyes near the color of polished ebony. The
simple white dress flattered her slim figure and made her dark skin
seem duskier. Luthias took her hand--a small, strong hand--pressed to
his cheek in the courtly manner. "You've always been beautiful to me,
Sable, ever since we were children." He kissed her callused palm.
"You're working too hard."
"So are you, Luthias," Myrande reminded him, touching his cheek.
Gently, Luthias reached up, brushed her chin with his fingertips.
"You look exhausted. You're doing too much. You should appoint
yourself an assistant." Then Luthias smiled again. "You're still
beautiful." He stared at the ceiling. "I always thought you'd be the
next Baroness, that Roisart would marry you."
"He did ask me, not long ago," Myrande revealed.
"I know," Luthias said, smiling wryly. "He told me about it. I've
never seen a man so happy to be refused. He said you were in love with
someone else. He must have been very impressed with him--he said he
couldn't have chosen a better man." He sighed, closed his eyes. "But
he would never tell me who it was--he said it was in confidence."
"It was. I swore him to secrecy."
"I was hurt that you didn't trust me, too, Sable."
At this very candid revelation, still laced with bitter pain,
Myrande's hands froze. "I didn't think you cared much for love or
lovers, Luthias."
"I don't, but I care about you."
Myrande slowly started to massage again. "I was afraid you would
laugh at me."
"You had no trouble telling Roisart," Luthias accused, and there
was an edge of anger in his voice.
For a moment, Myrande, too, was angry, but she forced calmness on
herself. Thinking of that moment, when Roisart had asked her to be his
wife and she'd had to wound him, brought tears to her eyes. "I
would not have told him, but I wanted him to understand why I couldn't
marry him." For a moment, she fell silent. "I was afraid that you
would laugh at me. Or that he would be scared away."
Quickly, Luthias rose and faced her. He took her small hands in
his. "I would never, never laugh at that, Sable. Have I ever laughed
at that sort of thing? Gods know that Roisart provided enough
opportunity for me to laugh at love, but I never did." He stopped and
dropped her hands. "And I would never laugh at you, Sable." Then, he
looked confused. "What do you mean, scared away?"
"You and Roisart were very protective of me."
"True enough," Luthias admitted. A thought flashed in his brain,
and he smiled. "You weren't afraid I'd be jealous, were you, Sable?"
"Not once."
"He better treat you well, or I'll bash his head in."
"That would be interesting," Myrande said, a grin lighting her
eyes. "I told you that you were very protective of me..." Myrande
gazed at the young Baron, whom she thought handsome, but she could see
the strain in his face and the fatigue in the circles beneath his
eyes. "Looks like you are ready to bash your own against a wall."
"There's so much to do," Luthias told her. "There's a near panic,
what with all these rumors about a Bichanese attack--"
"I've heard them," Myrande commented. "I've been watching food and
getting ready to store and preserve the harvest, just in case. But
would Bichu really attack us?"
"Of course not," Luthias said confidently. "Considering their
distance from us, it would be idiotic. According to Michiya, the
Bichanese already have posts on another continent, one closer to their
own nation, and it would be simpler and more profitable for them to
wage war there."
"Still, as you said, there's a panic."
"Yes, and it bothers me." Luthias was grim. "People so frantic
become paranoid. Mob paranoia, Sable, has to be one of the most
dangerous and destructive forces. Its victims are more likely to be
innocent than guilty. It is the panic, more than the rumors, which
truly worries me."
"Well, get some sleep," Myrande advised, brushing some hair from
his eyes. "I'll wake you mid-morning, and then you'll have some sleep
and most of the day to do some work."
"I'm not that tired, Sable," Luthias asserted.
"Don't lie to me," Myrande cut him off with a smile. "You can't
lie to me, Luthias; I know you too well. Go to bed. There is no work
that cannot wait a few hours, and you look like you're about to drop."
"The words were becoming a little fuzzy," Luthias admitted. "But
after I eat breakfast and drink some tea--"
"Go to bed, or I'll wake the men-at-arms and have them carry you,"
Myrande threatened.
Luthias chuckled. "By God, Myrande, you would make an excellent
Baroness." Suddenly, he sobered. "Sable--Myrande. The man you
love...it isn't Clifton, is it?" He paused a moment then rushed,
"Because he...I never thought he was particularly interested in you.
They say he's making eyes at some girl from Magnus. Sable, I don't
want you to be hurt, and Clifton--"
"It isn't Clifton," Myrande assured him, putting a hand on the
Baron's arm. "Get some sleep, and sweet dreams, Luthias."
Luthias covered her hand with his own and squeezed her fingers.
"Thanks, Sable. Good night."
"Good night." With a sigh, the young Baron of Connall left the
room. Myrande turned out the lamp, and closed the door on her way out.
She watched him trek slowly down the hall. Myrande knew how hard
being a Baron was for Luthias. He, by nature, was a warrior, not a
governor, but he was smart and was learning rapidly. It was a heavy
burden to be borne, especially by a young man who had just lost, not a
month before, his beloved father and twin brother, Roisart.
She sighed, understanding what it was to take on responsibility so
soon after-- why, she herself had become the seneschale to Luthias'
father soon after her mother, who had been seneschale before her, and
father, who had been castellan, died of the Red Plague. Fionn Connall,
the late Baron, had been father to her, and she had lost him; and
although Roisart had not been twin to her, he had been her brother,
and she missed him sorely.
Alone, she walked to the kitchen and began to pull supplies out of
the pantries. In an hour, the servants would be coming to prepare the
breakfast, but she had to prepare the preparations, it seemed.
Myrande ate some bread and cheese, drank some tea, which warmed
her, and wished she could go back to bed.
After checking supplies, she started a quick inspection of the
kitchen. She sat for another moment, reviewing what needed to be done
for the day. After making a list of work, she inspected the castle
(clutching her keys to keep her presence silent), and checked which
rooms needed to be cleaned and aired, seeing what little repairs
needed to be done. The grounds, gardens, and stables she would check
after dawn. Then she silently returned to the kitchen.
Myrande greeted the servants, who entered the kitchen in pairs or
small groups. As they ate, she gave her orders for the day: this
needed to be repaired, and this needed to be cleaned, and this must be
done for the visit of the Baron of Coranabo, and this must be done
because the castellan and the inspecting guards were returning today.
A man-at-arms interrupted them by entering the kitchen. "My lady,"
he called, "the castellan and the inspecting troops have returned."
"Kindly tell the castellan that I will attend him later in my
office," She sent the message formally. The soldier bowed and left.
After giving a few final orders, Myrande took her keys in hand and
toured the gardens, grounds, and stables. All was in good order,
except a tree felled by the particularly horrendous thunderstorm of
the previous night. Myrande ordered it cleared and cut for firewood.
When she returned to the keep, it was nearly mid-morning. She
retired to her office to work on the household accounts, which must be
presented and explained to the Baron at the end of each month. Myrande
kept her accounts in order, and was only adding this day's purchases.
There was a knock on the door. Myrande looked up and saw Ittosai
Michiya, Castellan of Connall, in the doorway. She rose and bowed in
the Bichanese manner. He returned the bow and motioned for a young
servant behind him to bring in the tea tray.
"Welcome home, Castellan," Myrande greeted as the servant left.
Ittosai Michiya smiled and sat. He took the teapot in his hands
and poured the aromatic, steaming liquid into two small Bichanese
teacups. "Tea, my lady?"
Myrande accepted the drink with a Bichurian bow. "Thank you. And,
Castellan--"
"Yes, my lady?" asked Michiya, sipping.
"You don't need to address me so formally. We are of the same
rank--persons of noble blood, in high service to the Baron. My name is
Myrande, and," she added, in the tone of a good-spirited command, "I
intend that you shall use it."
"As you like, Myrande." Her name sounded foreign on his tongue.
"And I am Michiya." He paused a moment, appeared confused. "But..."
"What?"
"If your name is Myrande, why does Luthias-san call you Sable?"
Myrande grinned, then laughed. "That's a long story, and an old
one." She sipped her tea, then continued, "It was a name the Baron,
his father, and his brother Roisart called me."
"Why?"
"It is because of my hair and eyes, I suppose," Myrande explained.
"And because of something that happened when we were little."
Michiya looked very interested, so Myrande went on. "When we were
babies just learning to walk and run, Roisart, Luthias, and I were
playing in the late Baron's study."
"Late Baron? As if he were delayed and you were still expecting
him," commented Michiya. He shook his head. There were some
expressions in this confounded language that were plainly idiotic.
Myrande laughed. "It is a strange expression." She continued,
"Apparently, I was trying to keep up with the twins, who were older
and could run, and I could only walk. I fell, but didn't cry. Still, I
must have looked pretty pathetic. Roisart saw I had fallen, and he
started bringing me every thing he could get his little hands
on--toys, the flowers in a vase, then the vase, a book his father was
holding, everything. Luthias, being a little bit more forward, just
put his arms around me and kissed me."
Ittosai Michiya watched the seneschale intently. She had a happy,
nostalgic look on her face as she pictured the twins. Michiya pictured
her, a tiny child of elfin looks, night-dark hair, and black eyes.
"Then the twins' father said to my father, 'Your Myrande is going
to grow to be quite a sable beauty. See, she's enchanted my boys
already.'" Myrande brought her focus out of the past and looked
Michiya in the eye. "Ever since, the Connalls have called me Sable.
You can call me that too, if you like."
"Luthias-san's brother, he called you Sable?" Myrande nodded.
"Then I may do so. I thought it was a name only he had for you." She
shook her head. "It is sad, what happened to Roisart. And Luthias-san,
he needs a brother."
"Oh, I think you and Duke Clifton are filling that need rather
nicely," Myrande commented. "He relies on your advice, Michiya, and he
must respect you a great deal to have made you castellan."
Michiya grinned. "In Bichu, I am a second son, and I would have
been what you call castellan to my own brother if I had stayed. But I
am here, and will be brother and castellan to Luthias-san instead."
Myrande asked, "Did you know that the Baron of Coranabo is coming
to visit the Baron today?"
Michiya shook his head. "Why visit? Will he not see him in the
city in a week's time, when the Duke holds his ball again?"
Myrande considered this. "I'm not sure why he's coming. He said in
his letter that he had a private matter to discuss with the Baron. But
he's bringing his wife and his elder daughter..." Myrande shrugged
casually. "Well, Coranabo is an odd man, Michiya. Anything is
possible." She took a sip of her tea. "In any case, Baron Coranabo may
bring some soldiers with him. Have you room for them in the barracks?"
"Yes, plenty."
She nodded, satisfied. "I trust you can take care of them then?"
Michiya nodded. "Of course." He paused. "I must make a report to
you about the inspection. Do you wish the report now, Myrande, or do
you wish me to wait until Luthias-san awakes?"
Myrande considered. "Best wait until he's up; you'd only have to
give it twice otherwise. Besides, Michiya, he should be up shortly.
I'll have him join us after his breakfast. In the meantime, you can
tell me what supplies you need for the soldiers and the barracks."
Ittosai dutifully began naming his needs. Myrande jotted them down
on a scrap of parchment. "These shouldn't be a problem. Is there
anything you need personally, Michiya?"
Ittosai screwed up his visage in thought. "Yes, Myrande. I need
clothes for attending formalities, such as the Duke's ball next week."
Myrande wrote this. "That reminds me, I need new gowns, and
several nice chemises. I only have one gown, and since Luthias is
doing so much entertaining now and I'm acting as his hostess, I'm
going to need to dress up more often. I'll order your suit and my
gowns tomorrow, Ittosai. Would you like it in the Bichanese style?
What colors?"
"Yes, I like most the style of my home. For colors, I prefer blue
and white."
Myrande noted this on her paper. Just then, there was a knock on
the office doorframe. "Come," Myrande answered.
Jahn, Luthias' manservant, entered the room. "My lady, I hate to
trouble you, but I..." The servant looked abashed. "I can't seem to
wake the Baron."
"It's going to be one of those days," Myrande sighed. She rose.
"Lord Michiya, I'll be back as soon as I can, but this may take a
little while." She clutched her keys, and followed Jahn out.
As they approached the Baron's chambers, Myrande asked, "What did
he do when you woke him, Jahn?"
"He just said something and turned over." He remember late to add,
"My lady. I tried again, but he will not budge."
"All right," Myrande acknowledged. "You can go about whatever else
you had to do. I will see to the Baron."
Jahn's face lit with a knowing look. "As you wish, lady."
He left her, and Myrande didn't give him a second glance. Still,
the look on the manservant's face stayed with her.
Yes, now it'll be all over the castle that Luthias and I...Myrande
smiled and shrugged. Oh, well. There were many worse things.
Still clutching her keys, she opened the door to the Baron's
bedroom and walked in. Silently, she shut the door behind her. In the
darkened room, Luthias still lay, barely clad, on his bed, with the
covers doing everything but the function for which they were intended.
She crept over to the bed and sat on the edge. Gently, she touched
his forehead. He didn't move. Myrande put her hand on Luthias' strong
shoulder and gently shook it. No response. Again, she shook his
shoulder, but harder this time. No response. Myrande shook him again,
called him: "Luthias."
"A few more moments," muttered the Baron, turning away from her.
Myrande smiled. Some things never changed. Both Luthias and
Roisart had been like this since the gods knew when. "Come on,
Luthias. No more time. You've got to get up."
"A few more moments, Sable," mumbled the Lord of Connall. "Just a
few more moments. And then I'll get up. I promise."
"Knowing you, you said that to Jahn five minutes ago," Myrande
returned. "It's past half-noon. Get up."
Luthias' eyes opened. "Past half-noon? Sable, why didn't you get
me up sooner? You know that I want to be up by--"
"I don't doubt that Jahn tried," Myrande rued.
"Damn it, Sable," Luthias swore, sitting up. "Here you are, taking
care of the Baron again." He was grim. "I wanted to be up earlier.
Everything's going to be late now."
"Don't worry. Everything's under control," Myrande assured him.
Luthias, half-growling, left his bed and went past his seneschale
to his wardrobe. He flung it open. "If it is, it's your doing, Sable.
You're doing the work of eight people."
"Nonsense," said Myrande, smiling.
Luthias removed a light-colored tunic and some darker breeches,
which he proceeded to pull on in front of his seneschale. "When is
Coranabo coming?"
"This afternoon." She went to the wardrobe and leaned against it.
Luthias struggled into his lighter tunic and belted it. "Do me a favor
and meet me and Lord Ittosai in my office."
"Why don't I just eat breakfast with you?" Myrande just nodded and
she left the room.
Now that it was nearly over, Myrande knew that she had been right:
it was one of those days.
The Coranabos had come two hours earlier than Myrande or Luthias
had expected. Luthias looked fine, if informal, but Myrande's white
cotton overdress was stained and streaked with sweat. She had hardly
looked the hostess, but Luthias told her she looked fine, and
together, they had greeted their visitors.
There was a fire in the kitchen, right after that, and Myrande had
her hands full keeping the servants calm and the fire small. With the
help of a few courageous grooms, the small grease fire was quickly
extinguished, and the visitors and Luthias never knew it happened.
Myrande had hardly time enough to take a quick bath and dress
herself in her only nice gown before dinner, which, luckily, went
well. The meat was juicy and tender, and the greens fresh and tasty,
the bread newly baked.
The talk was pleasant, general. As they all talked, Myrande
watched the visitors, but inconspicuously. She was trying to discern
why Coranabo had come. It was hard to figure out anything about the
Baron of Coranabo. Coranabo was a tall, hard- eyed man, his gray hair
balding, his age, perhaps five and fifty. He smiled, but the smile was
superficial. Myrande wondered if something were wrong in Dargon and he
was just waiting to discuss after the meal.
His wife was pleasant: a petite lady with graying hair who spoke
gaily of society. The daughter, though, was enigmatic and why she had
come, Myrande could not guess. Danza, the girl--for so she was; she
could not be older than fifteen, Myrande guessed- -was silent
throughout the dinner, and did not lift her eyes from her plate.
Myrande couldn't attribute the silence or shyness to lack of
confidence; pretty, petite, golden-haired Danza held herself proudly
and confidently. It made no sense that a gorgeous girl of marriageable
age would stare at her plate instead of flirting with the Baron of
Connall, the second most eligible man in the duchy.
After dinner, Luthias led his guests into the study for an after
dinner drink. "Brandy, Baron?" Luthias asked politely.
"Yes, thank you, Luthias," Coranabo answered congenially.
"My lady?" Luthias asked the Baroness as Myrande went to the
spirits cabinet.
"Some wine would be fine, thank you, Luthias." The Baroness smiled
at the younger Baron as she would have smiled on her own son, if she
had one. "Lady Myrande, would there be some of that famous golden wine
of Magnus in the cupboard?"
"I believe so, Baroness," Myrande replied cheerfully, moving a few
bottles around.
"Would you care for some sherry, Lady Danza?" Luthias asked his
youngest guest gently. Myrande had noted the gentle manner in which
Luthias had treated Danza during dinner, and she didn't like it. Angry
at herself, Myrande shook it off. It was just like Luthias to be
protective toward slight, delicate girls. He was the same way with
Pecora. That never bothered her. There was no need that this should.
Danza shook her head and mumbled something. "Some sherry for lady
Danza, Myrande."
"Yes, my lord," she replied docilely enough. She smiled at the
Baron, who smiled back: the casual intimate grin of long-time friends.
Myrande wrenched her eyes away from Luthias', took out the brandy, the
gold wine, the sherry, and five glasses from the cupboard. "What would
you like, my lord?"
"Brandy, thank you, Sable," Luthias replied, losing his formality,
slipping into the normal affection he showed towards her. He still was
aware of his obligations of host, however, and he motioned for his
guests to sit. Coranabo and his wife took a seat near the west wall,
directly in front of the small table where Myrande was pouring. Danza
took a seat opposite her, and Luthias moved to stand behind her, so
that he might face his guests.
Myrande passed Coranabo and his wife his drink. The Baron thanked
her, then said, "Luthias, my boy, it's time that I got to the reason
for this visit."
"I wish you would," Luthias said congenially. "I've been wondering
about it."
"I wished to surprise you," Coranabo said with a smile. "Not that
I thought you'd suspect, but--"
"Why don't you tell us what it is, Baron?" Myrande suggested with
the lilt of laughter in her voice. Just like Coranabo to keep them
guessing. She could remember her father and Luthias' laughing about
the shrewdness of Baron Coranabo, how he used ploys to feed his flair
for the dramatic. She unstopped the sherry bottle.
Now, Coranabo laughed. "I never knew a Shipbrook to be so direct,
Lady Myrande."
"You forget, Baron," Luthias defended her lightly and teased her
simultaneously, "she grew up here in Connall."
"And you were always a blunt lot," the Baroness chuckled.
"True enough," Luthias admitted politely. "Now, tell me, Baron,
why have you come here?"
"Your brother Roisart would have figured it out, but he was a
romantic, as I recall," Coranabo laughed, still evasive, still working
to a climax. "I have come to offer you, Baron Connall, the hand of my
daughter, Danza."
Without warning, Myrande's face went white and she nearly dropped
the sherry bottle. Her legs went weak, and she stumbled, grabbing the
corner of the table to steady herself.
Immediately, Luthias noticed a problem. "My God, Sable!" he cried,
crossing the room to her. He put one hand on her arm, and with the
other, he took the sherry from her clenched hand.
"I'm all right," she whispered, but Luthias scowled at the lie.
"Better sit her down, Luthias," the concerned Baroness advised.
"She looks like she's about to faint."
"Yes, come here," Luthias ordered, guiding her to a seat next to
Danza. Myrande collapsed into the seat. Luthias went to the table,
poured some brandy into a glass, and brought it to his seneschale.
"Drink this. Damn it, Sable, I've told you you're working to hard."
Myrande dumbly held the brandy in her hands. "Here, drink," Danza
encouraged. Myrande looked at her, saw Danza's eyes for the first
time. They were--very, very slightly--rimmed with red, but they were
kind. Myrande swallowed the lump in her throat.
"Come on, Sable," Luthias encouraged, placing a hand on her
shoulder. "Drink."
Myrande lifted the glass and gulped the brandy. After a moment,
she coughed and said, "Forgive me. I didn't mean to interrupt."
"Think nothing of it, Lady Myrande," Coranabo reassured her. He
looked at her with hard, glittering eyes, but he seemed kind. "No harm
done. I hope you're all right." Myrande nodded. Then Coranabo shifted
his attention to the Baron behind her. "Do you need me to repeat what
I said, Luthias?"
Luthias crossed in front of Myrande and went back to the table,
where he poured Danza's drink and his own. "No, Baron, I heard it. I
admit," Luthias continued with a hard smile wreathed in confusion,
"that I'm stunned." Luthias looked at Danza. "Lady Danza, I had no
idea that you favored me."
"Oh, she does," Coranabo quickly answered for his daughter. He
leaned back in his chair, smiling with satisfaction. "And I admit
there's no man in Dargon whom I'd rather have for a son-in-law."
Luthias seemed slightly confused, and his face told Myrande that
something didn't seem right to the young Baron. Myrande couldn't blame
him. Loud alarms were ringing in her mind, too. But Luthias only said,
"Thank you, Baron. But I don't know what to say."
"Well, think about it, Luthias," Coranabo offered. "Sleep on it.
Let me know."
"I will," Luthias promised. He went back to the table, poured
Danza's sherry and his own brandy. He and Coranabo began discussing
the rumors of Bichanese attack, but Myrande didn't hear a word.
Myrande remained up and about long after the Baron of Coranabo,
his wife, and his daughter went to bed. There were preparations to be
made for tomorrow, and it was her job to see to them.
Around midnight, a courier arrived at the keep with a message for
Baron Luthias Connall. Myrande took the message and ordered food and
bed for the tired man. She then went to the study--if she knew
Luthias, he was still awake and reading--to give him the message.
She was right; the light still burned. Myrande knocked on the
doorframe. "Luthias," she called softly.
"Come in, Sable," he invited. She did. The Baron sat behind his
desk, very serious. Luthias tiredly smiled. "What is it?"
Myrande offered the sealed parchment. "Message for you. The
messenger just arrived."
Luthias took the paper, began to open it. "Have the man fed and
provided with--" The young Baron looked from the paper to Myrande's
half-smiling face. "But you've already taken care of that, haven't
you." Luthias chuckled softly. "I'm sorry, Sable. I should know
better." He looked at the parchment and read the message once, twice.
"I wonder what this is all about."
"What is it?"
"Clifton wants me to come and see him, as soon as possible,"
Luthias told her, showing her the parchment.
Myrande read it. "I wonder what the Duke wants."
Luthias shook his head, re-read the message. "No telling. I'll
have to go to Dargon tomorrow." Luthias set the paper on his desk. "I
want you to come with me. The castle can survive a few days on its
own, and if nothing else, I've seen tonight that you need a break." He
took a deep breath. "And some help. I've thought about it, and
tomorrow, I'm going to tell Coranabo that I'll marry Danza."
Myrande hurriedly sat down in the nearest chair. "Why?"
Luthias looked her in the eye. "This barony needs a baroness,
Myrande. You're doing too much, I'm doing to much. We're going to kill
ourselves if we go on like this."
Yes, that was Luthias, always practical. "Do you think a girl that
young can handle being a baroness?" Myrande asked.
"Of course. She's been trained to it since birth," Luthias argued
confidently. "She'll make a good baroness."
"Are you sure about this, Luthias?" Myrande asked gently.
"I told you, we need help, Sable."
"We could hire help, Luthias. Do you actually want to marry her?"
Luthias leaned back and appeared to think about it. "It might as
well be Danza as anyone else," the Baron sighed with resignation.
"I'll have to marry sometime, Sable. There has to be a Baroness, and,
eventually, when Danza is less delicate, I do want to have a son." He
smiled. "And name him Roisart."
"Wouldn't you rather marry a woman you loved?"
Luthias shrugged. "There have only been four people in my life
that I've ever loved, Sable. My father, my cousin, my brother--"
"And some lady who jilted you?" Myrande prompted, incredulous.
Luthias smiled, reached across the desk and took her hand. "No,
Sable, you. You're my best friend, other than Clifton, and always have
been." He sighed again. "But there has to be a baroness eventually,
whether I love her or not, and we both need help, Sable, face it. I
don't want to see you work yourself to death."
"Luthias," Myrande ordered sternly, "don't do this for me. I don't
want you to marry and be miserable for my sake."
"Hey," Connall said gently, squeezing Myrande's hand. "I won't be
miserable, I promise." She bitterly smiled at the vow. "It's just what
I need, Sable, what this place needs." He peered at her intently.
"You're not jealous, are you?"
"Of course not," she said.
"No, I forgot, you're in love with the mysterious stranger,"
Luthias recalled, his tone a cross between amusement and sarcasm.
"Look, Sable," he began, serious this time, "I'll go to him, try to
arrange the marriage for you--"
"No--no, Luthias. You'd feel too awkward--he's--" Myrande paused.
"You're too close, and you wouldn't want to try to convince him--"
Luthias released her hand. "It is Clifton, then."
Myrande shook her head. "No, Luthias. I give you my word, I'm not
in love with Clifton Dargon." She leaned her head on her hand. "Not
even your father, when I told him about this, wanted to arrange a
marriage. He wanted to wait until the man was older, to see if
something developed..."
Luthias laughed. "I loved my father dearly, but he was a romantic,
just like Roisart. Very few people love like my father and mother. And
as for me--I'll never fall in love. I'm not built for it, I think."
Myrande smiled. "I'll just marry Danza and be reasonably content."
"Do what you think best," Myrande rose. "Good night, Luthias."
"Going to bed?" he wondered, taking out Fernusius Cai's treatise.
"Not yet. There's work to be done." Abruptly, she left the room.
Myrande couldn't believe it. He was going to marry that child and
make her Baroness of Connall. Would Danza want him, Myrande wondered,
if Roisart were alive and Baron and Luthias were merely Roisart's
castellan or the Duke's? Myrande thought not. In fact, Myrande had
heard rumors six weeks ago about Lady Danza and Tylane Shipbrook. And
now that Luthias was Baron, this Danza was wiling to abandon Tylane
like a plague carrier!
And as for her being a 'good' Baroness--Myrande thought it was
unlikely and scowled. Danza was only fifteen, a child! How would she
handle some of the crises around here? She hadn't handled Roisart's
death well--Myrande remembered her sobbing hysterically when she
arrived in Dargon in the middle of the night--
And suddenly, Myrande was back in that nightmare night, that night
of horrors, when soldiers came to Connall keep. We're here to arrest
Manus the Healer, they told Myrande. Why? Oh, well, there's a
conspiracy against the Duke and the Lords of Connall. There was an
assassination attempt tonight. No, no, lady, the Duke's fine. The twin
lords? No, lady, sorry, they're dead.
Luthias dead? Roisart, his twin, her friend, dead too? Was there
no comfort? Pale, she rode with the squadron to Dargon keep. If
nothing else, she would see that Luthias, and Roisart, would be well
buried. She clutched the leather reins all the way to the town. The
stars glittered coldly, and she wondered if Luthias' soul and
Roisart's were among them.
Oh, gods, Luthias dead, and Roisart dead beside him! Myrande was
unsure that she could bear it.
When she arrived at the keep, she demanded immediately to see the
Duke. She was ushered to the blue ballroom on the ground floor. The
door was opened for her, and she saw Roisart's body laid out in state.
The Duke was there, talking with Lord Coranabo, she recalled, and
little lady Danza, who had hardly known Roisart at all, was sobbing
like a babe on her father's arm. Myrande stood tall and straight,
though pale, and walked toward the Duke.
And then Luthias stood up.
Myrande gasped his name, ran to him, and flung her arms around
him. Slightly bewildered, but needing comfort, the young Baron put his
arms around her as well. Myrande felt Luthias' heart beating against
her shoulder--he was somewhat taller than she--and for a moment, it
didn't matter that Roisart, her best friend, had been foully murdered.
She couldn't grieve for Roisart Connall, her brother, the wonderful
boy who had wanted to marry her. All she could do was clutch Luthias
close and thank every god she could name that he still lived.
"They've told you then," Luthias said softly, putting a hand on
her head and holding her close. "They told you that Roisart is dead."
For a moment, Myrande lost control completely and sobbed, "They
told me you both were dead!"
"Sable, my God, Sable, Roisart's dead, and I'm Baron," Luthias
rasped. Myrande held him more tightly, knowing that only with her or
Clifton could Luthias show this much grief--and fear. "I'm Baron, and
my brother is dead."
"I'll help you, Luthias, I swear it," Myrande had whispered. And
she had helped him, she stayed by his side when Roisart was buried,
and later when he was invested as Baron of Connall. And ever since,
she had been helping him. Would this baby Danza be able to help him?
Did she deserve to become a Baroness? Myrande didn't think so.
She blindly went through the motions of the little work left to be
done, and then, exhausted, Myrande decided it was time she collapsed
in bed. As if in a daze, she wandered back to the family wing of the
keep, past Luthias' study--the lamp was still on, he was still
reading--to her room.
Luthias was going to marry a baby he didn't love, a puppy in love
with him. Bitterly, she laughed softly at herself. As if she had the
right to condemn Danza for that!
Suddenly, a blond ghost brushed past her--a blond ghost in a lacy,
silken nightgown. Myrande stared. Danza. What was she doing up?
Myrande took a step toward her, but some instinct halted her voice as
Danza stepped into the study.
Myrande shrugged at the girl's quick departure and dodged into her
room. Suddenly, she found herself sobbing. Luthias was going to marry
Danza, and then-- Luthias was very bright, and he would figure it out
eventually. And how she would hate to live with his pity!
Myrande brushed her hands across her eyes quickly and severely
silenced her own sobs. She would not be able to live with Luthias'
pity, she knew that. And when Luthias married little Danza, Myrande
would leave the castle. Perhaps her uncle, the Baron of Shipbrook, or
Luthias' cousin the Duke would have a position here. Myrande could not
live in Connall Keep, seeing the pity in Luthias' eyes, seeing the
pride in Danza's.
She went to her night table, picked up a hairbrush, undid the long
braid that hung behind her head, and began to brush her black hair.
Her hands shook; the nervous fingers made the brush a weapon against
her, and she accidentally struck her own temple. Myrande dropped the
brush. This was no good. She'd never be able to sleep like this.
Myrande rose and left the room. A large goblet of milk would
comfort her a little, calm her a little, and allow her to sleep. There
would be much to do tomorrow before she and Luthias left for Dargon.
She went silently to the kitchen, downed the milk, and began to
wander back to her room. She smiled sadly as she passed the study; the
light was still burning. She knocked again. "Luthias?"
"Sable? Come in. I thought you had gone to bed." Luthias was still
behind the desk, reading the words of Fernusius Cai. He closed the
book when Myrande entered the room. "Why haven't you gone to bed yet?"
Myrande shrugged. "What about you, Lord Luthias?"
Luthias smiled. "Just reading some. I'll go to bed when you do;
how's that?"
"I was on my way," Myrande confessed.
Luthias kept grinning. He leaned back in his chair. "I'm going to
refuse the Baron of Coranabo," he announced casually.
"Why?" Myrande asked, stunned.
"Danza came to me, told me she was in love with Tylane," Luthias
revealed. "She marched in here and said very firmly that she had no
objections to me personally, but she couldn't marry me, that she
wasn't a virgin, and she did not want to disappoint me."
"Danza, not a virgin?" Myrande echoed, incredulous.
Luthias grinned. "That's what she said. It took me a little while
to get the real reason out of her--that she loved Tylane and wanted to
marry him. And what could I say, Sable? If we married, she'd resent me
all her days and we'd both be miserable. And you'd hurt, Sable, to see
me hurting." Luthias leaned toward Myrande again, looked at her
lazily. "So, it's off, and I'll marry someone else someday, Sable, but
until then, we will have a lot of work, the two of us."
"I don't mind," Myrande told him. She smiled and leaned forward.
"I'd rather exhaust myself than see you miserable, Luthias." Myrande
shook her head. "She must have been pretty desperate to tell that she
wasn't a virgin. Not many girls her age would admit that. But would
you refuse a girl on those grounds?"
Luthias shrugged. "No. I'm not a virgin; why should she be? I
actually don't want to marry a virgin. I don't want my bride to be
terrified on our wedding night."
Myrande laughed. "I know it is all very practical, Luthias, but
somehow you sound more romantic than Roisart."
Luthias laughed too. He rose and crossed to her. "We should be
getting to bed, lady Seneschale. We have a long journey tomorrow." He
put her hands on her shoulders and began to rub them gently.
"Mmm," said the seneschale, closing her eyes tiredly. "You
shouldn't do that, Luthias."
"Why not? You take care of me," Luthias argued. He fell silent
then, kept rubbing. Then he asked, "Sable, don't answer, if you don't
want to." Myrande relaxed beneath his touch. "Are *you* still a
virgin?"
Myrande answered, not opening her eyes, "Yes. That surprises you?"
"Yes," Luthias admitted frankly. "You're almost twenty-one- -"
"And you and Roisart had a habit of scaring my suitors away. They
all thought either that I've been promised to one of you or that you
were going to destroy them if they touched me."
Luthias shook his head. "I hope you've been kissed, at least."
"Yes, I've been kissed. You and Roisart didn't start scaring men
away until I was seventeen or so, and by then I was in love with--and
I don't think you could scare--him--away."
"Sorry, it was a silly question," Luthias mused. "Roisart must
have kissed you when he proposed."
"Only my cheek."
"No wonder he never got anywhere with girls!" Luthias laughed,
squeezed Myrande's shoulders one last time. "Come on, Sable, I'll walk
you to your room. We both could use some sleep."
Myrande rose, and Luthias turned down the lamp. Exiting the room,
he put his arm around Myrande's shoulders in a casual way, and she
leaned on him a little. Silently, they walked down the hall.
They soon arrived at her door, and Myrande opened it. She then
turned to her Baron and touched his cheek. "Good night, Luthias."
"Good night," answered the young Baron. "And, Sable?" She looked
up at him. Suddenly, Luthias leaned forward and kissed her lips
quickly. "That is from Roisart, because he was too stupid to do it
when he had the chance." Luthias kissed her again, longer and more
firmly this time. "That is from me. Good night, Sable."
Myrande smiled at him and said, "Good night."
-M. Wendy Hennequin
A Bride for Dargon
The young Lord of Dargon sat unquietly behind his large oaken desk
and stared through the arms of his family which adorned the walls of
his receiving room. His forebears had been men of decision and action,
reknowned for timely justice and intelligence, yet Duke Clifton Dargon
had reached an impasse and wished that his ancestors had left some
indication in their writings of how his current predicament could be
resolved. Yet again, he stood and strode to the tall, open window
which overlooked the courtyard, the city, and the surrounding fields.
Though his mind wandered, his eyes followed a young man in a grey
tunic as he left the market. The nobleman wondered what business this
man might have in Dargon, what concerns he might have, and what he
might do if he faced Clifton's problems and responsibilities. The man
turned off Merchant's Way and strode unhurriedly through the part of
town that contained several of the inns that catered to people from
away. As he continued, a woman in a bright blue shirt and gauzy white
pants came up to him. She fawned on him for several moments before she
turned him back the way he had come and disappeared from sight in a
cross-alley. Clifton smiled secretly and sighed a heavy sigh.
Clifton was surprised by the clearing of a throat behind him, and
turned suddenly to look angrily at his cousin, the young Baron of
Connall, as he strode into the office. Realizing that it was Luthias
and not one of his annoying advisors, Dargon calmed a little, but his
irritation remained unquenched like a vicious undertow beneath the
deep brown eyes.
Luthias, attractive, strong, and manly for his twenty-one years,
stood out of respect for his lord, yet his stance emanated the ease of
standing before a man loved and understood as well as respected.
Clifton gazed upon his cousin's face, so similar to his own, with
equal respect. Since the assassinations of Luthias' father and twin
brother, Luthias had grown considerably. At one time, the Baron of
Connall was known for quick action and thought which could
occasionally border on rashness. But since his brother's death in the
attempt to save the lives of Luthias and Dargon, Luthias had become
more thoughtful, as if the twins' soul, divided at birth, was reunited
at last through death. Luthias' ability for quick, practical
decisions, like his grief for father and brother, had not left him;
the quickness and pragmatism now mingled occasionally with the grave
caution of his brother, just as the blue bands of mourning still
lingered on the everyday clothing. There were a few days when Clifton,
Lord Dargon, had worried that the grief and the responsibility of the
barony would turn the streaks of auburn in Luthias' brown hair to a
premature gray, but the young baron had quickly and manfully accepted
grief and responsibility both. A smile fluttered across Dargon's lips.
Luthias was making his cousin and liege very proud.
"You wanted to see me, Clifton?" Luthias prompted finally.
Clifton returned from the quick current of his thoughts and looked
his cousin in the eyes again. There was pain in them still. It must be
difficult, Clifton thought, for him to look at me, or even at himself,
and yet see only his brother. And still I see Roisart in him.
After a moment, Clifton replied, "Yes, Luthias. Please sit down."
Perplexed at the anger on the face of his lord and kinsman,
Luthias obeyed. Once seated, he wondered aloud, unafraid of the
answer, "Have I done something, Clifton?"
"No, Luthias, no," Dargon assured him, brushing the idea away with
a flick of the hand. "I need to talk to you. You and Roisart were
always good at calming me down."
"I'm only half as good as we used to be," Luthias quipped, jesting
lightly at his own grief. "But I'll listen. What's wrong?"
Lord Clifton Dargon scowled with immeasurable wrath. "They're
after me again!"
Luthias went white, missing the subtle twinkle of irony in
Clifton's brown eyes. "God, no. Not another plot against us!"
"What? Oh, no," Clifton told him quickly. "No, they aren't trying
to murder us." He scowled again. "But that would top my day nicely!"
"What's wrong, then?"
"My counselors," Clifton explained. "They are plaguing me yet
again... They want me to marry!"
Luthias almost laughed. The concept didn't seem so terrible. "Is
that all?" he asked lightly.
"Is that all?" thundered the Lord of Dargon, rising from his
chair, then pacing behind the desk. "Is that ALL?"
"Marriage hardly seems a vile fate, Clifton," Luthias vainly tried
to calm him. "I know many who have survived..."
"I don't see you running out and marrying," Dargon accused,
whirling on his bewildered cousin.
Luthias' mouth went tight and his eyes narrowed with seriousness.
"Yesterday the Baron of Coranabo offered his daughter to me, Clifton,"
he snapped. "I need a baroness, and I would have married her if she
wasn't in love with Tylane Shipbrook."
"Well, how would you feel being pushed into it?" the Lord of
Dargon demanded.
Luthias stared at his cousin a moment. It wasn't like him to be
this angry, he thought suddenly. "It isn't just your advisors,"
Luthias concluded aloud. "What is it, Clifton? What's bothering you?"
Dargon gazed suddenly at his cousin, and just as suddenly, his
anger defused. He sighed, trying to calm his confused emotions. "Sit,
Luthias," invited the Lord of Dargon wearily. "I need to talk to you."
Luthias obeyed slowly, not taking his eyes off his cousin. "Talk,
then, Clifton. What is it?"
Again, the Lord of Dargon sighed. He sat silent for a few moments,
then spoke. "I was telling the truth," he ventured, as if he were half
talking to himself. "It is my advisors. They want me to marry. They
want me to have an heir." The lord scowled. "It doesn't befit women to
be treated as mere heir machines, and I will not marry a woman merely
to provide one."
"I agree," Luthias replied gravely. "But there's more," he knew.
Almost sadly, Dargon nodded. "I don't want to get married," he
told his cousin. "I don't want to marry just anyone. I want to marry a
woman that I could love."
"Don't you think you will find a woman to love, Clifton?" Luthias
questioned carefully.
"That's the problem, cousin," sighed Clifton Dargon. "I already
have. And I already love her."
This took Luthias quite by surprise; for a moment he simply stared
uncomprehendingly at his noble cousin. In the next moment, Luthias,
Baron of Connall, almost lost his temper. "Problem? What IS the
problem? You have found her. You love her. You're the Duke around
here, Clifton. You can marry anyone you like. Clifton, there is no
problem." Another thought slapped Luthias smartly. "Gods, Clifton, you
haven't fallen in love with a married woman, have you?"
Dargon looked at his young cousin once again and laughed softly.
"Married? No, she isn't married. Quite the contrary. By most
standards, she is what the people would judge an old maid." His eyes
clouded as he let the memory of her wash over him. "Though she's by no
means old, and the man who would not choose her is blind."
At this romantic turn in his cousin's nature (which Luthias had
never before witnessed) the Baron of Connall asked meekly, but with
amusement, "Do I know this lucky woman, Clifton?"
The mist in the eyes of the Lord of Dargon cleared. He looked
directly into Luthias' eyes. "I believe you do," Dargon told him. "You
met her at the Melrin ball. Lady Lauren, the Winthrops' cousin. The
one from Magnus."
The Baron of Connall pondered a moment, and then the recollection
shone on his face like a beam of sunshine. "Oh, yes, the dark-haired
one with the greenish eyes--"
"Her eyes are blue," Clifton corrected. "Perhaps a little green,"
he reconsidered. "Blue and green, like the sea," he mused.
"The one in the white gown," continued young Luthias. "The one my
brother liked." Again, Luthias considered the matter. "That woman
isn't married? But she's--beautiful. And charming. And educated.
Clifton, what's wrong with her?"
The Lord of Dargon leapt to his feet. "Wrong with her?" echoed the
Lord of Dargon in a most undignified manner. "Nothing's wrong with
her." He smiled affectionately--like a man in love, thought Luthias.
Clearly, his emotions were confused enough for it to be love. "She's
perfect." Dargon began to pace yet again. "It's her father. He will
not give her up."
"Why not?"
"Did you meet her father, Luthias?" Luthias thought a moment, then
shook his head. "His name's Marcellon, and he's a very powerful mage.
He was trained in Magnus by the great Styles himself." Having heard
his late brother prattle on about Styles, wizard to Beinison Emperors,
Luthias was suitably impressed. "Marcellon was wizard to the King of
Baranur, until he left a few months ago, before the thaw."
"Before the thaw?" Luthias repeated, incredulous. "Why would
anyone travel that distance in winter? The conditions--"
"Were life and death," explained Dargon. He kept on pacing, moving
back and forth like a pendulum on a clock. "It's a long story, and
Lauren only told me recently, when I asked her for her hand."
"Fine thing, to go asking for a woman in marriage and not even
telling your cousin you're in love until your advisors bother you,"
Luthias teased.
"Quiet, manling," Clifton growled good-naturedly, using a term he
hadn't employed since the twins were in their youth. "I..." The ruler
of Dargon seated himself. "Our love is so special that I wanted to
keep it a secret as long as I could. But then, when I asked her..."
"Why would he deny you, Clifton?" Luthias wondered. "What could he
object to? You are noble, wealthy, and you are good-natured..."
"Marcellon trusts no man to treat his daughter well enough,"
Dargon explained. He made a grim, frustrated face, then continued.
"Some years ago, Marcellon gave Lauren's sister in marriage to a young
noble 'of good character'. A few months later, she was beaten to death
by her husband." Dargon stared at his cousin. "He doesn't want the
same thing to happen to Lauren."
"Maybe he just doesn't want the insanity that grips him to run in
the family," grumbled Luthias. "Clifton, what's the problem? When we
were growing up, you had a crush on--oh, what was her name? And you
threatened to carry her off if her father objected to the marriage.
You make the laws around here. Just throw her over a stallion and run
off and you're married."
"And separate her from her father? Lauren loves him dearly, and it
would break her heart," Dargon objected. "Besides, the marriage would
be short-lived, cousin. Remember, Marcellon is a powerful wizard, with
knowledge of the spells of the great Styles himself. He could attack
me from a distance of hundreds of leagues."
"Yes, 'Styles' Death', Roisart told me about it."
"It's not a pretty or an easy death." Luthias shook his head. "And
while I fear neither death nor Marcellon, I have no wish to die and
leave the duchy with, if you will forgive me, inexperienced
leadership." Luthias smiled a little, humbly. "Still, I want no other
woman but Lauren, and Luthias, I intend to have her," the Lord of
Dargon finished firmly. Again, he looked his cousin, the Baron of
Connall, in the eyes. "There is a way, Luthias. I asked for her hand,
and she told me that her father would be willing, on one condition."
Luthias shook his head in a disapproving way. "A mage's condition.
I don't like the sound of this, Clifton." When Dargon didn't continue,
Connall prompted, "All right, Clifton. What is this condition?"
"He requires that I pass a test of his choosing."
"What kind of test?"
"Lauren didn't say."
"She didn't tell you anything?"
Dargon shook his head. "Nothing, cousin. But Lauren told me that
it can be very dangerous."
His suspicion leapt from dormancy to dominance. "Dangerous? How?"
Dargon leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. "I don't know
exactly. Lauren would not tell me much, either. She said that two men
from Magnus who took the test died--"
Luthias nearly leapt from his seat. "Died?! Clifton!"
Dargon shook his head at Connall. "No, Luthias, it's not what you
think. One had a crossbow that exploded; one died of a sudden seizure,
not caused by Marcellon. His purpose is to eliminate those not of
exemplary character, not to hurt anyone."
"I still don't like it," Luthias snapped. "I don't trust it. Two
men have died, Clifton. And how do you know Marcellon did not cause
it? It certainly sounds odd to me that a mage with that power-- And he
left Magnus in a hurry, you said, in a matter of life and death.
Whose? And why? It all seems very suspicious to me, Clifton, and I
don't want to lose you too!"
"Luthias, I don't use crossbows," the Lord of Dargon said with
some amusement. "And I am not subject to seizures." He sighed,
shifted. "It was a matter of life and death that Lauren and her father
left Magnus. A matter of their lives or deaths."
"What, is this Marcellon some sort of criminal?"
Dargon shook his head. "Marcellon has broken no laws by testing
his daughter's suitors. But the test got him into trouble. The
families of the two who died made no protests; they knew that one had
overestimated his warrior skills and that the other was sickly. But
healthy young men have taken the test. Six came out alive and
unharmed, but they couldn't remember a thing about the test." Clifton
grimaced. "Four went mad."
"Mad?" Luthias echoed, startled. "But what could make them mad?"
"No one knows," admitted the Lord of Dargon, "and Marcellon won't
tell. Families are not pleased when their sons return a raving lunatic
from courting. And the last suitor was from a very rich and
influential family--"
"They were run out of Magnus because some rich, foppish fool took
the test and went mad?" Luthias interrupted. Dargon nodded. "I'm not
sure if I like this, Clifton." Luthias paused a moment. "Have you
presented your suit to her father?"
"Not yet," Dargon admitted. "I've been invited to dinner tonight.
I want to ask him then." Dargon made a wrathful face. "Lauren does not
want me to ask."
"She doesn't want you?"
Dargon gave his cousin a quick, sharp look, then calmed. "No, I
don't think that's it. At least I hope not, Luthias. I wouldn't pursue
her in that case." A sad, almost grieving look covered Dargon's face.
"I want to marry her, Luthias. Only her."
Luthias stared at his cousin's face and saw the truth of it.
Luthias recognized the expression; it was almost the same expression
his father had worn when he talked to Luthias and his twin about their
mother, the only woman their father had ever loved. And who, through
the birth of Luthias and Roisart, was lost to him forever.
Luthias stood and walked over to his cousin's desk. He put his
hand on Dargon's shoulder. Clifton looked up. "Try for her, Clifton,"
young Luthias advised.
"That's not like you, Luthias," Dargon returned with gentle
surprise. "I thought you were the practical one. I could lose my life,
as you pointed out before, and putting myself in jeopardy for personal
reasons is not something a ruler should do..." Clifton clearly was
reluctant to make such a decision.
"Well, yes," Luthias admitted, almost sheepish --he had told
Myrande he wasn't built for loving--"but what's life without love?"
Cheered, Lord Clifton Dargon smiled at his cousin, and left the
study to dress for dinner.
How Luthias had been convinced that he should attend the dinner at
the Winthrops' he was never certain. For one thing, he didn't feel
that Clifton really needed a second, or that Marcellon would
appreciate the fact that Clifton had brought one. And if anything
happened to Clifton, it might be unseemly for his heir to have been
the one responsible for his safety. And there was Pecora, little
Pecora, still mourning over Kite. And only the gods knew how Luthias
was supposed to act around a great, educated lady and a man trained in
magic by the great Styles.
The only thing that was keeping the evening from being completely
uncomfortable was Sable--Myrande Shipbrook, Luthias' seneschale. Born
six months after the twins, Myrande had known Luthias, his brother
Roisart, and Clifton all her life. Her father, who had been castellan
to Luthias' father until he died five years ago, had been quite a
valorous man who had been awarded knighthood and arms by Clifton's
father. Myrande's mother had died days after her father, and at
fifteen, she became Seneschale of Connall. When Luthias became Baron a
month or so ago, he had asked her to stay with him, to manage his
household and to help him run the barony; Myrande was wise for her
age, and Luthias had always respected her counsel, even when, as a
boy, he had never heeded it. And now, Myrande was helping him
again--taking care of the Baron again, Luthias thought ruefully--just
by being her honest, easy-going self. Luthias sighed, wondering again
whom Sable loved. The man was a blind fool, not seeing the beauty in
her black hair and dark eyes nor the beauty of her soul.
Luthias watched Myrande walk through the garden as Marcellon
approached him and introduced himself. Luthias found himself surprised
that he actually had met Marcellon. He had been dressed in red robes
at the Melrin ball, but now he was dressed in a courtly suit of grey
and dark blue. As they waited in the Winthrop garden, Marcellon shook
his hand kindly. "I remember you, Lord Baron," said the mage with
grave kindness, which surprised Luthias even more. "You danced with
Pecora, and your brother danced with my Lauren." Marcellon smiled. "It
was a brave thing your brother did that night."
Luthias smiled awkwardly. "Braver than I, milord."
Marcellon lifted his eyebrows. "Would you not have done the same,
if you had seen the opportunity?" Luthias considered a moment, then
nodded. "Do not say he was braver, then." Marcellon looked at the
bench where Lauren and Clifton sat talking. "I know that Lord Dargon
has come to ask for her." Luthias looked at his shoes. Marcellon
smiled. "Don't worry, Lord Baron. I do not ask you to betray your
cousin. But," and the smile grew wider, "I am not a blind man. I have
seen the way they look at one another, their eyes the secret
messengers of the hearts. I've seen it before, though," Marcellon
sighed, and his eyes narrowed. "Although I doubt I've ever seen a man
so serious about her--or Lauren so serious about any man."
Luthias did not know how to respond. Clearly, Marcellon was a wise
and observant man, yet strong in his convictions. The old man smiled.
"Come, milord Baron. We are expected for dinner," then, toward
Clifton, "my lord?"
"In a moment, father," responded Lauren, her blue-green eyes not
leaving Clifton's.
The two sat silently and watched as Marcellon and Luthias made
their way from the garden, then Lauren turned to Clifton and clasped
his hand strongly. Lauren cast a quick look over her shoulder--Lady
Myrande was still walking forlornly alone. But Lauren knew--there were
things she just knew--that she need not fear Myrande. It was well;
Lauren needed to speak quickly.
"Clifton, you know it's wrong to put yourself before the duchy..."
He smiled at her warmly. "Yes, Lauren, I know, but I've spent the
past days weighing this decision. The duchy needs a direct heir, and I
want you to be my wife and the mother of our children. Your father's
test is not meant to harm people, only to determine whether they will
treat you as you deserve... and, well, I love you, and I think that
I'd be able to treat you well..." His sentence trailed off; Clifton
couldn't believe he felt embarrassed.
"But, Clifton, it could be dangerous! I don't want any harm to
come to you."
Clifton shifted on the bench. "But I won't be hurt, Lauren. It
will turn out for the best. Once this is done we shall be married."
Lauren wasn't convinced by Clifton's insatiable optimism, and her eyes
showed her deep concern, equally beyond reason.
"Clifton... Listen to me. I've heard those very words nearly a
dozen times. Each time, I watched as they confidently went to ask for
my hand. Each time I secretly hoped they would succeed, for I truly
cared for them. And each time I watched as they returned, having
failed, and I felt their hurt, their shame. Somehow their failure was
equally my failure, for I had not discouraged them. And, Clifton, I've
got far too much at stake to let you fail. Can't you see? I couldn't
stand to see you fail - not for the duchy, but for myself. If you
failed, it would kill me! I love you, can't you see that? I can't let
you fail." Lauren paused, anguish in her eyes. "If you were hurt--
gods, Clifton, if you lost your mind--"
Impulsively, the Duke of Dargon put his arms around Lauren and
held her close. "Shhh, love, I'll be fine," he assured her. He kissed
her gently.
They sat quietly as a gentle breeze moved the trees above them.
Finally, Clifton said, "I Lauren, I must try. You know the saying as
well as I, 'Nothing risked, nothing gained'. You cannot achieve
anything if you aren't willing to put what you have at the outset at
risk. And a man isn't a man if he stops achieving better things for
himself and those he loves. So, you see, I have to do this... It's the
right thing, believe me. I love you, and I don't want to live without
you, and if I don't try, I'll fail you, and myself."
Lauren reluctantly accepted Clifton's words. "I love you too,
Clifton. And I don't think I'd love you as much if you weren't willing
to do this. But remember, you're risking far more than yourself;
you're putting the duchy and everyone in it at risk, and me. I pray
you do not falter...if you did fail, I hate to think of your cousin."
She gazed at Luthias, who was standing on a patio, watching Myrande
and speaking with Marcellon. "He's lost his father and brother; could
he lose you too, and be a Duke? Clifton, he's only twenty-one."
"I know; believe me. But," and Clifton smiled, "my love, it was
Luthias, practical, sensible Luthias, who convinced me to do this.
It'll be all right," he assured her, kissing her again.
There was a sudden crash behind them. "Clod!" Luthias called with
teasing familiarity.
"Luthias?" Myrande called, rising to her feet. "Just twisted an
ankle," she answered Clifton's questioning glance. "Luthias, come
here, please. I need you."
Luthias moved toward her. Lauren smiled and said softly, so only
Clifton would hear, "He hears the words, but misses the message." At
the Duke's confusion, Lauren asked, "Didn't you know that Lady Myrande
is in love with your cousin?"
"Of course. My uncle Fionn, Luthias' father, told me some years
ago when he asked Myrande whom she wished to wed. How did you know?"
Lauren shrugged. "I just know."
"You're changing the subject," Clifton accused with amused
severity. "You still don't want me to do this?"
Lauren looked pained. "Clifton, I want to marry you. I love you
more than any other man in the world. I can't bear it if I lost you."
"Then there's nothing more to do than try," Clifton said firmly.
He helped to her feet. "Now, come, let's catch up with the others."
Clifton and Luthias were set opposite Marcellon and Lauren. At one
end of the table sat Lady and Lord Winthrop, an interesting couple who
probably would have felt more comfortable with Clifton's father, but
they managed to keep an incessant chatter alive at the table. At the
other end sat the two women: Pecora and Sable. Pecora was the daughter
of the Winthrop's, a dark-haired woman with whom both Clifton and
Luthias had shared their childhood, and whom had been through so much
recently. Sable, or Lady Myrande as she was called by everyone except
Luthias and occasionally Clifton, was certainly the more beautiful of
the two, a dark beauty, the Belle of Connall, as some had called her
before she had become seneschale and stopped going to balls. Luthias
smiled. It was long held a rumor that Myrande Shipbrook had been
promised to one of the twin lords of Connall.
Luthias noted that Clifton was in a serious mood, and understood
why, but it made the conversation drag. Although everyone in the room
were old friends, there was an air of awkwardness in the room. The
group had gone through a lot in the past few months. Pecora had taken
ill and then Kite had disappeared mysteriously. People also avoided
talking about Luthias' brother and father, as well (he wished they
wouldn't avoid them; part of Luthias needed to know that he wasn't the
only person who remembered or missed Roisart and his father). And
there was Clifton and Lauren, and surely everyone present knew about
Clifton's intent. Only Sable seemed at ease, Luthias noted. He smiled.
Sometimes he thought she was the only thing that kept him sane.
The feast ended. Luthias was relieved when his cousin finally
broached the subject of his suit to Marcellon.
"Lord Marcellon, your daughter and I have spoken at length. We
wish to be married. I ask for your blessing." Luthias was impressed;
Clifton's tone was that of a request bordering on a demand.
Marcellon's face betrayed nothing of what the man was thinking,
but he replied, choosing his words carefully, "My daughter has told
you of my whim?"
"Yes, milord."
"And you wish to prove yourself worthy of her in my eyes?"
"Yes, sir," Clifton replied firmly. Lauren closed her eyes.
Myrande saw the grief in Lauren's face, but could do nothing. Clifton
saw it, and touched her hand beneath the table.
"Very well," Marcellon agreed. "You will be provided with
everything necessary to prove yourself. When do you wish to begin?"
Clifton had committed himself now, and Luthias knew it. Clifton
gazed across the table at his cousin. If he failed--if he died, or
lost his mind--this man, this young man, would become the Duke of
Dargon. Luthias knew this, saw the concern in his cousin's eyes.
He's asking my consent for this, Luthias thought. As if he needed
it. Luthias nodded to his cousin, and heard the words he had used this
afternoon: Try for her.
"If it is possible, this evening," Clifton requested.
"Very well." Then, turning to Lord Winthrop, his brother-in-law,
"With your permission, shall we adjourn to the sitting room?" The host
nodded, and the group rose. Clifton, Marcellon and Lord Winthrop led
silently, with Lauren hanging uncertainly near Clifton and the others
behind, secretly exchanging concerned expressions. They reached the
sitting room far too quickly for Luthias' comfort.
Myrande squeezed his arm. "It's all right, Luthias."
The old mystic motioned for Clifton to sit facing him. "You shall
be facing great peril, though the purpose of this test is not to prove
your prowess at arms or to harm you. You choose any weapon or armor
you desire. What do you wish?"
Luthias could see Clifton's mind racing, and could also see the
unquiet expression he bore. "Are arms and armor necessary to succeed?"
Marcellon's brow rose in curiosity. "They are not."
"Then I shall bear neither."
"As you wish. In a moment, I shall ask you to submit to my will,
and to allow me to penetrate your self. This will not be painful, but
you must concentrate upon opening yourself to me. I shall create the
test within your mind as an illusion. You will find yourself in a
corridor. You will find an object of beauty, and you need retrieve it,
and I shall bring you back to this room. Are you prepared?"
The Duke of Dargon took and released one large breath before
replying. "I am."
Clifton shared a final glance with Lauren, which dispelled any
doubts left within him, although her face was filled with fear. He
nodded to Marcellon, and closed his eyes. He had no formal training in
wizardry, but there were books in the ducal library and in the college
at Magnus which had discussed it. He envisioned a door in his chest
and willed it open, feeling the vulnerability and insecurity beneath
his outward strength and resolution. He kept his mind from wandering
and concentrated upon it.
He suddenly knew that Marcellon was within him; not within his
body, but within his mind. Startled at the alien feeling, Clifton
opened his eyes, but still saw nothing. Suddenly, as if he had been
thrown into a pond, there was another person within him. His eyes
could see, but what they saw was definitely strange. He was sitting
with several other people in a small circle at the edge of a field,
eating something that looked very much like worms in red mud. Around
them stood several canvas shelters which stood of their own accord.
One of the people near him, a dark-haired woman in a revealing white
tunic, turned suddenly toward him and spoke.
"Well, I think you look more like Luthias than Clifton..."
As he went to speak, he felt his lips moving, yet the words that
he spoke were not his own. "Well, of course, everyone will have
different pictures of what's been written about, like the climate.
I've always pictured Dargon as being like Maine, but other people will
have different ideas..."
Clifton thought he felt the third person leave his mind as his
eyes drained; then he lost consciousness.
Clifton awoke in a grey stone passageway, lit by an occasional
sconce. To either side the corridor continued perhaps 30 paces before
ending, a door at each end. Clifton waited several moments to be sure
that his head was clear, then walked down the passageway to his left.
He stopped before the large wooden door, his conversation with
Marcellon going through his mind once more. The test was to bring back
something of beauty. Clifton gathered himself and opened the door.
Any semblance of secrecy he had desired was shattered by the
protest of the seemingly ancient door. That decided, Clifton swung the
door more forcibly open and strode into the huge room beyond. What he
saw was enough to make him take several steps backward. The room was
dominated by a large grayish mound surrounded by hundreds of huge,
black insects. They were built like wasps, but each was the size of a
small dog. The noise of the door had created a commotion, and the air
about the nest was full of the insects. Clifton watched in horror as a
single insect, larger than the others, emerged from the nest and rose
to the air. The other insects flocked to follow it as it led the way
toward the intruder.
Clifton, of course, knew what he faced. There was a story which
parents would tell their children about such insects. It would
normally scare the children enough to keep them from playing with
hornet and wasp nests and getting hurt. Clifton, as a child, had even
told the story to his cousins, Luthias and Roisart, and Myrande, when
he was the lordly age of twelve, and they were but six and five. The
Wasp-King cruelly ruled all flying insects by terror. His temper was
swift and his bite death. His greatest treasures was his colony, and
the colony's greatest treasure was a flower which it kept preserved
inside the hive.
Clifton knew that the flower was to be the object of his test, and
his heart sank. He had always held a secret fear of flying insects,
and his fear now was maddening. The Wasp-King arrived and dropped to
the ground less than an arm-length before him as his comrades circled
above. The thing, for Clifton could not call it a beast, twitched and
turned, its antennae brushing Clifton, who dared not move. Suddenly,
he heard the thing speaking within his mind; the absolute alienness of
the thing inside his head threw him violently to the ground. A
thousand voices echoed, "WHY DOES IT INVADE US?"
The assault ended, and Clifton rose to his hands and spoke. "I
have been sent... I have need of your flower, your treasure." Clifton
dared not raise his head to look at the abomination. He steeled
himself for another assault.
"WHY DOES IT NEED OUR TREASURE-FLOWER?"
"I wish to marry a woman of my race. It will only be permitted if
I bring back the flower."
"IT MAY NOT HAVE THE TREASURE-FLOWER."
Clifton felt enraged for a moment, and it blocked out his fear.
For a wild moment, he wanted to attack the Wasp-King, splatter its
brains on the floor. But better sense prevailed; he was unarmed, and
even if he had a legendary sword, he could not succeed against the
wasp horde. Besides, he bore them no ill. He thought of Lauren, and
spoke again.
"I again ask you for your treasure-flower. I will not be able to
marry the woman without it."
The sea of emotionless voices returned unmercifully. "IT IS NOT OF
US; WE DO NOT CARE. MANY ITS HAVE INVADED US AND ATTACKED OUR HIVE;
WHY? THIS IT DOES NOT ATTACK; IT SPEAKS. WHY?"
Clifton knew no way to explain why other humans had come and why
they had acted differently. "The others were renegades." Well, it
wasn't quite accurate, but maybe they'd understand the basic gist. "I
speak because I am wiser, and have no need to attack, for I mean you
no harm. I only come for the treasure-flower."
"IT MEANS US NO HARM? THE OTHER ITS HAVE INVADED US AND ATTACKED
US WITH BLADES. THIS IT WILL DO THE SAME."
"No, I mean no harm," Clifton repeated. A thought struck him. "If
I can have the flower, I will leave, and I will insure that no other
'its' will come to attack you."
The thing buzzed and twitched, and Clifton breathed deeply, still
on his hands and knees. At least he wasn't in imminent danger. The
legend had said nothing about the things being able to talk, and that
was the most painful part of the ordeal. Then the voices returned.
"IT MAY HAVE THE TREASURE-FLOWER, BUT IT MUST PROVE IT IS NOT
RENEGADE. IT MUST GO AMONG US AND GET TREASURE-FLOWER."
Clifton didn't quite understand the words, but his contact with
the thing told him that the flower would be just within the hive. The
Wasp-King rose into the air as Clifton stumbled to his feet.
The distance was less than 30 paces, but it took Clifton several
minutes. The insects were all around him, and he stumbled blindly
toward the hive. He closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears,
but he couldn't block out their feelers or their wings, which were
constantly around him. He couldn't block out the droning of their
wings, or the memory of their eyes. Nor their insane presense in his
mind. It took all his will to keep from running, but he knew that if
he did, they would flock to attack him, stinging him repeatedly. He
struggled onward, until he reached the papery hive entry, which stood
about half his height. He rolled onto his back and stuck his head and
arms underneath the opening and felt above the entry. Finally coming
upon what seemed to be a large flower, he carefully removed it from
the wall and struggled out.
He opened his eyes only long enough to be sure that he had the
flower, and began walking slowly back toward the doorway. The insects
slowly dispersed, and he finally stumbled the last few steps to the
doorway. There had never been a sound so delightful to Clifton as the
complaint of the iron-shod oak and the satisfying boom of it as it met
the jam. Exhausted, Clifton sank to the floor, propped his back
against the door, and slept.
Luthias began to wonder why someone hadn't asked Marcellon how
long this thing would last. It had been several minutes, but no one
had dared to leave the room, least of all Luthias, with Sable at his
side, and Lauren. Would this take minutes or hours, or days? No one
had spoken; everyone was watching Clifton, yet his countenance had not
changed since they had begun. His long face showed little of the youth
it had when he and Luthias had spent more time together. Nor had
Marcellon's, of course, as he been in some sort of trance as well.
"How long?" Luthias finally asked Lady Lauren.
She stopped pacing, stared a him a moment. "A few more minutes,"
she faltered. "Not long, Lord Luthias," she assured him, with a shaky
attempt at a smile. "It is never long."
Myrande looked at the seemingly sleeping Duke. "I don't like the
way he breathes," she said, noting Clifton's labored pants.
Lauren whirled upon Luthias. "Is anything wrong with his heart?"
No one noticed the informality. Luthias shook his head. "He loves
you. Don't worry," Luthias tried to convince Lauren, but he sounded
too worried himself. He grimaced and walked away a few steps.
Lauren watched as Myrande followed Luthias with her eyes. When
Luthias was out of earshot, she asked, "How long have you loved him?"
Myrande appeared startled. "Since I was sixteen, seventeen." She
smiled. "Is it so obvious?"
"I just know things, sometimes," Lauren reassured her. "Clifton
said something about you asking Luthias' father for his hand..."
"Not exactly, my lady," Myrande replied, watching Luthias. They
were speaking softly, and Luthias looked like he had slipped into
another world. "When I was sixteen, Luthias' father, Fionn, asked me
if there was any man I preferred, so he could see about a marriage for
me. I told him, and he said we should wait." She swallowed. "And so I
have waited."
"And you can't stop loving him?" Myrande shook her head. Lauren
sighed. "I never knew what that was like...until Clifton..." She
looked at her love, still breathing heavily. "It should be soon..."
Soon, indeed they both showed signs of waking up, and everyone
watched anxiously as Clifton took a deep breath. Both Luthias and
Lauren caught their breath as they saw the haunted look in Clifton's
eyes as he opened them, then slumped back into the chair.
"He is fine, just let him rest a while." Marcellon said groggily.
Luthias thought that Marcellon could probably use the rest as well.
Still, Lauren went to the Duke's side. Clifton opened his eyes,
smiled weakly. "Flower, my lady?" he asked, holding out to her a white
rose, but his hand fell weakly to his chest, and he gave in to sleep.
"Father!" came Lauren's cry. Luthias saw her pointing at Clifton,
and noticed, for the first time, a delicate white papery rose lying
across his chest, and knew what it meant. Luthias grinned, most of the
tension leaving him. Sable was suddenly beside him, and they shared a
smile. Lauren continued whooping--there was no other word for it--"He
did it! We have your blessing?"
Marcellon looked stern. "I will have to give it some thought."
Luthias' grin crashed and was deformed into a frown. "What?"
Lauren's expression was one which only a father could bear. "But,
father, he's done it! He's fulfilled the test! He's proven himself."
"Yes, he has. He is a good man, and I promise to let you know if I
find him acceptable."
"Find him acceptable?" Luthias was startled to hear Myrande's
voice. He stared at her. She was angry, a black kitten with claws.
"What do you mean? He loves her, Lord Marcellon. Don't you know how
lucky she is to love a man who actually loves her back?"
Luthias winced. Marcellon looked at Lady Myrande sorrowfully and
shook his head. "There ss more to it, milady. You do not understand."
"What is there to understand? You are denying me what I have
waited years to have! Father, he's passed your damned test, and he's
the Lord of Dargon! I refuse to allow you to be so unreasonable."
"Unreasonable?" Marcellon thundered. "Would you end up as your
sister did?"
"Clifton would never so abuse me," Lauren said haughtily, pride in
her eyes and her posture.
"You cannot have him," Marcellon announced with finality.
"No!" Lauren replied.
"What?" Marcellon asked, his voice incredulous and furious.
"I said no. I love him, and if you cannot find it in you to
approve after he has gone through so much, then I shall marry him
without your blessing!"
"I am a wizard and--"
"I know that you're a wizard. Do you think I am without power of
my own--or that I fear you more than I love Clifton? Father, I've seen
some of your books and I know some of your tricks. You may kill us,
but it will take time and effort, and in the end, at least we'll die
together!" Lauren turned to Luthias. "Help me take Clifton home."
Luthias moved to lift his cousin, and Lauren turned to him, but
her father grabbed her wrist.
"You defy me, then?"
Lauren's head was high. "I love him, Father. I will marry him,
with or without your consent."
Marcellon slumped into a chair and closed his eyes. "Thank God."
Lauren was on the defensive. "What?"
Marcellon smiled and waited before continuing. "Now listen,
Lauren. Clifton has proved himself worthy of you. No other man has
passed my test of him--gaining something delicate, such as your love,
without using force. But what if you did not love him? I would not
allow you to marry someone whom you did not love, even if he succeeded
in passing my test."
Lauren was wondering if she should faint. "Then why the test? Why
didn't you just ask me whom I loved?"
"I did not want you beaten and abused, dearest," Marcellon said
affectionately. "If you remember, your sister loved her husband. I
wanted that test, to keep you alive and happy. But if the right man
passed, and you did not love him..."
"But you knew I loved Clifton!"
"Yes, and you loved the others, but would you have defied me for
any of them?" Lauren shook her head. "I thought not. And so, there was
a second test, my dear. Your test."
"What?" Lauren seemed on the edge of fury.
"You had to be worthy of him, as well. Until you defied me, you
had not proved yourself or your love to me. I know you must be angry
with me, but it was necessary."
Lauren understood, though she clearly had not approved of her
father toying with her. "I understand, Father." She returned to
Clifton's side and he quietly smiled. With that, the last of her anger
vanished.
"Put him down, Lord Luthias," Marcellon commanded, smiling.
"Lauren, wake him."
Something gentle and soft touched Clifton's lips, and he woke. "I
brought you a flower, Lauren," he mumbled. Then he saw Marcellon
standing behind his daughter. Luthias felt distinctly out of place.
Clifton stood proudly, although he felt exhausted. "I ask again for
your blessing."
Marcellon smiled and bowed. "You have it, your grace--or may I
say, my son?"
Clifton cheered, grabbed Lauren, kissed her lips, twirled her
through the air. She laughed like a girl. Marcellon beamed his
approval, until finally Clifton put down the man's daughter and shook
his future father-in-law's hand.
"Thank you...Father," Clifton said. Marcellon embraced him.
Clifton turned to Luthias. "Come on, manling, we've got a lot of
planning to do."
"Where are we going and what are we planning?"
"Home--the wedding, manling, the wedding!"
"When will you be getting married?" Marcellon asked.
Clifton blinked, then looked at Lauren. "Next week?"
"Next week?!" Marcellon protested.
"I don't want to wait," Clifton said dreamily, putting his arms
around Lauren.
"Nor I," Lauren agreed, laying her head on his shoulder.
"So soon..." Marcellon said uncertainly.
"What's to be gained by waiting?" Luthias argued practically.
"Very well," Marcellon agreed, smiling. "Next week." Clifton
kissed his bride as a celebration of the concession.
Marcellon touched Luthias' shoulder. "Come, milord. I think they'd
prefer to be alone."
Unnoticed, Marcellon, Myrande, and Luthias left the room. Walking
through the halls, Luthias offered his arm to Myrande. She smiled,
took it. "Well," sighed the Baron of Connall, "it looks like we're
having a wedding after all, Sable." Sable laughed softly. Luthias
stopped, looked at her. "I'm sorry it can't be yours."
Myrande elevated herself on her toes, and kissed his cheek. "Give
it time, my lord," she said, smiling. She leaned on his shoulder
contently. "Give it time."
-M. Wendy Hennequin
and David A. Liscomb