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