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 9 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 9/24/2000 Volume 13, Number 9 Circulation: 753 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Loren Armare 2 Max Khaytsus Yuli 8, 1014 Talisman Six 1 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Firil 25-26, 1011 Magestorm 4 Mark A. Murray Ober 1017 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondence to or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. Back issues are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 13-9, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright September, 2000 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , 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 If you read the Editorial in our last issue, you'll recall that I wrote about our desire to return to a balance of short stories as well as more lengthy serialized storylines. Although this issue continues the same three serials which appeared last time, I think you'll still enjoy the stories presented here. Although Max Khaytsus' "Loren Armare 2" is the second in a three-part series, each of his episodes is a complete story unto itself. Dafydd's Talisman saga continues with the dramatic first installment of a two-part story which will be concluded in our next issue. And we finally get to the climax of Mark Murray's "Magestorm" story arc in our final story. Each of these stories is particularly exciting and interesting, and I think you'll enjoy reading them, whether you have been following these storylines for some time or are just checking us out for the first time. Of course, if you're new to DargonZine, you may also want to go back and check out the previous chapters of these stories, as well. And look for us to resume printing more standalone short stories in future issues. Our writers have been very busy, cranking out lots of great reading material, and I'm really excited about bringing it to you as soon as the issues are ready. We might also have a particular treat later in the year: an issue with five brand-new stories from six different writers (a couple of them are co-authored)! So there's plenty of great fiction in the works. But for now I hope you enjoy the three great stories that we have for you in this issue. ======================================================================== Loren Armare Parte 2 by Max Khaytsus Yuli 8, 1014 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-8 The instant the very repute of land is mentioned, the people seem to bid farewell to virtue, worth and merit, to common sense and prudence, and act with the primitive barbarism of tyrants in conquest of frontiers tended by their neighbors. "Videre Virile" (unfinished) Lord Bistra Scire Deriman, College Guild of Khronica Captain Tybalt Binu squinted in the bright daylight, trying to read the name of a lone cog fighting its way upriver on the Laraka. It was a hot summer day not particularly hospitable to waging war, but war was not a trade that could be scheduled based on weather. Any contact with the enemy came at an inopportune time. The cog he was watching was, without a doubt, a Beinison ship. The scouts had noticed it over a bell earlier, slowly making its way up the Laraka, fighting the strong current the whole way. Halting the regiment's advance, Binu had scrambled to higher ground to evaluate the ship and the risk it presented and decide how to deal with the vessel as it slowly caught up with his position. The fading Beinison lettering on the ship's side identified the enemy cog. In war there was little time to maintain the paint when men and supplies had to be ferried back and forth. Binu recognized the characters as members of the Beinison alphabet, but was unable to put them together. The few words that he knew came from tales told by his second-in-command, Hakan Magnus, but those words had come with no description of letters associated with them. The cog, set low in the dark water, hinted that it was loaded with supplies, no doubt looted from the shops and markets in Port Sevlyn and Sharks' Cove -- Quinnat's contribution to the Beinison war effort. A group of sailors stood gathered on deck at the front of the ship, right above the barely legible name. Tybalt shifted uneasily. Did it make sense to let the ship go through? Besides the consideration of how critical the supplies were to both sides, there was also a question regarding the nature of the ship. Cogs were among the toughest, sturdiest and most flexible ships in the service of any navy, but they weren't galleons. And as soon as one disappeared, people would take notice. It would be hard to hide a cog from passing traffic on a river such as the Laraka. Yet, waiting for a galleon could cost them the fortress at Gateway. Soft rustling in the brush alerted Binu of company and he shifted off to the side, to let the others join him. He recognized the footsteps: Magnus and Bellen. Two others with them. No one spoke. "Can you read it, Magnus?" Long moments of silence passed while the younger man squinted, trying to see against the glare of the sun across the water. "Older script. Southern influence." Another long pause. "_Tolazhur_ Tolah er-Zhur. Tolah ihn-Pehal er-Zhur!" "Are you going to sneeze?" Catalin Bellen chided. Tybalt turned back, ignoring the woman's remark. "The Prince of Lashkir?" Magnus nodded. "But I'd expect a prince's name on better walls." "I want that ship, Magnus," Tybalt turned back to the river. "Look how low she is. She's loaded with supplies. We can't let her reach Gateway." "We'll take her, sir," the officer promised. Retreating footsteps sounded in the brush behind Tybalt Binu and he turned back to the cog slowly heading their way. He could now see most of the deck, exposed below his position, with a ballista secured down with heavy rope right at the forward tip of the deck and a second one secured sideways behind it. He frowned at the idea of this ship passing supplies to the army upstream. There was no way he could permit this to happen and he was positive that Baron ReVell Dower, leading three more regiments upriver a half day behind this force, would want nothing less. In this darkest moment any miniscule amount of help Gateway received could be paid back with a much-needed victory. Any break in the enemy's overextended supply line could mean the difference between Baranur's victory or eventual defeat. "Magnus, slow down," Catalin hurried after her companion. "What does that name mean? Who's the Prince of Lashkir?" "Durn, get me some men," Magnus sent one of the attending soldiers away, pausing to let the woman catch up to him. "Tolah." "Yes, who is that?" Her shorter stride did not allow her to bounce down the side of the hill as easily as Magnus and while her zeal to take the Beinison ship was just as great, her ability to keep up was somewhat hampered. "Tolah ihn-Pehal er-Zhur -- Tolah, son of Pehal, of the City of Zhur -- was a Lashkirian warrior in the last century. He was a minor noble who ascended to princedom by attrition of his family in the war with Beinison. He held Lashkir against the Beinison army for over five years before being crushed. With an army of about ten thousand, he out-maneuvered and out-fought a giant thrice his size before the Fist of the Emperor itself trapped and killed him in the desert. Some even say that he never really died, that he's the savior -- the sahwi -- who will return to free Lashkir from Beinison." "Is this real history or just a story?" Catalin asked. "He really lived when Beinison conquered Lashkir a hundred years ago," Magnus answered. "He martyred himself for his country, but I don't believe in prophets. He was merely a skilled general who fell to our common enemy. What surprised me is that his name is on that ship." "Let's hope his spirit helps us today," Catalin whispered. Magnus looked towards the river, hidden somewhere behind the trees. "We've got more men, but we're storming a fortress. We have to use them wisely." "Let's go down, take a look at the river." Followed by a pair of soldiers, Magnus and Catalin made their way closer to the water, watching the large ship slowly move against the current and wind. The ship fought the elements at a pace that was barely as fast as a walking man, her crew shifting and adjusting sails and forcing the ship to zig and zag through the wind. "It's a hard life," Catalin commented, watching the crew battle what was only a light cooling wind on land. "We can make use of their hardship, though. The ship is moving slowly." "Listen, what if I give you a better target?" Catalin asked. "How?" "Say I take a dozen archers to the other bank and herd the ship to you?" "Must be a quarter league swim," Magnus noted. "So we'll leave our armor here." Magnus considered. Baron Dower had three full regiments on the north bank of the Laraka, one of them less than five leagues behind them, and there were patrols as far as five leagues in either direction, watching for both stray Beinison troops and ships. There was no danger in letting archers cross to the other shore, except that they would have no cover from the Beinison vessel. On open water they could be spotted in a matter of moments. "How will you cross?" "Downstream, maybe a quarter league back, then catch back up." "Think that'll give us a better chance?" "You do." Magnus nodded in agreement. "I do that. You get them close enough for us to board, we've got them." Catalin started undoing buckles on her corselet in preparation for her task. By the time she was done, a hundred soldiers stood around the two lieutenants, waiting for orders. "Archers by that tree," Catalin pointed beyond the circle, letting her heavy armor drop to the ground. Soldiers with bows started separating away from the main group. It was understood among them without any additional instructions that even though most of them had bows and knew how to use them, when archers were ordered to separate from the main body, it was implied that only the best were needed. "Here," Catalin handed her sheathed sword to Magnus. "It's my father's. I don't care about the armor, but if something happens to this sword, a fifty year old man will hunt you down through fire and snow and beat the life right out of you. Straight?" "You don't really mean that, do you?" he asked. "Which?" "The armor." "No. I expect you to defend it with your life, but if only two can come out and your life absolutely has to be one of them, the sword will be the other. Straight?" "Straight," Magnus agreed. "I'll be sure to put it ahead of my life. Better I fall to honor a sword than to satisfy an old man's vengeance." Catalin headed for the tree where the archers waited. There were fewer than she expected. "I hoped for more," she commented to the other lieutenant, but did not stop to send for more men. "Everyone out of your armor," she ordered. "We're going for a swim." The soldiers started undressing to a salvo of cheers and whistles from their companions. "Beat you on the head!" one of the archers yelled back. "Even the sergeants get no respect," Magnus laughed. Catalin studied the twelve men and two women preparing to cross the river with her. She knew everyone in the regiment could swim. That was a requirement. But she worried about the duration of the swim. The water was cold from the mid-summer mountain run-offs and the current strong and the distance was a serious stretch on any day. And compounded by a strong need for concealment, the crossing would be difficult at best. "We'll attack immediately, if they spot you," Magnus detected her concern. Catalin nodded, but did not answer. "Sergeant, bows only. Quarter league downstream." "You heard her, slugs. *Run*!" The sergeant's weathered voice incited the archers into a trot. "We'll be back this evening," Catalin cast her farewell and followed the small squad. "Durn," Magnus called to his assistant, "give them an escort, now!" A score of fully armored men quickly detached from the group and followed the archers downstream. The remainder of the men reorganized in anticipation of further orders. "Skoji," Magnus called one of the other sergeants once the archers and their escorts were out of sight, "set up a full perimeter a league upstream. We're taking that ship. I want observers a quarter league in either direction, a couple of men on the hill behind us and some archers to pick off any strays and offer cover in case of a retreat." "We won't be retreating, sir," Skoji said confidently. "They'll be retreating and without a bridge, the men will have to get their britches wet." "We'll improvise, Skoji. If there is no bridge, we'll build one. And if Tolah can't come to us, we'll go to him." "Aye, sir." The men quickly moved upriver, hidden from the Beinison cog by trees and thick bushes. Dispatching a message to Captain Binu and another to the remainder of the regiment, Magnus followed his men east. They had plenty of time to set up their offensive. It would take at least a bell for Catalin to go downstream, cross the river and come back up on the other side. The exercise on the whole would be much harder on the archers. Finishing his tasks, Magnus hurried after his men, catching up to them as Sergeants Skoji and Dyl directed the men into their positions. He paused, examining the site his men had chosen. It was in a narrowing of the river where it straightened out from its northwesterly flow and headed directly west. The rough shores created an obstacle for the rapidly flowing waters, causing sporadic foaming rapids along the shore to create additional navigation hazards. It was a good spot where the cog would have to battle the turn and the flow of the river all at the same time. Soldiers crawled through the brush, gathering in small clusters along the shore. In moments there would be no trace of almost one hundred men as they settled to wait for the approaching enemy. "Skoji, concentrate the men just after that bend," Magnus pointed to a cluster of rocks and mud extending into the river, "and put a smaller group just on the other side." He broke a twig off a bush and sketched the shore. "First wave here, then here. The remainder can hold on to the other side until we need them. Dyl, pass the word. We're going for a swim, although shorter. Let the men judge for themselves if they can handle the water in mail and if their mail can handle the rust. I want you to take the west end of the point, short of those rocks. If the ship drifts back past them or turns to run, I want you to attack. Otherwise, hold in reserve in the event that we'll need you on the east side." With a nod of agreement, the sergeant disappeared into the green of the forest to organize his men. Magnus sat back, watching the _Tolazhur_ slowly approach. He was aware that Catalin's plan could cause severe damage on the deck of the Beinison ship and force the crew to take the vessel closer to the south shore, but the problem of having his own people cross into the river under a possible missile assault from both the ship and his own regiment's archers was a threat he would have to live with. He intended to lead the first wave himself, using the cog as a shield from Catalin's assault and hopefully permitting the attack to be a sufficient distraction to halt the vessel's progress upriver. The remaining men would have to depend on his ability to board and immobilize the enemy ship. Almost completely dry after the lengthy swim, Catalin Bellen directed her troops to set an extended perimeter along the north shore of the Laraka, two men to a group, spaced over a quarter league of the northern shoreline of the Laraka. Her goal was to herd the Beinison ship towards the other shore or at least hamper its progress enough for Magnus to get his men on board. Her only way of doing that was by creating the illusion of a large force on her shore and to make every single arrow count. Studying the south shore, she saw no evidence of Magnus or his men, but had a good guess at their positions. The main body's lookouts signaled them with metal mirrors, indicating the points along the shore from which the attack would take place. Without knowing in advance, there was no way to tell that a force one hundred soldiers strong was located mere feet away from the waterline. The ship, which she had once again overtaken, was closing to comfortable bow range and the soldiers were all set for the attack. Catalin herself took up a position shielded by a bush between some rocks where the forest turned into the narrow dirty beach of the river, and prepared her own bow. She was a good shot and felt confident that even if the Beinison ship, Tolah someone or other, was to drift all the way to the opposite shore, almost a quarter league away, she would still have a good chance of bringing down anyone stupid enough to expose themselves to her view. The unusual concept of a land-bound army attacking a naval vessel was not lost on her. Catalin was aware of land-based catapults being used to attack ships offshore as a defensive measure, preventing them from approaching, but here, as a purely offensive gesture she suspected that she might be among the first to wage war from land and onto water, aggressively using ranged weapons to force a naval vessel into close combat. "All set, ma'am," the sergeant's voice sounded from somewhere behind Catalin. "Just as we planned," she answered without looking back. "Anyone exposed on deck goes down. Take your time. I want every shot to count before they get out of range." Rustling of branches was the only answer she heard. Long moments passed while the cog came before the position of the archers hidden in the brush. Catalin wondered how long it would take for the vessel to come in-line with the first team, when she saw a sailor, working on the ropes a respectable distance above the deck, tumble down. A few sailors rushed to him. What seemed like an eternity passed as they gathered around the fallen man, when another in the crowd fell over. Commotion overtook the deck of the ship. Catalin leveled her bow, setting and bracing for the shot. She had a perfect view of the lookout in the crow's nest, accented by a large white cloud behind it. She could see what appeared to be an arrow lodged in the wall of the nest, indicating that one of her men had already tried to make that shot. As she aimed, she heard the snap of an arrow being released to her right and another man fell on deck. A patient moment passed as she adjusted her aim for the light wind. The ship's course held. Catalin released her arrow. For a moment there was no indication that she hit, then the man in the crow's nest staggered and disappeared from sight. Another arrow was released somewhere near her. She picked up an arrow that was waiting its turn and again took aim. There were only a handful of men visible on the cog's deck and the most prominent of them appeared to be the ship's pilot. Catalin took aim. The man was not moving and as she forced her eyes to see the full distance, she realized that the Beinison pilot had sunk down to his knees, still holding on to the wheel, as if tied to the instrument. The other sailors were taking cover. The deck of the ship remained empty for a moment. Another arrow penetrated the pilot, someone deciding it would be good to make sure he was dead. Then a pair of heads appeared over the railing on the left side of the ship. The tip of a bow could be seen near of the heads. Catalin took careful aim, but several other arrows beat her to the target, most sticking in the hull of the ship, but perhaps one or two hitting their targets. The two men disappeared behind the rail. She laughed to herself. Stupid sailors. Being on water is akin to being a huge target with no terrain to take advantage of. With no timely control over the sails and rudder, the ship slowed down, no longer following its crisscross pattern though the current and wind. The only sailor visible on deck was the dead pilot, now attached to the wheel by at least three arrows, a grim phantom blindly guiding the vessel into the wind. A terrifying crack and splintering disturbed the quiet of the river as a huge bolt tore through the hull at the front of the ship. The blindly launched ballista missile passed over the water and beach, crashing into the trees on shore. Catalin's instincts had forced her to duck, although the bolt had been too high and too far upstream to be a threat to her. She considered her men upriver. The bolt had probably been too high to hit anyone, unless they had been in a tree, and she did not expect that to be the case for archers intending to make their shots. "Is anyone hurt?" There was lasting silence, which caused her concern. "They're hunting firewood," a voice eventually came back. Catalin released her breath. That would have been a stupid way to die. She waited, then got back up to her knees and looked at the vessel. _Tolazhur_ free-drifted, caught in the wind and the current as the river bent to flow northwest. Twirling waters at a jagged outcropping forced the ship to begin to turn with the flow of the river. A swirl of water at the jagged shoreline made it totter, shaking the dead pilot loose off the wheel. Someone else was crawling along the deck to take his place. The man got to the body, checked it, then pushed the pilot away and, getting up on his knees, took his place. Several more arrows were released nearby, all targeting the brave Benosian sailor. The man on deck froze. _Tolazhur_ moved slowly against the strong current. It was not a particularly graceful ship, but its job was war, not speed. It moved along the river, trying to take the current at its best speed, crisscrossing from one shore to the other. As it neared the rock outcropping, _Tolazhur_ slowed. The scattered rocks broke the pattern the vessel kept as it sailed against the current and the wind and the sails were adjusted to modify the course. From his position on shore, Magnus had a perfect view of the man in the crow's nest, with at least two arrows in him, go tumbling from his perch high above the ship. He fell into the water, creating a splash, and just floated. An arrow in his back pointed straight up, the fletchings a distinct marker of the Arvalian regiment. For a moment there was commotion on the deck. Sailors ran around; some screamed. At least one more body slid across the deck as an arrow hit it. Someone jumped overboard. Magnus tensed. They were not ready for the Beinison sailors to abandon ship. There was no reaction from any of the men in the brush and he hoped that would last until they could take the man by surprise. As the escaping sailor made his way to shore, all commotion on the deck of the ship ceased. Magnus was contemplating ordering his men forward when a loud crack sounded from the vessel. It sounded like a ballista and Magnus was ready to bet that the target was the other shore. He drew Catalin's sword and got ready to charge the ship. The Beinison sailor in the river was now waist deep in the water and was blindly heading for shore. He hit the sand, took one look back, and noisily entered the bushes. The brush shook as he moved through it, then, abruptly, all motion ceased. Magnus smiled and headed for the waterline. Others had already appeared from the brush and a pair of men with grapples hooked the side of the ship. The silent assault was well on its way. A soldier, sword slung over his back, was freeclimbing the rope. Another was throwing a third line. More and more men were making their way into the river. Magnus paused, watching the ship rock in the water. It was caught in a more rapid current coming around the bend up ahead and had been pushed downstream and towards the shore. _Tolazhur_ was slowly turning in the water and drifting backwards to where Dyl held the reserve men. Suppressing the wide grin, Magnus replaced Catalin's sword in the scabbard on his back and burst into the water, heading for one of the four lines now hanging over the side of the ship. When he was hip deep in the water, he broke into a swim, rapidly covering the short distance to the ship. "Stand down," he warned the man getting ready to climb and eagerly took his place. The water receded below him as he easily climbed hand over hand, occasionally using his feet for added traction on the hull of the ship. A body tumbled overboard, nearly knocking Magnus off his rope and landed in the water like a sack of flour. Magnus secured his grip, shifted on the hull of the ship and continued his climb, occasionally glancing up towards the deck. A few more feet and he made it up to the deck of the cog, where a battle was already raging. As he grabbed hold of the rail, a large knife came down hard on the rope he held on to and it went limp in his hand. Releasing the severed line, Magnus lunged for the man with the knife, grappling him by his weapon arm and opposing shoulder. He was now suspended over the water, supported only by an enemy soldier struggling to stay on the ship. At this particular moment the risk of falling ten feet back into the river was delicately balanced by the threat of being stabbed with the knife. Ultimately, a few bruises and a nose full of water were infinitely preferable to being stabbed. The man Magnus grappled was a large sailor, strong from years of hard labor at sea. He lifted the Baranurian soldier and smashed him into the rail. Magnus heard something crack. He wasn't sure if it was the rail or Catalin's scabbard, but he was fairly certain it was not his back. He could feel the scabbard's hard edge along his ribs, easily out of his reach. His own sword dangled off a scabbard on his waist, too low for him to be able to grab without taking a risk of being stabbed or thrown. He was glad that he was no longer over the river. Releasing the sailor's shoulder, Magnus punched the man in the face, but retained the grip on his forearm, trying to make sure the knife stayed right where it was. The large sailor was hardly fazed by the punch. He kicked at the Baranurian lieutenant and backhanded him with his freed arm. A weaponless combat could go on for a while and Magnus knew that if he could only pull his sword, taking down a poorly armed sailor would be trivial. The trick, though, was to get up without being stabbed first. He twisted, trying to tangle the sailor's legs in his own, preventing him from kicking again and possibly taking him down. Instead he found that the sailor had grabbed him by his neck and was lifting him up once again. Magnus gasped, grabbing hold of the man's wrist, trying to pull his arm away. He was now trying to hold back a knife with his off hand and break the choking hold on his throat with the right. He managed to get his feet firmly on the ground, bringing himself face to face with his opponent. The sailor was young, but weather worn, indicating he had been at sea for many years. His face was contorted in anger and pain and he was pushing Magnus backwards, back over the rail. Magnus struggled for breath, realizing that he could not both fight to break the sailor's grip on his neck and stay on the ship at the same time. He shifted to better his position, then brought up his foot and forced it against the man's stomach, firmly wedging himself between the sailor and the ship's rail. This evened out the fight. Now the sailor had to decide if he wanted to choke Magnus unconscious or simply fling him back into the river. Either way, the knife would have to go. A few moments passed as the two men wrestled for control, then the sailor let the knife drop and attempted to reverse Magnus' grip on his arm. As their positions changed, Magnus was able to fully extend his leg, kicking the sailor backwards, leaving scratches on his own neck as the sailor tumbled backwards. Right then Magnus felt a rush of air and a whistling noise as an arrow flew past his ear. It had missed the sailor by a mere moment. Magnus had no idea where the arrow came from or who it was meant for. He was hoping that his own archers, on the hill behind him, had been trying to help. At least that was what he hoped. He did not want to be saved by archers a quarter league away, trying to get in a lucky shot, nor assaulted by anyone on the ship who just happened to have a bow. He dropped down to take cover behind the rail, drawing his sword as he did so. The sailor was quick to get up, once again towering over Magnus. There was a great height differential and fighting from a squatting position was far less than what Magnus intended to do. He was at a disadvantage already, realizing that only he and two other soldiers from his regiment were on _Tolazhur_. They were also now facing off what must have been a dozen mad sailors. Magnus lunged forward, coming down hard on both knees, thrusting his sword up at the sailor who had attacked him. The blade slid along the man's stomach and catching on his breastbone penetrated his skin, sinking deep under his ribs. The sailor gasped and tumbled forward, almost crushing Magnus in his fall, giving him no chance to retrieve the sword. For the moment no one on deck moved. No one wanted to risk getting hit with an arrow and as Magnus looked about, he realized that a dozen bodies already lay dead on the deck of the ship. Two were his own men. The others were Beinison sailors and most had arrows poking out of them. The deck of the ship ran for what seemed to be fifty feet in either direction. There were two ladders leading to the higher deck both ahead and behind him. The Beinison sailors were all around. Magnus didn't like these odds. Magnus observed one Beinison sailor climb out a door below the rear upper deck and head his way. The man had a sword in hand and his intentions were easy to guess. As the sailor got close, Magnus drew Catalin's sword from the scabbard on his back and leapt forward to meet his opponent. Their swords clashed above them. The sailor was strong, but not a very good swordsman. Magnus parried, feinted a strike, then brought the sword around and let it sink into the sailor's ribs, catching him in the middle of a needless parry. Whether alive or dead, the sailor dropped, clearly no longer able to fight. The fight paused for a few moments with Magnus being the only man still standing. He turned in place, making eye contact with everyone on deck. The Beinison sailors were at a disadvantage here. If they waited long enough, allowing themselves to be pinned down by the archers, the Baranurian troops would again try to board. Magnus had the time to waste. No doubt they must have realized it. There was a sudden yell and Magnus spun about to catch of glimpse of one of his men engaged in combat just before being swept off his own feet by two more sailors. He felt his back impact the ship's rail and heard the now familiar crack. He had no doubt that what had given way had been the now empty scabbard, but the sheath was the least of his concerns. Engaged in close combat, there was no real way to use a sword and that was fairly evident when a gloved hand made contact with his jaw, momentarily throwing him off balance. The back of his head impacted the top of the rail and he struggled forward to make sure he wouldn't be thrown overboard. An opportune target passed in his line of vision and he thrust out his arm, hoping that a hastily made fist would catch the head that was passing over him. Even though he could not see it, he felt a satisfying connection between his fist and what must have been his assailant's head. The man staggered backwards. Before Magnus could regain his feet, he felt a punch to his midsection and instantly realized that the wind had been knocked out of him. He stumbled backwards, tumbling down to the deck, up against the rail. He knew that in spite of the pain and the tightness in his chest, he hadn't the luxury of rolling about on the deck in agony. As he tried to get up, the sailor who delivered the lucky punch closed in and punched him again, leaning over him to do so. Magnus heard a loud agonizing yell. He wanted it to be his own yell, to feel his lungs fill with air, to drain the pain and frustration of his situation, but he knew that at this particular moment, no sound he heard could be made by him. The sailor above him staggered and Magnus used the opportunity to kick the man's feet out from under him and roll out of the way. As he did so, the sailor dropped to the deck. Magnus allowed himself the luxury of acknowledging his own pain for a moment. He pulled up his legs and tried to inhale, but the spasm that went through his gut still had not relaxed. He was feeling the desperate need to breathe in now and wondered if anyone had ever suffocated from being hit in such way. Next to him, the Beinison sailor was struggling to get up. Magnus now realized that the reason the man screamed was that a grapple that had been tossed up had come over him and snagged his shoulder and as it was pulled to be secured, it penetrated the man's flesh and was now anchored to him. At last, Magnus found the strength to take a labored breath and let it out. The action on deck shifted as two more of his men came on deck using two lines further down the ship. The Beinison soldier next to him again screamed out in agony. The line he was attached to tore out of his shoulder, leaving behind chunks of ripped flesh. He was rendered helpless for the remainder of the confrontation. Drawing in more air, Magnus got up, picking up Catalin's sword as he did so. The Beinison sailors failed to repel the attack and now it appeared too late to change the inevitable outcome. More grapple lines came over the side, catching on the rail. Without a doubt _Tolazhur_ was not going to remain a Beinison vessel much longer. ======================================================================== Talisman Six Part 1 by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Firil 25-26, 1011 There were no ill omens that morning as I rode into the tiny village of Densur. No grey hawks flying upside down, no bucks heying around two birch trees, no hedgehogs parading backwards along the hedgerows. I suppose it is presumptuous of me to expect such obvious warnings, as the tragedy to come was not so great as to threaten the very crown of Baranur. Yet I would have liked to have had the time to prepare myself. So I, Bard Nakaz, rode into Densur all unknowing on that morning in late Firil. The spring had been a warm one, and the mid-morning sun was warm and comfortable on my back. Word of my arrival had preceded me. The farmers I had passed on the road had easily picked out the star-and-harp design on my saddlebags and other tack, and had sent others running ahead of me with the news. As I entered the small market square at the edge of Densur there was already a crowd of people gathered to cheer my arrival. I dismounted and had to fend off a handful of youngsters who each wanted the honor of taking my horse, Riesta, to the only stable in town. I chose the oldest of them to hand her reins to, asking the lad to wait a moment while I fetched a small scroll case from one of the saddlebags. As I waved the youngster to take Riesta away and get her settled, a man approached. He was short and balding, wore an apron about his waist and carried a rag in one hand. He bowed to me like I wore a coronet and said, "Good bard, my wife is even now preparing the best room our humble inn can offer, and it will be ready for you in just a moment." A racket started up just then, someone indignantly shouting about being rousted from their bed. I looked over the innkeeper's shoulder as he made every promise he could think of to me as long as I would consent to play in his taproom that evening. I saw an angry-looking man dressed in nightclothes stomping out of a doorway over which swung a painted sign of a pig with wings. He was yelling angrily about how he had been expecting to stay abed 'til midday in such a quiet, sleepy village. He was followed by a willowy woman with long, mouse-brown hair and reddened hands, who was trying to calm him down. The recently-roused man plowed into the crowded market square, heading straight for the innkeeper. Suddenly, he halted his progress, a confused look on his face. He looked around at all the people, then noticed my horse being led away. I saw his eyes widen as he saw the star-and-harp symbol of a bard embossed on the leather it bore. His shoulders slumped as his confusion changed to resignation. He turned around and was led back into the inn by the innkeeper's wife, who was patting him on the back in consolation. I realized as I watched him retreat in defeat that the inn probably only had a single, separate sleeping room. Densur was so small that I was lucky it had an inn; I often ended up sharing houses with the village headman. The innkeeper had decided that my needs preceded those of whomever had been staying in the inn's room -- most likely a merchant out gathering spring wares. I reassured the innkeeper that I was looking forward to playing and singing later in his taproom. Then I asked, "And now, could you kindly direct me to the local crier, so that I can be about the business of my visit?" "Oh, yes, of course, mi'lord bard. Crier Jeffith's shop is just over there." The innkeeper pointed, and I picked out the small brass trumpet hanging on a green square next to one of the doors that flanked the market square. I thanked the man, who was beginning to annoy me slightly with the way he was fawning over me. I tried to control my irritation. After all, I would probably bring him more business that night than he would normally get in all of the months between spring thaw and Melrin. I finally broke away from the man and headed over to the crier's shop with my small case of scrolls. As a bard, I had several duties that took me from village to town to city, all across the kingdom. One of those duties was the carrying of news. Whether from the king to all of his subjects, or from duke or baron, or from hamlet to hamlet, bards disseminated news. We weren't the only ones. Anyone who traveled took stories with them from place to place, from person to person. But those were just gossip: campfire stories embellished or turned inside out to entertain, or to prove the teller's point. Bards tell the truth. Sometimes not all of the truth, sometimes only the truth as we know it, but in our official capacity, we never lie. In my scroll case I carried the current news from the crown, as well as from Duke Othuldane, in whose demesne Densur was located. I had not yet visited the area's baron, but expected the local crier to have any news from him. The job of a town crier was to be a central point that people could come to and receive any announcements and news of import. They also served to keep the records for the area as well as making sure they were carried to the ducal and kingdom levels. The job required the ability to read and write, which meant that it could be a difficult post to fill. It could be counted on that the larger towns and cities had a crier, but only a few of Baranur's duchies could boast having one in every village and hamlet as well. Othuldane was one of these, as was the Royal Duchy of Magnus, of course. I knocked on the door of Jeffith's shop and let myself in. The place was large and remarkably uncluttered. A large table took up most of the space in the center of the room, with low cabinets of narrow drawers lining the walls. Hanging above the cabinets were well-executed drawings of a variety of subjects. One was of a modest house nestled into a forest clearing. The woodgrain of the front door was as clear as the bark of the trees. Another showed a young woman sitting on the edge of the well in the center of the market square. I could see the fibers of the rope she held, and could tell that she was lowering her bucket into the well by the set of her hands. The longing on her face as she went about her work told any viewer that her mind was not on her task. All of the drawings were done in black ink, but none lacked detail because of it; the artist's ability to vary tone and texture with only a brush was amazing. A tall, muscular man straightened up from the other side of the table as I walked in. A shorter man, but not less muscular, stood to the side of the table. He saw me first and said quickly, "Sir?" The taller man said, "Yes, I see him boy," before striding around the table and extending a hand toward me. He said, "Greetings, good bard. I am Crier Jeffith. How may I be of service?" Jeffith had an excellent voice, rich and melodic. I wondered if he sang. His fingers were well ink-stained, and there were smudges all over his arms, as well as his tunic and leggings. There was even a smear on his cheek, which only made his round, open face even more engaging. I shook his hand firmly and said, "I wish you well, Crier Jeffith. I am Bard Nakaz, and am pleased to make your acquaintance. I've got the royal and ducal news for you here. I haven't yet visited the local baron, and was wondering whether you had any announcements from him, or from the neighboring villages?" "Of course, of course. When I heard you were coming, I got everything ready for you." Jeffith gestured to me and walked back around the table. I followed. He continued, "I've got everything piled right here." He picked up a scroll from among several others on a cabinet top and unrolled it. After perusing it for a moment, he handed it to me. As I took it, I caught sight of the top of the table and the drawing tacked down there amid ink wells and a cup containing brushes of several sizes. It had the quality of a sketch, set down hurriedly, or so the brush strokes seemed to indicate. It was the scene of my arrival in the market square. I turned and looked through the small window that the shop possessed, and saw what Jeffith's vantage point had been. The sketch was excellent, capturing the moving crowd as a blur rather than recognizable individuals. There were a few people given detail as the focus of the image: the displaced merchant, the obsequious innkeeper and, of course, myself. Jeffith noticed my interest in his artwork, but instead of being proud of it, he seemed displeased that I had seen it. He fussed and fretted, drawing another sheet of parchment carefully over it so as not to smear any still-wet ink. I wondered why he felt his talents weren't worth my notice, but tactfully decided not to pursue the matter. I opened the scroll he had handed me and was as surprised by its contents as by the artful sketch I had seen. I said, "Ah, I beg your pardon Crier Jeffith, but this isn't the local news. It seems to be a list of some kind. It says 'Portraits' at the top, and there are half a dozen names ..." Jeffith turned red so quickly, I feared for his health. "Boy!" he shouted. "What did you do with that scroll?" The shorter man hurried around the table and fumbled through the pile of scrolls. He looked at a few, then offered one to me, taking back the one I held out to him. He scurried back around to the other side of the table, an odd look on his face. He just stood there, his arms crossed in front of himself, and I began to understand. It could just have been an honest mistake of shifting scrolls. So I would have believed, had Jeffith not taken the time to look at the first scroll before handing it to me. The only conclusion I could come to was that Jeffith, Densur's town crier, could not read. His "boy", this man who was nearly his own age, was his reader. From the way that man moved with shortened steps, and the way he held his hands crossed, I got the impression that he had once been a monk, which would explain his letters. I wondered whose son or cousin Jeffith was to secure a job he was incapable of fulfilling on his own. I handed the two copies of my own news to the still-red Jeffith and pretended not to notice when the crier handed them to his apprentice immediately. I glanced at the scroll the former monk had handed me, noticing that it consisted of only a few items, the most important one being the wedding announcement of the son of the local baron, Baron Frasilk, to Baron Jaleit's daughter, which would occur during Melrin. I recalled from the maps I had seen that Frasilk and Jaleit were adjacent to each other, but I didn't know more than that. Jeffith cleared his throat, then said, "You will be making today's announcements, won't you Bard Nakaz? The people are expecting it, as they always do." I replied, "Yes, I'd be happy to. It will give you a break from your duties, and perhaps allow you the opportunity to create another work of art." I didn't look to see his reaction as I left. Right next to the door was a little platform reached by three steps, which I promptly climbed. This was where Jeffith normally made his announcements from, and everyone crowding into the market square knew what it meant that I was now standing there. They turned toward me and quieted down in anticipation. As I looked out over a sizable portion of the population of Densur, I began crying the announcements I had carried from the royal court of Baranur. I may only be imagining the recollection of a brief glimpse of a bird flying upside down over the trees in the distance. The Flying Pig's taproom was noisy and crowded that evening, but there wasn't a sour face in the whole place. The innkeeper was too busy behind his bar to bother me with attempts to ensure my comfort. His willowy wife walked by every so often and replaced the empty mug on my table with a full one, and when I asked for some dinner after my first round of songs, I got a plate so full of excellent stew that I simply couldn't eat it all. Ale and wine flowed freely, and as the night wore on these spirits made the townsfolk bold. Some took up their own instruments and bade fair to entertain their neighbors. Others attempted juggling with the inn's tin mugs, or tossing knives at a target set up next to the large hearth at one end of the room. And some, once their courage was sufficiently stoked, came hesitantly to sit at my solitary table and seek my counsel. The first of these was a young man, good looking, healthy, and very nervous. He introduced himself as Resh and asked if he could sit for a moment. I nodded and we sat together in silence for a bit, listening to a villager with more enthusiasm than talent bellow out a marching tune. I noticed that Resh winced almost as often as I did; the applause when it was over may well have been as much for its ending as its performance. There was clearly something on Resh's mind as he sat there across from me, running his finger up and down his tin mug. He cleared his throat twice and looked up at me once, but his question never won free of his shyness. Finally, in sympathy I asked, "Was there something you wanted to say, Resh?" "Well, ah ... I wondered, that is ..." He paused, and took a deep breath. He set the mug down on the table and clasped both hands around it. Another deep breath, and he looked up into my face. "It's like this, sir. I wondered if you could give me a hint of advice. My parents are farmers and as I'm their only child, I will inherit their land in time and be a farmer too. As it falls, I'm to be married at Melrin --" I interrupted with, "You, too?" Resh looked at me oddly, like I was a slow child, but presently realized that I was a stranger to these parts. "Oh, yes, I didn't ... we hold all of our marriages around here at Melrin. Always have. "Now, where was ... oh, straight. Well, our neighbors have four children, three boys and a girl, born a handful of years after their last son. Chare, their daughter, and I have known each other all our lives. We grew up together almost like relatives. Early on, our parents agreed that Chare and I would be wed, with a fine dowry coming to us from her parents, whose farm is very successful. My own parents have been counting on that dowry for years, borrowing money against it, making plans for improving what is to be my own inheritance upon their passing. "I like Chare a great deal, but just recently I have been having ... doubts. Last year I traveled with my father and Chare's brothers to Luemik, the next town down the eastern road. Luemik is larger than Densur, and has a more widely attended market. We were taking our excess produce there to sell. "I've been to Luemik before, but last year was different. I noticed how different Luemik was to Densur -- the buildings, the customs, the people." He blushed a bit, dipping his eyes from mine briefly, and clarified, "The women. One woman. Her name was Whilla, and she was ... breathtaking. Exotic, exciting, so different from plain little Chare from next door. And she liked me. I met her at one of the taverns there, and she sat at my table for the whole night. We talked and talked, and I learned things about the world that I had never dreamed of. Whilla was a merchant's daughter who had been traveling with the caravans for most of her life. She's been to places I've never imagined, and done things that made my blood stir. "We parted having traded nothing more than kisses and promises. She told me that she'll be in Luemik this Melrin, and that if I want to experience the world, I should meet her there." I could see the longing in his face as he contemplated the lure of what this Whilla offered. I knew what he would say next, as I had known where his story was leading almost since he had begun it. He continued, "I don't know what to do, sir. I don't want to hurt Chare or my parents, but I don't know what I might be giving up by not following where Whilla leads. There is so much out there, so much more to do than plow fields and reap the harvest. I was hoping you could give me the benefit of your experience in such matters." Resh looked at me expectantly. I could see what he hoped I would say, what he had come to me, a world-walking bard, to hear. I wondered how many others he had asked advice of, and how many had given him the advice I was about to. "Resh, the world is a big place, full of wonders uncounted. What you may not know is that your own fields are just as full of wonders. Not only that, but that wide, wonderful world is also full of dangers the like of which you have also not heard. "If this brief flirtation of yours last year is even remembered by your Whilla, and she indeed plans to be in Luemik at Melrin, there is no guarantee that she has not made the same promises to a score of young farmhands, and even taken those foolish enough to believe her away from the only life they've ever known. Like as not, she has also abandoned every one of those young farmhands in a foreign duchy to fend for themselves far away from home." I reached across the table to free the mangled tin mug from Resh's gripping hands before he hurt himself on it. "What you are feeling right now is natural, Resh. You are seeing where your future lies, and you are making a last bid for freedom from what is best for you. You know Chare, and you know she would never hurt you, or leave you in a strange land. She will be a good wife to you, and you will be the best farmer in Densur with her by your side. Just make the right choice and stay here this Melrin. Marry Chare, settle down into your rightful future, and leave fantasies of Whilla where they belong." Resh had clasped his hands together once the mug was out of them, and he hung his head in defeat. I could have told him to seek out Whilla, or whatever caravan would hire him on. I could have encouraged his fears of settling down, and told him to take advantage of the opportunity to run away from them. I might have painted a very enticing picture of the adventure of traveling from place to place. In short, I could have told him only what he wanted to hear. But that would not have been honest or right. So I had told him the clear and plain truth; it was what he needed to hear. I saw acceptance in his eyes as he rose from my table. He said, "Thank you, Bard Nakaz. I sought different advice from you, but I know that you are right. I will remember you at Melrin as I stand beside Chare and set my course for the future I belong to. Fare well." I watched the young man stride through the crowd and out the door. I hoped that he would listen to me as he had not, I was sure, listened to his father or his friends or even, perhaps, Chare's own brothers. Our wisdom had surely all been the same; only my station made Resh truly listen to my words. As I sat alone amidst the noise and bustle of the taproom, I found my thoughts turning to Shorel. She was a fellow bard, as well as a friend and lover. I imagined her sitting next to me, long brown hair shining in the light, her expressive brown eyes twinkling with merriment. I wondered whether Resh would have had the courage to approach our table with such a lovely woman present. I then wondered whether Shorel would have bewitched Resh even more than his Whilla had. Another villager with more ale in her than talent got up in front of her friends and neighbors and played a love song on a lute that had seen better days, but which was at least in tune. After the first verse, a young man with a plain face and lank, black hair rose from his seat and joined her, and they sang the song to each other. The emotion in their eyes and voices drowned out their lack of talent. I recalled similar duets with Shorel, and if the love that echoed between she and I did not quite match the utter devotion being sung at that moment, there was still a deep bond between us. Over the three years we had known each other, we had become very close. The last time we had seen each other had been the previous summer at the College of Bards in Magnus. I remembered our days together, singing, reading, laughing. I remembered our nights together, touching, holding, gasping. I remembered our parting, knowing we would see each other again, wishing each other safe journey. As the last notes of the love song faded under rising applause, I suddenly wished she really was sitting next to me. Instead, all I had were my memories to keep me company. They would do; they always had. A bit later in the evening, two men approached my table. They were either not at all shy, or in their cups enough not to care, for they sat down without asking my leave and began talking at once. They were both thin and wiry, with weathered skin and strong-looking hands. The one on the right, a black-haired man with a pointed nose and a chin full of hair, said, "Greetings, bard. I'm Ablim, a farmer from south of Densur. This," he gestured to his companion, a brown-haired man with bushy eyebrows and a very small moustache, "is Meack, my neighbor. We've got this problem --" Meack spoke up with, "Straight, we've a problem! It's our boundary stones. It's no one's fault --" "No one's, straight," interrupted Ablim. "It was cows as pushed the fences over, but both of ourn, not his or mine." "And we put the fences back up, but the doing moved the stones." Meack looked at me as if that was enough explanation for anyone to see the answer, but I didn't even understand the question yet. My silence prodded Ablim to continue, "We want to put things back right. We've been friends forever, and our families before us back even farther'n the first Othuldane. This is new land, divided from the neighbor between us when old Dorraw died childless, and we never got around to building proper boundary pillars, just marking the divide with some rocks." "Rocks as was easy to move. Too easy," chimed in Meack. "So, Bard Nakaz, we want you to fix it." I looked at Ablim as blankly as I had at the beginning. "How?" was all I could manage. The farmers looked at each other in puzzlement, then back at me. "Why, can't you just, you know ..." started Ablim. Meack finished, "Just remember. The records. It was all written down and sent away all proper and fit." Ablim added, "'Twas before Jeffith was crier. Before we had a crier, three, four years ago. Bard came, wrote all down, took it to Othuldane. And now you're here." It still took me several menes to come at their meaning, but only because the only possible conclusion was so ludicrous. The most common idea of the function of a bard is entertainer. Our traveling nature makes it natural to ask us to bear news from place to place. But there is more to us than that. As we travel, we observe and record, but not just the great events, those things that end up comprising the kind of history that the children of nobles are taught in winter. Everything is noticed and remembered, all of the little events that make up the fabric of everyday life. At times, we are called on to produce more formal documents, recording momentous events in the lives of citizens of Baranur and placing our seal on them to guarantee their authenticity: births, marriages, and deaths, inheritance duties, property changing hands, even less formal promises that need to be remembered. These formal records are incomplete out of necessity, as there are not enough bards to be everywhere a birth or property-line alteration is happening. Of late, town criers have been assuming these duties in their areas of influence. They have the skill of letters and they are more reliably available locally than a wandering bard. I understand that some criers even undertake the delivering news between towns. I don't begrudge this usurping of our duties, for it is a task that needs doing. There are public archives at every ducal seat and one in Magnus as well. Archivists are employed to care for these records and ensure that they are available when required. Even so, it can sometimes be months between sending for a document and receiving it. Again, the system of town criers is beginning to alleviate that difficulty by storing records at their own level as well. Somehow, Meack and Ablim believed that because bards were involved in making records, they were also somehow able to recall all records made, without that two month or more wait. I tried to fathom the reason why, but all I could manage was a recollection of how the ancient Fretheod skaldrics had kept the history of their empire in their memories, never writing it down. Once prompted by that memory, I was also able to recall legends from the early days of Baranur, when our bards did the same. We no longer were required to develop that skill; knowledge written down and stored away was never lost to an untimely death. It was obvious that this ancient facility for memorization was still remembered here, but in a different form. I voiced my guess. "You think that I have all of the records in Baranur memorized?" "You don't?" the two chorused, clearly astonished. I had a good memory, more for tunes than for words, but I doubted if even one of those legendary bards could have memorized every piece of parchment in Duke Othuldane's cellars alone, much less the vaults of the entire kingdom. I shook my head. "No, I'm afraid that we are no longer trained in that way. Even if I had ever seen the deeds to your lands, I could not recall them now. Not that I have, understand." The farmers were dismayed. "What shall we do, then?" asked Meack. "We could, maybe, send someone to Othuldane ...?" ventured Ablim. "Or you could," I said, "between the two of you, just agree on what you both think your boundary should be and have Jeffith record that and send it to the duke. That way, no one has to locate your original deeds, and there will be an official record of your new agreement. Perhaps you could dig proper pillar holes this time. And perhaps Jeffith could keep a copy of the deeds to hand in case your cows get rowdy again." The smiles on the faces of the two friends were priceless. They both thanked me profusely, and promised to name a whole generation of calves after me. They rose, chattering between themselves, and faded back into the crowd. I lifted my mandolin and rose to take my place again before the hearth, ready to entertain the room as a whole. I reflected as I walked forward that it was amazing what some people believed bards capable of. Was it because we traveled? Was it because we could read and write? Or was it just because of legends, some of which we even promoted ourselves with our own songs and stories? I was sure I'd never know. The next morning was clear and lovely, fine weather for leaving Densur. The innkeeper of the Flying Pig was as excessively complimentary that morning as he had been fawning the previous morning, standing next to me outside his establishment with me while I waited for my horse to be brought. Riesta was led into the market square, well rested and fed, curried expertly, with all of her tack shining. My saddlebags had already been taken from my room and now rested on her back behind my saddle. The innkeeper's wife slipped out of the doorway around her husband and presented me with a bundle of food for the trail. I thanked her and stuffed the bundle into a saddlebag. Then I waved to the crowd that had gathered to see me on my way, noticing without surprise that it was much smaller than the one that had greeted my arrival. I mounted Riesta, settled myself into the saddle, and set out southward. I had been informed that Baron Frasilk's keep was a good day's journey in that direction. I was soon amid a forest, traveling alone with only the wilderness of the woods to keep me company. I listened to the wind sighing through the branches, and likened it to the music of the trees. I heard the birds chirping all around me and the small rustlings of rodents in the brush at the verge of the road. I uncased my mandolin and started strumming, letting Riesta be guided by my knees and the clear trail before us. I harmonized with the wind, I accompanied the birds, I wrote themes for every rustle or beady set of eyes glimpsed between the leaves, all while I rode south. Every blade of grass is different and every tree is unique. Still, it would be beyond the powers of even the greatest bard who ever lived to make every forest journey exciting and different. Dappled sunlight and cheerful-sounding birds never lose their magic for me, but it is a magic that must be experienced, not related. Thus, let me just say that the morning and early afternoon passed without undue incident. I made my way south with not a thought on my mind apart from looking forward to visiting Baron Frasilk's court. The sun had not yet reached the halfway mark between its height and the horizon when I took a brief break. The clearing I stopped in cut deeply into the trees, and there was a stream at the back of it where I watered Riesta. About a hundred yards beyond the clearing, the path I had been following turned at an angle and vanished from view. As Riesta drank and I shook my legs out, I caught the sound of a galloping horse coming toward me from around that bend. I walked back to the tree-fringed edge of the clearing and looked. Shortly, a figure came into view around the bend in the path. I recognized first the star-and-harp decoration on the horse's tack. I recognized second that it was Shorel, my friend, lover and fellow bard, who rode the horse. I recognized third that Shorel was fleeing something as she looked over her shoulder and urged her horse to even greater speed. I prepared to step out into into the road to aid her against what chased her. I waited only to see what form her pursuit took. She had reached a point about halfway between the bend and the clearing when her pursuers appeared. Two men dressed like guards atop speeding horses rounded the curve. Both carried crossbows, which they must have fired as soon as they caught sight of their quarry again. I didn't see the bolts strike Shorel. I only saw her rise up in her stirrups, a look of pain crumpling her face. As she sagged, I saw her fling something into the woods, a staff of some kind. The momentum of her swing caused her to lose her balance, and she fell from her horse. She lay sprawled in the middle of the path, two crossbow bolts sticking out of her back, her leg at an unnatural angle, utterly unmoving. I stared, stunned, right into her open and sightless eyes. Where are the omens when you need them? ======================================================================== Magestorm Part 4 by Mark A. Murray Ober 1017 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-6 "Looks like the rest of the caravan is up," Merrif said, standing up. People were packing up and moving about. Someone opened the door and the sun could be seen. Everyone blinked and shielded their eyes as the sun's rays reflected harshly off the snow. "A beautiful day," someone called out. "How does it look?" "It looks bright," the man who opened the door said. "But the road looks clear. We can leave today." "What if I don't want to go?" Lylle asked, quietly. "That wagon is too bumpy and cold." "The horse isn't that much better," Raphael told him. "You're still cold and you are sore in different places, is all. At least with the wagon, you have a cushion of blankets to sit upon." The sun shone down, reflecting brightly off the night's snow. Men and women gathered around the wagons to ready them for travel; the horses were hitched, the wheels and axles were inspected, and the body of each wagon was searched for broken boards. While the work was started early enough, it was late in the morning before the caravan pulled away from the inn. "At least the road isn't too rough," Lylle said from the middle wagon. Raphael and Merrif were riding horses beside him. Niatha, as usual, was sitting next to Lylle. They were all bundled against the early winter weather, but the sun strove to heat the day and warm all. Near mid-afternoon, the snow started melting. People were unwrapping scarves and coats. Even the birds were out flying and chirping. "How's the wagon?" Raphael asked. "I'm numb to the saddle, but even were I not, the day is too fine to let anything ruin it." The reins hung loosely in his hands. "It is a smooth ride, today," Lylle answered. "Yes," Merrif agreed, as his mare snorted. "Hmmph. Some of us think it's a smooth ride. Opinions vary, I guess." He laughed and then bent forward to rub the mare's neck. "I'm not getting crushed," Niatha added. "That's always a good --" The horses in the first wagon reared and Niatha stopped to see what was the cause of the commotion. The horses pulling their wagon jumped and pranced sideways, jerking the wagon about. Raphael's horse snorted and started to rear, but he pulled the reins in sharply to stop it. Merrif's mare just stopped, ears perked up and turning about. "Illiena!" Merrif yelled, looking at the horses and wagons. "What's got them riled up?" "Wolf!" a man yelled from the first wagon. Immediately after, whispers and shouts of 'wolf' echoed throughout the caravan. The horses fidgeted and pranced. Men jumped down from the wagons to grab harnesses in an attempt to keep the horses from bolting. Raphael's attention was focused on controlling his horse, so he didn't see the black wolf lope up to him. The horse reared, throwing him. He sailed in the air and landed heavily, emitting a loud huff. The wolf didn't stop until it stood over Raphael. Opening his eyes, Raphael squinted and blinked. Something was in his eye and he squeezed both of them shut instinctively. "A wolf upon me and I can't even see it," he thought. Sliding a finger across his eye, he removed the foreign object and started to sit up when he saw the shape of the wolf above him. "Anam?" Raphael asked, looking up at the wolf. "You near killed me!" he yelled, recognizing the wolf. He had found Anam as a pup, the only survivor of his litter. Even his mother had died. It was during a time when Raphael had been searching for a cure for a curse that had afflicted Megan. Raphael had been tempted to let the pup die with the rest, but something about the pup had caused Megan to react. Hoping that it would help Megan, he brought the pup with them. Anam licked his face. "That doesn't change anything," he sputtered, trying to hold in his delight at seeing Anam. "You made my horse throw me. Near blinded me with dirt and I could have broken my neck!" Anam licked his face again. "Stevene save us!" a woman cried. "Get the crossbow!" a man yelled. "No!" Lylle yelled back, jumping down from the wagon. With the wolf standing still and somewhat away from the wagons, the horses weren't as nervous. Raphael turned and knelt in front of Anam. "I missed you, you big wolf!" he said wrapping his arms around Anam. Anam moved forward, upsetting his balance, and he fell over onto his back. "It's going to eat him!" a woman shrieked. "It won't!" Lylle yelled. "He raised that wolf from a cub." "He raised it?" a man asked. Murmurs and whispers scattered throughout the caravan informing all whom had not heard. "Yes," Raphael agreed, getting to his feet. "I found him alone in the woods, his mother dead from an arrow." "It won't attack anyone?" a woman asked. "No," Raphael replied. "Although he might lick you to death." "Take it away from the wagons!" a man yelled. "The horses are skittish!" "Aye! Take it away!" another called. Raphael walked away from the wagons and Anam followed him. Several horses stamped and pranced as Anam moved. "The guide!" Niatha yelled, jumping down from the wagon. "That's the guide!" "What?" Merrif asked, watching the wolf. "The wolf!" Niatha hissed. "It's the guide! Remember? From my dream last night." "You'll have to send it away," a man said. "Can't have the horses being spooked all the time." "I can't do that," Raphael replied. He was sitting down with Anam lying on his lap. "This is where I leave the caravan." "He's right," Niatha agreed, walking slowly towards Anam. "We all must leave the caravan." Anam was watching Niatha intently. "Niatha?" Merrif asked, his voice slightly higher than normal. "Be careful." Niatha kept walking towards Anam in slow deliberate steps. Everything became quiet as the caravan people watched, also. Niatha reached Anam's stretched out legs and stepped carefully over them. Anam lifted his head, pulled back a leg, and placed his paw on Niatha. The weight and force was too much and Anam's paw knocked Niatha over. Niatha rolled over and Anam's paw stopped next to him. Niatha looked up, just in time to see a large tongue wash over him. "Augh!" Niatha yelped. Anam licked him again. "Take the tongue away!" Niatha pleaded after yet another lick from Anam. He tried to get up and move away, but Anam placed his paw on him and licked him again. "It isn't right!" a woman said. "A wolf and a cat?" "Mayhap it thinks it's a cub?" a man asked. "Whatever it is, it can't stay near the horses," someone else said. "Take it away!" "Enough, Anam," Raphael laughed. "Leave Niatha alone." "Strange," a woman said. "I've never seen a wolf and a cat together." "You've never even seen a wolf," a man laughed. Laughter erupted among the people. "You're a strange group," Jeth, the caravan leader, said. "But if it's here where we part ways, then take what food you'll need and take an extra blanket or two. Don't want you freezing out here." "We are leaving," Raphael told him. "Thank you for the food and blankets." Raphael stood, but didn't come closer to the wagons for fear Anam would follow him. He did look at Lylle. Anam slowly got to his feet. "Straight," Lylle replied, understanding that Raphael wanted him to gather the food and blankets. Merrif got down from his horse and went to help Lylle. "I hope you're right, Niatha" Merrif muttered under his breath. "Being out here without the protection of the caravan and other people is dangerous." Merrif and Lylle packed everything onto the two horses. "You can ride my horse, Lylle," Raphael told him. "I'll be walking with Anam, from a distance at first. I'll be out in front. I hope the horses get used to him, though. It'll make traveling easier." "Ride the horse?" Lylle asked. "I've never done that. What if I fall off?" "You get back on!" Raphael laughed. He pulled his straight cane off the horse where it was packed. "Where to, Niatha?" Merrif asked as the caravan pulled away from them. "I'm not the guide," Niatha replied. "That thing is." Anam walked in the opposite direction that the caravan was going. Raphael followed him, using his cane slightly. Merrif got on his horse and waited for Lylle. Niatha decided not to wait and started after Raphael and Anam. Lylle grabbed onto the saddle and jumped up. He landed with his belly on the saddle and the horse stepped sideways. Lylle slipped off the saddle and landed on his feet. The horse whinnied. "I think we've given them enough of a distance," Merrif said. "You can quit playing around and get on the horse now." A small chuckle escaped his lips. "I'm not playing around!" Lylle retorted. "I've never done this before." He jumped again, but this time, he swung a leg around as soon as he landed on the saddle. Even though the horse sidestepped, Lylle managed to sit in the saddle. "We'll take it slow until you get used to riding," Merrif said, seriously. "It won't take you long. With Illiena's help, you won't have the time to get used to it before we get to the tower." "From the town to the woods, it's to the tower we go," Lylle said, waving his hand in a grand gesture. Surprisingly, he kept his balance on the horse. "Is this what they call adventure?" "No," Merrif answered. "This is called traveling. Adventure is what the bards sing about. Adventure is an illusion, a word used to make songs and tales appear more interesting than they really are." Merrif urged his mare forward. Lylle's horse followed the mare. "Adventure wouldn't be meeting Illiena at the tower?" "Nothing is ever what we dream it. I follow Illiena in my heart and in my life, but no one has ever met a god. I don't hold much to actually finding her there. But it's what I hope. What I hope and dream." "I dream of being somebody some day," Lylle said. "Who?" "Not who, but somebody. Somebody that everyone knows. Somebody that has power, that doesn't have to live on the streets, doesn't worry about starving. Somebody." Lylle had a faraway look in his eyes. "Living on the streets is hard," Merrif said. "Very hard," Lylle added. "You're less than nobody. People look at you with contempt and disgust and horror. You have to swallow what little pride you have so you can beg for food or money. People walk out of their way to avoid you." His voice was hard and tinged with anger. His grip on the reins tightened. "They never look you in the eyes. I don't want to live like that anymore. I want to be somebody." "Is that why you're here?" The two horses were plodding along. "No. I'm here because Raphael is here. The first time he saw me, he looked me in the eyes. He treated me as a person. I'm here because we're looking for Megan. She not only looks me in the eye, but she smiles. She's happy to see me. She's beautiful. She's --" "You love her," Merrif said, interrupting him. "Yes," Lylle said quietly. "Does he know?" Merrif asked, tilting his head toward Raphael. "Not how much. Besides the shadow boys, they're the only two who cared what happened to me. I'd walk half of 'diar for either of them. That's why I'm here." "We each have our reasons," Merrif said. "What was it you said?" he asked, changing the subject. "Out of town, through woods to the tower we go?" "Straight!" Lylle said. "To the tower!" "Does this hill go on forever?" Merrif groaned, putting another foot in front of the other. He grabbed onto a tree in front of him and used it to haul his body farther up the hill. The snow on the ground didn't help. "It stops at the top," Raphael laughed. He gripped his straight cane in one hand and used the other to catch himself when he slipped on the snow or ice. "Where is Anam?" Lylle huffed. Pulling both horses behind him, Lylle was having just as much trouble as Merrif climbing the hill. "Do you think Anam would pull me the rest of the way up?" "Only after me," Raphael answered. While he wasn't as out of breath as the other two, he was breathing hard. "I don't think he's going to help either of us, though." Raphael pointed up the hill to the left, "He's over there with Niatha. They're having a grand time of this hillside." Lylle and Merrif used the distraction as an excuse to stop and catch their breath. They looked to where Raphael had pointed. Anam was chasing Niatha around trees and through bushes. Niatha hopped over a limb, making a sharp turn as he landed. Anam ran straight into the limb, brushing it aside as if it was nothing. Closing the distance rapidly, Anam prepared to pounce. Niatha gave a short hop and as he landed, he bunched his strong back legs. Pushing upward, Niatha launched himself high into the air, snapping open his wings. Anam lunged, but came up short as Niatha leapt out of range. Niatha's wings beat hard and fast in an attempt to gain height. Although he didn't get much higher, his wings held him in the air long enough for him to reach the closest tree. His wings quit flapping and folded back out of the way as his four paws reached out and grabbed the tree. Anam never slowed from his lunge as he, too, gathered his strength and jumped. He hit the tree with his front paws and lifted his mouth toward Niatha. Gravity pulled at him and he slid down the trunk to the ground. Niatha climbed higher. "You missed me!" Niatha taunted. "Catch me now!" Niatha jumped high off the branch and opened his wings again. He glided out and away from Anam. "Are you sure they're just playing?" Merrif asked, concern for his friend etched his features. "Anam won't hurt him," Raphael reassured. The three of them, resting on the hillside, watched Anam and Niatha play some more. Anam finally caught up to Niatha, and the two of them reversed roles. Niatha chased Anam while Anam tried to get away. "Can I get some of their energy?" Merrif asked, starting up the hill again. "The top of the hill isn't that far," Raphael huffed, plodding ahead with his cane. "I hope this tower is close," Lylle yawned, just waking up. "I'm cold. The ground is cold. The snow is cold. The air is cold. Dargon never felt this cold." "Come over to the fire and warm yourself," Raphael told him. Raphael was huddled over a small fire, attempting to build it up. It had burned out during the night. He fed small twigs onto the embers, blowing the fire after each one to get them started. Once there was a small flame, he added larger branches and finally a small log. The others were up by the time Raphael was finished. Merrif unpacked two pots. "I have some Daera roots left for tea," Merrif told them, digging them out of his pack. "I'll gather some snow to melt," Lylle said, grabbing a pot. "Hot tea sounds good." "Remember to pack the snow down tight," Merrif said. "If you don't, then we won't get much water." "I remember!" Lylle called back. "You've told me every time I've gone to get snow. Just because I didn't do that the first time!" "Careful of the rocks. They'll be slick," Raphael warned. The hillside they were on was covered with boulders of all sizes. Large, tall pine trees grew in between the rocks. In some places, oak trees dotted the landscape. The area they had camped on was fairly flat and most of the way up the hill. "How many more hills do we have to climb?" Merrif asked. Lylle returned with the pot full of snow. Merrif carefully set the pot on top of the log. The fire hissed and crackled as the snow on the outside of the pot melted and dropped water into it. "As many as Anam decides to climb," Raphael answered. "I hope he's taking the shortest way there." Merrif dropped the Daera roots into the water. Lylle stood next to the fire, warming up while Anam was curled up and asleep. Anam's body was curved around with his tail covering his face. Niatha was also asleep, lying in the middle of Anam's curled body. "Who's going to wake them?" Lylle asked. "And what food is left to eat?" "Biscuits," Merrif replied. "That's all we have left. Plenty of them, though." "We'll have to hunt for some game later today," Raphael said. "How good is Niatha at hunting?" "He's horrible at it," Merrif said, his voice steady and serious. A grin covered his weathered face as he taunted Niatha. "He's the worst hunter I've ever seen. Even small mice can elude him." Merrif dipped some tea out of the pot into a cup and handed it to Lylle. He handed the next one to Raphael. "I heard that," Niatha said. He rolled over and stretched out his legs, pushing Anam's tail away. Anam felt his tail move from his face and opened his eyes to see what was happening. "Good morning, Anam," Raphael called from the fire. Anam shifted and pushed his legs out, moving Niatha in the process. Niatha slid along the ground until Anam was done. "Aw," Niatha moaned. "Did you have to make him move? I was warm!" Anam lifted his head and moved forward to lick Niatha. "Augh," Niatha groaned. "Now I'm cold and wet." "You can't sleep the morning away," Merrif told him. "Especially if I can't." "Is there some of that tea left for me?" Niatha asked, standing up. He walked stiffly over to the fire. "I saved you some," Merrif said. "Here." He placed a cup full of tea on the ground in front of Niatha. Niatha sniffed the cup and tentatively licked the top of the liquid. "It isn't very hot," Niatha complained. "But it does taste good." "Eat and drink," Raphael told them. "I'm going to see if we can get Anam started earlier today." He walked over to Anam and ruffled the fur on Anam's back. "Straight, Anam?" Anam answered by rolling over onto his side. "No, no," Raphael laughed. "Time to get up, not go back to sleep." "Time to start packing up, too," Merrif added. "Here's some biscuits." He placed seven of them on a rock before he turned and started packing. "At least the wind isn't blowing on this side of the hill," Lylle said as he helped Merrif. Raphael poked and prodded Anam. Anam stood up and shook his body. "Is there any tea left?" Raphael asked. Merrif handed him the pot. Raphael looked down into it and saw that there was only a small amount left. Gathering more snow, he filled the pot and waited for the snow to melt. Taking the water to Anam, he let Anam drink what he wanted. "I didn't think Anam would want any," Merrif said. "I don't know if he likes the tea, but he's probably thirsty and this is a good way to cool the pot and get him some water," Raphael explained. "It isn't such a long climb to the top this time," Lylle said as they walked up the hill. He held the reins of the horses and walked ahead of them. "That's because we climbed most of it yesterday," Merrif said. "I recall all your complaining then." "Save your energy for the next one," Raphael suggested. "Who knows how many are left?" He was almost at the top. "Anam does," Niatha said. "But he isn't talking." "Yes," Raphael softly said. He stood at the top, looking down the other side. "What is it?" Lylle asked, rushing up the hill. "Illiena!" Merrif moaned. "The tower!" He was standing next to Raphael. "There it is," Lylle said as he finally reached the top. Looking down the other side, into a small valley, he saw the tower. It wasn't an impressive thing. There was the tower itself, which stood three stories high and was built of stone. It looked in good shape and had no vines or moss growing upon it. There was a main building built of wood that was attached to it. The area around the tower was cleared of trees and shrubs. "That's it?" Niatha asked. "Doesn't look like much of a home for a goddess." "It was just on the other side of the hill from us," Merrif whispered, too enraptured with his own dreams to realize that he wasn't listening to Niatha. "It was late when we camped," Raphael said. "We couldn't have made it." "We can make it now," Merrif said, starting down the hill. The valley wasn't very far down, which made the trip fairly easy. There were still large rocks and boulders, so they were careful as they went. Reaching the edge of the cleared area, they stopped. "Soon," Merrif exhaled. "All our traveling, all our dreams, all our hopes ..." "Why are we waiting, then?" Lylle asked, stepping forward. He let the horses go while Anam ran ahead, toward the door. "Yes," Raphael said. "Why?" He started after Anam. Merrif and Lylle followed. The horses stayed where they were left. "Megan?" Raphael called, pushing the door open. He took off his pack and dropped it on the floor. The room inside was almost bare. There was a table with four chairs in the middle of the room, but nothing else. In the opposite wall, there was a door. Anam brushed past by him and went to the other door. Lylle and Merrif walked into the room as Raphael reached the door. "Megan?" he called opening the door. "Raphael?" replied a woman from the other room. "Is it really you?" Megan stood in the corner, a broom in her hand. Dust slowly settled back down onto the floor as she looked to the door. "I'm not seeing more ghosts and visions, am I?" "Megan," Raphael whispered as he moved across the room to embrace her in a strong hug. His cane clattered on the floor as he picked her up in his arms and held her tightly. "It is you!" she cried, wrapping her arms around him. "Don't squeeze so tight!" she chided him. "You're crushing me." Tears cascaded down her cheek. Anam stood in the middle of the room watching them. Merrif and Lylle walked in slowly. Looking around, they saw a room with shelves built on three of the walls. The shelves were filled with books. There was a bed placed against one wall and a fireplace built into another. On the opposite wall, a stairway went upwards into the tower. Niatha walked into the room and the air billowed and spun. Dust was kicked up and blown about. A figure of light appeared on the stairs and started down towards them. "Illiena?" Merrif asked, taking a step toward the figure. "No!" yelled a voice from somewhere upstairs. "Yes!" the figure descending the stairs yelled. "We are free!" "What?" Merrif asked, shocked and frozen. "You're not Illiena!" "You pathetic thing," the figure on the stairs said. "No, I am not Illiena. I used your dreams to bring you here to set me free!" "Nathrod!" yelled another figure of light, descending the stairs behind the first. "We are free! Don't walk down the same road as before." "Do you believe," Nathrod said, turning to look up the stairs, "Aechrose, oh, brother of mine, that the Eelail will let us go?" "It has been a long time," Aechrose stopped and replied. "They will never forget, but they may forgive." "They won't! I will not be imprisoned again!" Nathrod floated quickly down the stairs and ran straight into Lylle, disappearing inside him. A glow of light now surrounded the boy. "Young again," a voice said from Lylle's body. "I'm leaving. Are you coming with me, brother?" "I won't let you go," Aechrose threatened. "The Eelail are close! Come, let us flee together!" Lylle pleaded as he started for the door. Aechrose flew down the stairs and stopped in front of Merrif. "You must let me in," Aechrose pleaded. "I can't do anything to stop him without a host body. You must let me in." "They made me!" Niatha screamed. "I remember now! They created me!" "Yes, little one," Lylle answered as he went out the door. "We did and you are what set us free." Lylle got as far as the other room and stopped. Dopkalfar warriors were standing in front of the outer doorway. "You are in my way! I am a god here!" Lylle screamed. "Die!" Flinging his hands outward, a funnel of wind swept straight for the door, heading outside, taking Dopkalfar with it. Bodies tumbled and crashed as the wind ripped them from the room. "I can't enter without permission!" Aechrose pleaded. "You must let me in! We can't let him get out of the tower!" More Dopkalfar stood in the doorway to replace the ones blown away. They held swords and daggers and behind them, there were more waiting to enter. "Let them kill you!" Lylle yelled as he turned and flew up the stairs of the tower. "I will be free!" Dopkalfar streamed into the room as the tower shook with Lylle's rage. "We can't let him get out of the tower," Aechrose said. "The Dopkalfar will not be able to stop him alone. I need your help," he begged. Dopkalfar warriors sprinted toward them and the tower shook yet again. "I ... I ..." Merrif stuttered. ========================================================================