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 9 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 5 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 08/10/1996 Volume 9, Number 5 Circulation: 614 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Shadowstone 4 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Naia 13, 1014 Coup Jon Evans Sy 1014 Screams of War Mark A. Murray Sy 1014 ======================================================================== 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 correspondance to or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues are available from ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/DargonZine. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 9-5, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright August, 1996 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb . All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories may not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of the author(s) involved, 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 Many years ago, there was a happy, peaceful, productive land. But some of its citizens felt it needed some excitement: a major event that would unify its citizens and give them a rallying point to help focus their efforts. So the call went out for volunteers to wage war. The vocal advocates of war claimed that the battle would be quickly and easily won. There'd be few casualties, and fighting would be limited to those who volunteered for service. All would go precisely as planned and be executed like clockwork with triumph following triumph, and the eventual outcome would be a strengthened populace, unified by this great cause. So forces were mobilized and the first battles were fought. It quickly became apparent that instead of a series of quick victories, each battle would be a long drawn-out siege. Although ground was made with every battle, the overall effort took on the nature of a lengthy war of attrition. It would be neither quick nor easy. The pre-war notion that there would be few casualties proved horrendously wrong. As the war dragged on longer than anyone had anticipated, those eager and energetic volunteers who had won the most territory were lost, and there were no volunteer reinforcements to replace them. The war ground to a dead stop. It wasn't going as planned, and with the war's most vocal advocates lost in the fighting, the noncombatants began to voice their dissatisfaction with the course of events. Many expressly turned their back on the war to work toward their own goals. The country was in big trouble. But despite the growing unpopularity of the war, the country was committed to that course of action, and had to bring the war to a conclusion. An unpopular draft was instituted, drawing people into the war who had been told it would never effect them. Few survived without getting sucked into the seemingly unending war effort. After nearly a decade of fighting, popular opinion finally caused the war to be brought to an abortive conclusion far short of its original goals. The people had been led off to war thinking it would be easy, glorious, and painless. What they experienced was seemingly unending drudgery, divisiveness, and pain. Although there were victories along the way, the most valuable outcome of the war was the painfully-won lesson that war is hell. The war was the biggest mistake in the history of the land. The punchline is that I'm not talking about a country -- I'm talking about the Dargon Project, and our Baranur-Beinison war storyline. Since the project's inception, we've tried to create communal events that span storylines, so that individual writers can reference common events and give their works a sense of unity with what everyone else is doing. Back in 1988, a war between the kingdoms of Baranur and Beinison seemed like an excellent event which everyone could incorporate into their stories. Unfortunately, it didn't take us very long to realize that waging war in a fictional world is just as hazardous as it is in the real world. We found ourselves making many of the same stupid mistakes that real nations have made. Eight years later, we're still trying to put the beast to rest. But with the publication of this issue, we have passed a milestone: The war's over. Boy, it feels good to say that! So good, I think I'll say it again: the war is *over*! This issue contains Jon Evan's "Coup" storyline which officially marks the end of the war between Baranur (to whom Dargon owes fealty) and Beinison. Jon was one of those people who started out as a "noncombatant" but who got drafted into finishing the war storyline when key writers left the project. He deserves huge thanks for his willingness to pick up the slack in the war storyline, as demonstrated in "Coup" and "Laraka III". Although this is the official end of the war, you'll still see several stories which deal with the aftermath of the war. War has lasting effects which can't be ignored, and this war is a historical fact that will remain evident in our works for some time to come. But that's not going to stop us from celebrating the accomplishment of something which has caused us so much pain and which we've been working toward for so many long years. The war is over!!! ======================================================================== Shadowstone Part IV by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Naia 13, 1014 Naia 13, 1014. Second bell. The Refuge of Thornodd's Raiders, in the Hills outside of Port Andestn, Duchy Monrodya. Panic gripping him, Chandras darted immediately to the nearest group of raiders, keeping track of what the grey-eyed man by the doorway was doing. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he quickly checked all 4 of the raiders in the group he had approached (no grey eyes!) before disturbing their conversation. In a low voice, he said, "Pardon me, but who is that standing by the doorway there?" One of the raiders started to say, "Oh, that's ..." in a normal tone of voice, but Chandras said "Shhhhh! Not so loud, please!" The raider frowned, but complied. In a softer voice, he said, "That's Sennex." "Have you known him long? Was he with you when you planned your raid on the mining camp?" "Why? What does it matter?" "Just tell me, please!" The raider shrugged and said, "Well, I've known him for years -- he was a Raider before I joined. "And, no he wasn't with us then. In fact, we found him wandering in the hills as we were returning from that raid. He said he remembers being knocked unconscious by those Minions, and then he woke up in a ravine, tied hand and foot. He got himself loose, and was trying to find his way to the Refuge when our group stumbled across him. We figured he must have fallen from the horse of the Minion who was carrying him." "Yeah, or maybe he was lying," Chandras said. He shook his head, and stopped whispering, even though the group of raiders continued to look at him strangely for asking such odd questions. "Do you have any extra weapons I could borrow? I suddenly feel like I need to go armed." He was led through one of the sleeping chambers to a small storage cave, where he picked up a sword. He contemplated trying to find armor that fit him from among the extra pieces lying there, but he had no real intention of going into battle -- the sword was for a more immediate use. When he returned to the main chamber, Thornodd was just reentering it as well. Chandras quickly checked for Sennex, and found him across the room from the opening with a strange satisfied smirk on his face. Chandras edged his way closer to the grey-eyed man as Thornodd gathered everyone around the table again. Chandras noticed that Jerek had also returned, and he had a large open book in his hands that he was reading very intently. Thornodd had a very serious look on her face as she regarded her gathered raiders. Chandras watched carefully, and saw that Sennex was careful to avert his eyes from the Captain as her gaze swept around the table. His suspicions completely confirmed, Chandras stepped back a little from the table so that he was mostly behind the grey-eyed man. And he raised his new sword, ready for the right moment. It came sooner than he had expected. Thornodd started speaking abruptly with, "We have had a visit from our guest's unhuman friend. She appeared out of thin air in front of Jerek and I and told us three things -- three very important things. These were ..." Chandras decided that Mistress Olmehri didn't need to know more. He shouted, "Wait, Captain Thornodd! There is a traitor in your midst!" And he thrust his sword into Sennex's back as hard as he was able. Everyone turned and looked in Chandras' direction at his shout, and everyone gasped as about a foot of blade suddenly protruded from Sennex's stomach. And everyone took a step back when the spy just laughed. Even though Chandras had been half expecting it, he cried out when he felt the sword begin to move in his hand of its own accord. The blade moved sideways surprisingly quickly, and in moments it exited from Sennex's side. It fell out of Chandras' limp hand and clattered to the floor, startling everyone into sudden motion. Sennex turned to run, still laughing superiorly. Almost everyone rushed the man and bore him to the floor. It wasn't easy -- Sennex pushed and shoved, tossing raiders left and right, but eventually by weight of numbers the spy was pinned down. Thornodd walked over and looked down at the still struggling man. Chandras followed her and watched her examine Sennex, staring into his eyes. She nodded in resignation, and said, "Take him into the farthest chamber and bind him with chains. You needn't be gentle -- this is not our friend Sennex." Ten raiders wrestled Sennex to his feet and started dragging him away while others went to fetch the chains. As he was dragged out of the main chamber he shouted, "The Mistress knows everything! You cannot win!" He started to laugh again, a loud, insane laugh that echoed around the chamber and only slowly faded away. It took a while to get everyone back around the table. The raiders who had bundled Sennex away took their time to make sure he was well secured. Thornodd detailed one raider to go up to the Lookout to make sure that their watcher was fine and that no sign of the Minions could be seen. Other errands were run, checking defense positions, checking stores in case they got caught in a siege situation, and Jerek took the opportunity to continue his reading. But eventually, everyone (except the lookout) was back around the table in the main chamber. Thornodd, with a grim look on her face, began, "We have certainly had undoubtable proof of our guest Chandras' stories. And while I would prefer to simply pack up and leave for safer climes, both Chandras' stories and the few words Kimmentari herself spoke to me suggest that there is more at stake here than we can simply walk away from. "As I was about to say before the spy was revealed, Kimmentari told Jerek and I three things. One was where to find the book he was looking for, and even the legend to read about. Another was to believe Chandras's stories, something that none of us should have trouble with now. And the third thing was, to quote, 'Remember Masrobak'." There were murmurs around the table, as if most of the raiders knew why the mention of the Duke of Monrodya's son was significant. Chandras didn't, but he put that question aside to ask another. "Did you see the pattern, what Kimmentari called the Dance, as she spoke? It made everything so clear, when she spoke to me." Thornodd shook her head, and Jerek echoed it. "She only briefly mentioned the Dance of Thyerin as a preface, an explanation of why she was here. But though her music was incredible, there were no images of the clarity that you mentioned. Vague suggestions, shadowy shapes, an idea of the loom and the threads ... but that was all." "Ah," he said, wondering why his perception had been so much more precise. "Go on." "Jerek, have you learned anything about this Shadowstone that is of use to us?" Jerek looked up from the book and said, "Yes and no. Kimmentari said that the legend in this book was not terribly accurate; that we could use it as a guide if we didn't try to extract details from it. Trouble is, it is difficult to figure out what information we are supposed to accept and what we should discard. "Still, comparing this legend against Chandras' story does help. I believe that this Shadowstone is a relic created back in the mists of time by a race so ancient that the Araf don't even remember them. It has the ability to bind the essence of a person to itself completely. After being bound, the one who controls the stone is able to command and control that essence, and give it what is called a Shadow body that is practically indestructible as we have seen. "There is a cost -- the controller of the stone must continue to provide essences at an ever increasing rate, or be slowly consumed instead. And the danger seems to be this: if the controller of the Shadowstone is completely consumed, the stone will take over the duties of feeding itself, and if that happens it will be virtually unstoppable -- if this part of the legend is accurate. "While there is still a controller, there would seem to be several weaknesses to exploit. One is that killing the controller will return the stone to its inert state, which will release the essences bound to it. Unfortunately, while the stone is active, the controller is able to cause the Shadow body of any and all of the bound essences to appear upon command -- in other words, the controller has an indestructible army of guards to protect himself, or herself in this case. "The other weakness I could find was that of the essences themselves. For one, the power available to the stone seems to be directly related to how many essences are bound to it. For another, being bound to the stone does not kill the person -- in fact, they become effectively immortal in that their bodies will not naturally die, though they are not invulnerable like their Shadow forms are, and the essence cannot exist without the natural body. The legend suggests that if the natural body is restored to consciousness, then the stone's hold over the essence is reduced -- perhaps to the extent that the controller will no longer be able to summon the Shadow form of that essence to her defense. It's not much, but its something." There was a short period of silence as everyone mulled over the deluge of information. Finally, Thornodd spoke. "The Mistress Olmehri and her Minions are bringing down some kind of 'doom' on Port Andestn, and it seems to fall to us to attempt to forestall this fate. I know we've never been a force for 'justice' before, but it would seem that we are all that is available, and I find myself compelled to action. "So, we have to eliminate the Shadowstone's threat, and to do that we must kill Olmehri. But to do that, we must first deal with her shadow army as well as any other magical defenses that both Olmehri and the stone might use against us. And one way is to reduce the stone's power, which conveniently happens to be related to the number of essences it controls." "So, we need to get into the compound and rescue those bodies," said Jerek. "Just like before. Let's see ... ah, I suppose I could produce a philtre that should wake the dead -- not literally, of course -- when smelled. Then we'd need someone to get the philtre to them ..." "Sounds like a start," said Thornodd. "We have two objectives -- disrupt the power of the stone so that the defenses available to Olmehri are reduced, and eliminate Olmehri herself. "Seems to me we need to divide into three groups. One to attack the compound and try to divert some of the Minions away from Olmehri and the stone. A second group will have to find wherever the original bodies are stored and revive them, and lead them away from the compound. And the last will have to be the one to attempt to kill Olmehri. "These latter two forces will have to be small, since there are so few of us in the first place and we need as many as possible in the diversionary attack. I think that Jerek and I should be the ones to attempt to take Olmehri's life. Volunteers for the second team?" Chandras had been thinking throughout Thornodd's speech, and as soon as she asked, he said, "I'll volunteer, Captain. I'm pretty good at sneaking into places, and I've already been inside the compound. I have an idea of where the bodies are." "Thank you, Chandras. Any others?" "Excuse me, Captain," said Chandras, "but I think I should go alone. One person has more of a chance to move unseen than two, and I don't think you've got any rooftoppers among you any longer. If Jerek's philtre will get them on their feet and moving, I think I can do the rest by myself." "But, Captain," spoke up one of the raiders. "I don't object to trusting our guest with a vital part of the mission, but it only makes sense to have someone along who can watch his back, at the very least." Thornodd thought for a moment, then said, "That makes sense, but so does Chandras. He has experience watching his own back, I think. All right, Chandras, you are team two. Okay then, everyone else will provide the diversion. Let's begin the planning. "Jerek, if you would get started putting together those explosive packs, and anything else you can muster to add to the confusion we need to generate. Any suggestions for how we can seem to multiply the number of people actually attacking?" As the tactical discussion continued, Chandras pulled away a bit. His planning skills didn't lend themselves to squad movements, and besides, he had other things on his mind. Like how to get in to the compound, and back out unseen. And what he needed to do when he found the bodies. Naia 13, 1014. Seventh bell. Corridom Silver Mine, just outside of Port Andestn, Duchy Monrodya. Chandras crouched in the shadows where the wall met the cliff on the opposite side of the box canyon from where he had entered the compound before, and waited for the attack to begin. He looked up at the top of the wall he was about to scale, and was again surprised that there weren't sentries patrolling it constantly. After all, Olmehri certainly had the troops to spare. But there once again seemed to only be guards at the top of the gatehouse towers. The first explosion startled him even though he had been expecting it. Fire blossomed on top of the same tower as before, this time destroying the forward parapet. Chandras thought he saw a body fall outwards, but he wasn't sure in the flickering firelight. The shout that arose from within the compound was almost immediately drowned out from a much louder sound from the walls of the box canyon outside the compound. Jerek had used some of his improvised magic to produce makeshift implements that would take in the screams and shouts of the diversionary group, and then copy, amplify, multiply, and send out those sounds over and over until their magical energy ran out. Chandras saw several people appear on the wall by the guard tower nearest him and look out, trying to find the source of all that noise. He turned in time to see the initial charge by the diversionary team, again aided by some of Jerek's magic that seemed to quadruple the number of people running towards the walls. The people who had been on the wall vanished, probably to inform those within that there was a massive attack coming. Chandras took the opportunity to begin climbing. This side of the compound wasn't in any better repair, and he climbed the cliff and wall easily. He checked the state of the attack and the defense, making sure it was safe before actually climbing onto the wall's walkway. There was no convenient building in this corner of the compound, so he just climbed down the inside of the wall, using the cliff when he needed to. Once safely on the ground again, he took to the shadows and moved over to the corner of the nearest building and looked into the compound. Apparently, no ceremony had been going on, because the dais was empty, and there were people pouring out of certain buildings and heading for the wall. His path was clear to the opening he had seen the victims of the ceremony carried to the day before, so he started to make his way carefully over to it. The second explosion also caught him off guard, and he stumbled and fell -- fortunately, completely in shadow, and silently too. He looked back and saw flames dancing across the top of the gateway arch. People were still coming out of various buildings, and the wall's walkway was now about half-filled with Minions hanging over the parapet and screaming. Very few were actually firing ranged weapons though -- maybe Olmehri hadn't stocked any bows and arrows for her compound? Chandras resumed his journey. No one seemed to be so much as glancing in his direction -- the diversion was doing its job -- but he didn't want to take a chance, so he stayed as hidden as he possibly could. Even so, all of his efforts were almost for naught. As he reached the edge of the cliff opening he was heading for, he stumbled. He caught himself before he fell into a patch of light, and as he paused to catch his breath and still his beating heart, two Minion knights, fully armored and carrying large swords, charged out of the entrance and toward the wall. He hadn't thought of there being guards over the bodies. Why guard comatose bodies, after all? What boring duty. Of course, these guards were rather more loyal than normal, weren't they? Chandras waited for a while longer, constantly expecting more guards. Finally, he made himself move into the opening, trying to stretch his senses to their limit to find any further guards still at their posts before they found him. The entrance opened onto a tunnel that just kept going on and on, no doors, no side passages, no nothing. Torches mounted on the walls every so often kept the way lit, but didn't leave much of any place to hide. Eventually, Chandras stopped creeping forward and just started walking down the center of the tunnel. Kimmentari appeared outside the walls of the compound just as the second explosion went off, so that almost no one noticed the splash of violet light. She turned and found Thornodd and Jerek staring at her from where they were waiting in the corner of the wall and cliff, getting ready to climb into the compound. She said, "Come with me. This will be easier." She waited until first Thornodd, and then Jerek, came over. She offered each of them an arm, and when they were holding on, she opened the entrance to the Merstaln and went in. Their journey was very brief, only two steps, but as they emerged in a short alley between two buildings built against the cliff wall at the back of the compound, her passengers sagged on her arms, gasping and wheezing. Kimmentari needed to wait for a little while anyway, so she didn't begrudge her companions their recovery time. She needed to steel herself for the coming confrontation. Olmehri would have one more chance to renounce the shard of her own free will, but Kimmentari had little hope that her cousin would relent -- she was too stubborn, too set on revenge and on getting her due. If Olmehri refused to see sense, Kimmentari was prepared to do what she had to. She only hoped the other dancers were, too. Thornodd and Jerek had fully recovered by the time the last Minion had dashed out of the building that was Kimmentari's destination. She said, "Olmehri is in that building, and is currently unguarded by Minions. Follow me, I will lead you to her. But be warned, she is not as defenseless as she will seem. Ready?" The two humans nodded, and Kimmentari set off. In through the open door, through empty corridors, and finally into Olmehri's throne room without a pause. Olmehri looked terrible. She slumped in her throne, head bowed, eyes closed. It seemed to Kimmentari that her cousin looked thinner, her skin paler, her hair wispier than on her previous visit. The shard was taking its toll. "Cousin!" she called out. Olmehri slowly opened her eyes and raised her head. Even her eyes seemed washed out, drained of their color and vitality. "Olmehri, renounce the shard. It is killing you!" "No," was the faint reply. "I am still in control, and I will succeed. I will never give it up!" Even when trying to shout, Olmehri's voice was still a thin whisper. "Then you must die, cousin. I am sorry, but if the Shadowstone succeeds in consuming you, it will be unstoppable." Kimmentari turned to her companions and said, "Kill her." The Shadowstone's wooden stand was right next to the throne. Olmehri only had to move her arm over a little bit before her hand rested on the stone, though it seemed to be a real effort for the half-Araf to accomplish it. But when she came into contact with the stone, vitality seemed to rush back into her and she straightened up, her eyes almost glowing with power. She grinned evilly, and said, "You will have no easy time of that," in a voice that was loud and clear and backed by music that almost sounded rich enough to be that of a full Araf. Kimmentari looked astonished at that, and Olmehri laughed. "Yes, cousin. Now you know why I dared the risks of the Shadowstone. It can give me my heritage -- all the powers of a full-blood Araf! "Yes, all of that *and* the power of the stone itself. You will be the ones to die!" She laughed as four Minions armed with swords appeared in the room and immediately attacked Thornodd and Jerek. "You, cousin," Olmehri said, eyes locked on Kimmentari, "will be mine to destroy." Chandras finally came to the end of the tunnel and found himself in a large room filled with shelves. If he hadn't been expecting something like it, he probably would have turned and run, because on the shelves were the bodies of the Shadowstone's victims. Row after row, shelf after shelf -- there had to be at least a hundred bodies laid out, looking like they were sleeping. The room looked like a nightmare version of a mortuary. He stepped over to the nearest body, and removed the bottle that contained the potion Jerek had mixed from his belt pouch. He had been thinking about what he had to do ever since he volunteered for this task, and he still hadn't quite made up his mind. The potion would rouse these people, weakening the Shadowstone's hold over them and thus its power. But he had also noted a phrase that Jerek had used when recounting the legend of the Shadowstone -- that the essence which the stone trapped would vanish if the physical body died. And if disturbing the link between stone and essence by awakening the bodies would weaken the stone, how much more disruption would occur if the essence went away completely? He wasn't too surprised that no one seemed to consider that as an option since the raiders' purpose was to save their captured fellow raiders. But Chandras wasn't one of Thornodd's Raiders. As far as he knew, none of his friends were in this room. Which should make that option easier to enact, if he could just make up his mind which option to choose. Kimmentari prepared herself for Olmehri's magical attack as she watched the Raider Captain and her magician battle with the indestructible Minions. And then, unbidden, the dreams that had involved her in this dance in the first place sprang into her head. She saw them both -- the one where the innocents were rescued, and the one where they died. She knew that the resolution of the dreams was close -- would the right conclusion be reached? Then Olmehri launched her first magical assault, and Kimmentari's attention was fully diverted to the here and now, which was for the best anyway. She had done all she was able to do to -- set the right events in motion -- and it was out of her hands now. She deflected the assault and was preparing a return blow when one of the minions shrieked as if in mortal pain. All eyes turned to him as he staggered, then fell to his knees before Olmehri. "Help me!" he pleaded to her, before he faded away and vanished. Chandras was surprised by the blood. Perhaps he had seen too many blades go into bodies bloodlessly in the past couple of days, but when he slit the man's throat he just hadn't expected to get drenched in blood. By the gods, there was a lot of it in a body, wasn't there? He was glad he hadn't managed to stab Malkhas! And then he began to laugh as he looked around the huge rough-cut stone chamber and the five score or more bodies stacked neatly on shelves all around it. The laugh got more and more hysterical as he realized that somewhere in here was the real Malkhas, and that he'd finally get to do what he had set out to do in the first place. Eventually, he calmed himself down. There seemed to have been no reaction to the first death, but there would be one eventually. He felt in his belt pouch for the philtre bottle he had put back there. He shook his head briefly at the thought of trying to lead a hundred rambling zombies out of the compound to safety. Obviously an impossible task. His decision had been as much due to that thought as to the realization that even weakened, the forces at Olmehri's command would overwhelm the remnants of Thornodd's Raiders easily. Olmehri had to be eliminated, and only eliminating her source of strength completely was going to accomplish that. He moved to the next body in a daze. Now that the decision was made, could he go through with it? The first man hadn't made a sound, or twitched, or anything. If not for the blood, Chandras thought he might even be able to imagine that it had been the throat of a dressmaker's dummy that he had cut. But there was blood. Blood on the man. Blood on his hands and chest. Blood on the shelf. Blood on his knife. Blood, blood, blood ... Chandras lowered his knife to the throat of the second man, and wondered whether he had the resolve to do this 99 more times ... "He's gone!" said Olmehri, looking at where the guard had been. She looked up at Kimmentari, and said, "You wouldn't! You couldn't!" "I didn't, cousin. It surprises me, too. Chandras has come to this measure by his own decision. You are defeated. "But you could still renounce the shard. If you free the essences it has trapped, and then give up its power, you could still survive. Rest and recuperative magic could restore you to your former health, though it is likely that the abilities you have augmented with the shard's power would be stripped from you completely. Just say the words, cousin. Please?" "Never!" Olmehri growled. "And your plan won't work either! I'll just send my Minions to destroy this Chandras, to defend the vessels ..." Kimmentari was ready for this. When she had touched the shard on her last visit, she had learned what frequency it vibrated at. Now, she began to sing at a pitch that resonated in and around that frequency. Kimmentari's song penetrated the shard, and only its magical nature saved it from being shattered immediately. But the song still had its desired effect -- amplified and focused by the shard, Kimmentari's song assaulted every one of Olmehri's senses, confusing them, overloading them, making sure she stayed occupied enough that she couldn't send the command through the stone that would doom Chandras. Thornodd was as shocked as Olmehri when the minion vanished. That shouldn't have happened, should it? If waking the original body of a Minion made the shadow body disappear, then their task would be easier than she had thought. But Olmehri's next words seemed to indicate that something more had happened. And then Thornodd realized what was happening -- Chandras was killing the bodies, not waking them up! Her friends, her fellow raiders, innocent townsfolk being executed by that little thief! Kimmentari began to sing then, throwing the room into confusion. Thornodd realized what Olmehri had said about sending her Minions to kill Chandras before he finished his job. It looked like Kimmentari's one-note song was keeping Olmehri from following through on her threat: if she could send mental commands while writhing and screaming like that, she was far stronger than she looked. But the three remaining Minions seemed to realize what was required of them, and they turned and dashed for the door. Thornodd reacted instinctively and tackled two of them while tripping a third. Jerek joined in as the Minions struggled to their feet, and soon a five-person melee was raging in front of the door. It was a terribly unequal match, since none of the cuts that either Jerek or she inflicted did any damage whatsoever. The Minions weren't very good swordsmen, but they didn't need to be since they couldn't be hurt and didn't tire. Thornodd was staggering under the heavy blows of the Minions by the time the next one vanished with a cry as anguished as the first one's had been. She had expected the battle to be a little easier, but the remaining Minions fought even harder to get through the door and rescue their Mistress before it was too late. One kicked Thornodd in the shin at the same time the other slashed at her unprotected shoulder. Only the Minion's lack of expertise saved Thornodd's arm but the hard blow with the flat of the sword, combined with the kick, knocked her off balance. She fell hard, numbing her sword arm and when she looked back up she saw the Minion above her swinging his sword at her two-handed. She tried to lift her sword to block it, but she just couldn't move that arm yet. Thornodd was getting ready to greet her dead relatives when the Minion shrieked, faded, and vanished. The sword it had been holding flew off on a tangent, missing her completely. She closed her eyes for a moment, sucked in a deep breath of relief, and thought, 'Guess I'm lucky Chandras decided on his more rash approach, or I'd be dead now.' A cry from Jerek got Thornodd's attention again, and she saw the last Minion dash past her magician friend who was clutching his arm, blood oozing through his fingers. She surged to her feet, concern on her face, but Jerek said, "I'm okay -- it's not as bad as it looks. We can't let that one get away!" They followed the Minion out into the hall, but the running figure was almost at the stairs. Despairing of being in time, Thornodd started after him, but a shouted, "Duck!" made her dodge to the side of the hallway. A ball of green light sped past her and struck the Minion just as he took his first step down. The ball of light exploded into mist that wrapped itself around the Minion and turned into a half-dozen rings of green light that immobilized the fleeing man and caused him to fall down the steps to the first landing. Thornodd checked on the struggling prisoner, who was unhurt by his fall and not going anywhere, before returning to Jerek to check on the condition of his arm. The slash really wasn't a bad wound, just bloody, and Thornodd wrapped it quickly. By the time she was done, the trapped Minion had vanished and the rings were lying on the landing and dissolving, their green glow fading away. She and Jerek returned to Kimmentari's side. Thornodd watched as the Shadowstone almost seemed to squirm in its stand, trying to defend its controller. The strange grey glow of the stone was visibly dimming as the essences it held were freed by Chandras' work. Facet after facet went dim, and Thornodd could sense that it wouldn't be much longer now. It didn't get any easier. Chandras had just as hard a time with the last slash as he had with the first. There was blood all over the room, but he had ceased to notice it. It was simply part of what he was doing -- killing innocents in completely cold blood. He was surprised that his resolve lasted through every single body in the cavern. He had executed Malkhas without even marking the event until he had moved onto the next body. A brief salute, a brief thought about Delebye and wondering whether she had really been worth all this, and he put it behind him. His world focused to the knife and the throats, as he systematically moved among the shelves and the bodies. And finally, the last body was dead. Somewhere along the way, he had thought about and decided how he was going to deal with what he had done. He wasn't the heroic type, to be able to put the killing behind him in the name of a just cause. He had done what he had to -- he had no qualms about that. But he knew he didn't have the stomach to face the inevitable nightmares. He looked at the last body, a trickle of red running down her neck. 'Almost finished,' he thought. 'Just one more.' He sat against a wall, and said, "And she'll never know what I've done for her." Then, he completed his job of executions. Kimmentari went silent when the shard went completely inert. The glow was gone, and the rip had shrunk to a very small slit that no longer glowed or pulsed. Olmehri slumped on her throne, still stunned from Kimmentari's assault. Thornodd looked hard at the stone, then turned to Kimmentari. "Is it done?" she asked. "Yes, except for one last thing. The Shadowstone has been drained, but Olmehri is still linked to it. That link must be broken -- when it recovers from the assault, it will absorb Olmehri's essence and then it will become unstoppable. If you could ..." Thornodd caught her meaning, and nodded. Kimmentari turned away, but she still heard the sword piercing flesh. Hanging her head for a moment, she sighed, and then turned back to the throne. Not looking at the body, she removed the shard from its perch and secreted it away inside her sleeve. "I'll take care of disposing of the stone, Milady Thornodd," Kimmentari said wearily. "You and your Raiders can go your own way now. You may wish to take over this compound, even. I would suggest that you brick up the passage to the storage chamber where the bodies are, in any case. It would make a fine tomb." "We will, Lady Kimmentari. And thank you for your assistance here. We couldn't have done it without you." Thornodd turned to Jerek, who had also reentered the room, and said, "Jerek, why don't you go fetch Chandras and tell him it's all over. Though I wish such drastic measures had not been necessary, we owe him a great deal and I want to congratulate him." "Your pardon, Milady Thornodd, but that won't be necessary." Jerek and Thornodd turned to her, and Thornodd said, "Why not? Oh, he's probably come out on his own. Well, I'd better find him -- he still needs to be congratulated." "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry, but he rests with the others in the chamber." "What? Why!? Did a Minion find out what was going on and get to him as he was killing the last one?" "Chandras took his own life, Milady Thornodd. He did what needed to be done, but he couldn't live with it having done it. "Think on this: you killed my cousin, with little remorse. I understand that -- she caused all of this, and she bore the responsibility. But what if it had been you instead of Chandras in the storage room? Could you have killed 100 or more seemingly sleeping people who had done nothing against you of their own volition? Do you then wonder at the path Chandras chose?" Both Thornodd and Jerek looked stunned by Kimmentari's questions. She walked past them into the corridor, and then into the Merstaln. She would store the Shadowstone in one of the wild places, where few ever went, and she would set wards that would warn her should someone find it and claim it again. She didn't want this to happen yet again ... As she contemplated the future, she also contemplated the past. The dreams that had lead her here were firmly locked into their places in the Dance now, one accomplished successfully, one avoided successfully. She had set out from home to see that the right dream came about. And she had fully expected that 'right dream' to be the one where the innocents were saved. She was glad she hadn't shared that thought with anyone, though, since she had been wrong. The innocents had been beyond rescue from the moment that her cousin had captured them. If she had applied herself to bringing the dream she wanted to reality, instead of just guiding events so that the *right* dream became reality, then disaster might really have followed. She enjoyed living in the human world, but she had to remember not to become too human along the way. ======================================================================== Coup by Jon Evans Sy 1014 The six of us gathered in a starlit field, distanced from the encampment and casual observers. An uneasy silence had gathered with us. No one questioned why we had met. No clarification was necessary. All were in agreement as to the identity of the problem. Still, the evening's debate had not gone smoothly. Each had argued for a different solution. Some had argued more loudly than others. Some merely entertained ideas. These were easily allied to the stronger personalities in the six. I allied two others to myself, rhetorically. A fourth stood alone with her own dark plans. And the fifth and sixth greedily strove for the power they perceived dangling in front of them. Before these tidings could be drawn to their conclusion, I needed to know what were the plans of the dark one. A majority was all that was needed. "So," I started, "we are in agreement, then." "No!" another whispered violently. "We are not in agreement. All we've done for the past two bells is argue!" "You are the one who has argued, General," I answered. "you and your assistant." The man next to the general stiffened at this title. "I wield the significant military power of my entire family, priest. I 'ally' myself to the General ... we assist each other in this matter." I nodded. "My apologies, Sir Knight. Still, there are four among us that would agree to the same course of action." "That is not the case," said the knight. "She," he indicated a woman cloaked in a black robe with red borders, "does not agree with you at all." "On the contrary," she spoke slowly. All eyes turned to her. Her voice was strained, escaping from her like a promise of death. "I agree with both of you, on two different topics. You, General, and the knight," she indicated to the armored individuals, "would kill our quarry and continue this endeavor for land and power. While you, priest," she pointed to me, "would merely convince our quarry to withdraw his efforts." She slowly breathed in the night air, her lungs straining with the effort. "I, however, find a happy medium with both of you. Our quarry should be killed. But we must not continue in this endeavor." "It is obvious, as a priestess of Amante," I said, "that you would choose to kill our quarry. However, that a priestess of the goddess of death does not want ... this endeavor, as you put it, to continue seems peculiar." She sat motionless. "It rushes man and beast to the final destiny. They are not ready for their journey, and Amante rejects them until they can be prepared. Death is a natural order, that all of us -- even you, priest -- must eventually embrace. But not before our time." "And Untar?" "Untar has brought his time upon himself." "The war has aged him," Sir Horace thought. "What is it, Sir Horace?" Untar asked. "Another god arising in the Baranurian ranks, defeating my armies and killing my chief magus?" Untar was speaking, of course, of Sir Luthias Connall, Knight Captain of the Northern Marche. In the last eight months, Luthias Connall had risen from a minor lord to a Count who commanded roughly half of the Baranurian armed forces. He had also escaped Beinison's prisons, and slain the Emperor's chief magus Mon-Taerleor. Now, however, Sir Horace approached his Emperor with a more mundane threat -- yet one that could destroy Beinison's already diminishing chances of winning this war. "Sir Horace?" the Emperor called, jarring Sir Horace from his thoughts. "We are not in the habit of repeating ourselves. What is it you wished to discuss?" "Uh ... yes, your Majesty." Sir Horace replied, noting Untar's use of the royal plural. He only did so when aggravated. "My apologies. There are two matters which must be addressed, concerning the war." "And so you approach us in the late of the evening, when most of our advisors are not in attendance? Would these topics not better be addressed in Council, with our other military advisors present?" "My liege," Sir Horace started, "I believe one of these topics to be extremely sensitive ... " "And the second?" "Had you visitors, I would have had a reason to be here, without raising their suspicions." "Who's suspicions?" "I am not certain, your Majesty. That is why I approach you in the privacy of the evening." Untar paused a moment. "Speak, councilor." "Yes, sire. The first issue I wish to address -- the least of the two -- is the morale of the fighting forces. Or, more accurately, the honor of our fighting forces. As you know, Sire, there have been horrendous acts committed by our men as we further our occupation of Magnus. Where Baranur has been driven from its capital, fire has swept the streets. Our men are burning and pillaging these sections of the city." Sir Horace looked into the blank face of his emperor. "Sire, even the mercenary divisions are more respectful -- and chivalric -- toward this city and its inhabitants." "I have been informed," the emperor stated. "The priests of Amante and Gow are working together -" "Amante and Gow!" Sir Horace exclaimed. "Sire, those two are as night and day! Why - " Suddenly, Sir Horace realized he had interrupted his emperor. "My apologies, Emperor. Please continue." Untar breathed in slowly. "They are working together to quell the situation. If that is not good enough for you, Sir Horace, perhaps you can suggest a more strategic plan of simultaneously recognizing the representatives of two of the most prominent religions." "No, your Majesty." "Excellent. Now that I have your approval on that topic, what is the more sensitive matter that you desire to discuss?" "My liege," Sir Horace began hesitantly, "you must understand that this morale situation, as well as our recent defeats, has weakened our effort to support this war. Of the three most prominent families, you have only the undivided support of two. The third sides with you, officially, but politically it sways with the winds. It always has." "You tell me nothing new, councilor." Untar rested his head on his hands. He hoped that this would not be a long, boring dictation on situations he already knew. At the same time, he hoped that Sir Horace did not suddenly present him with information that would destroy his efforts to expand Beinison's territory. "My Emperor, I have knowledge that a group of powerful representatives are meeting in secret." Untar looked up from his seat. "The exact nature of these meetings is unknown to me, but it would seem most likely they are planning something other than military maneuvers." "Who are these 'representatives', Sir Horace? What do you know about them?" "Only that they have met privately, to discuss matters of some ... secrecy. I know nothing further." "And how did you come to learn this knowledge?" "I have a spy. I will not say what relationship he plays with this group, except that he knows something of their activities." "And what did your spy tell you?" "Your effort to win this war -- your very life! -- is in danger, sire. You must re-think recent events." "Are you saying I should abandon the war at this late stage? We are besieging the capital city of Baranur, and we have taken and burned several sections of the city, as you yourself have been so careful to point out just this evening!" "Sire, if you'll forgive me -- " "How much more can We forgive you, this evening?" Sir Horace blushed and caught his breath. "Sire, the sections of Magnus under our domain are all part of the section referred to as the 'Fifth Quarter'. It is the single largest breeding ground for filth, poverty, and the criminal element in all of Baranur. We're probably doing Baranur a favor by clearing it out and purifying it in fire. Haralan might otherwise have hired a fighting force to do just that." "And the rest of Magnus?" "We have yet to cross the Laraka or enter the other two sections on this bank. There is still heavy, sporadic fighting in the Fifth, and the bridges that cross the Laraka are heavily defended. We will have to devise another means of fording the river." "So, you are advising me to retreat from Magnus, now that Baranur is feeling our divine grip?" "I'm advising you that internal forces are planning to resist your advance on Baranur, and that if you don't re-think your political actions, you may end up being removed. Your Majesty!" "You dare threaten me!" Untar stood on his feet, kicking his seat backward with the force. Immediately, a guard stepped out from behind Untar's position. He drew his sword and advanced on Sir Horace. Sir Horace stepped back a pace. "My Emperor, you have known me for some years. You know that I do not threaten you." "Your implications, however, threaten my existence on this throne! Sir Horace, do you care to reveal the source of your knowledge, or the members of this 'secret group' you claim exists?" "I cannot, sire." "Then I suggest you vacate my pavilion immediately. Do not think to suggest my course of action be changed on your word. You are not held *that* highly in my court." The emperor's guard stepped between Sir Horace and Untar, and gestured toward the door. Sir Horace bowed. "Good evening, my Emperor." When Sir Horace was gone, Untar looked to his guard. "So, Thieryn ... what do *you* think of Sir Horace's tale?" "Me, my Emperor?" "You have been my personal guard for seven years, now. Your family has maintained watch on the royal lineage for generations. Surely, if I cannot trust your judgment, I can trust no one's. Is that not so?" "Your life is my first concern, my Emperor." I looked around at them again. The six of us, all representing major powers within the Beinison ruling class, sat in a small group several miles from the Emperor's encampment. We were deciding the fate of nations. It was a mighty undertaking, full of hundreds of unforeseeable consequences. Most people could not contemplate the actions we were taking, for fear of losing control. But that is why we were the ruling class: we were able to maintain control, even in the midst of chaos. And Beinison was in chaos. The dark priestess of Amante has made herself known to us, rhetorically. She asks questions that steer the others toward the answers she desires. They know she plans something; she does not hide it. But what? All I wish is the cessation of this bloody war, and a return to neutrality, if not outright peace. I feel peace, however, may take many years. "And so, we are drawn on two issues," the priestess of Amante spoke. "The continuation or discontinuation of this war effort, and the worth of the Emperor to Beinison's future." "I, for one," spoke the Knight of the Star, "equate the Emperor with Beinison. He has no heirs. And his sister is not well loved by the court." He was referring to a scandal that had removed Beinison's princess from the capital city, and forced her into a sort of self-exile in the countryside. "There are other ruling powers in Beinison, aside from the royal family's." This was spoken by the nobleman. "Such as?" I asked. "Such as his own," offered the Amantean priestess. "Yes, you Amantean witch! Such as my own. But there are several others, and I feel confident that among the forces gathered here this evening, we can work out a temporary hierarchy until a situation that satisfies us all can be arranged." "An interesting concept," offered the priestess. "And one which might well pit the religions against each other, giving more power and stability to the nobility. I do not relish a religious war with the priests of Gow, or the priestesses of Alana." "Nor do they wish one with you," I offered. There were several chuckles. The followers of Amante were more assassins and thieves than commoners. Their religious order practiced sacrificial rites and self-inflicted pain, and harnessed the darkest of energies. On an open field, Gow's warriors could annihilate the warriors of Amante. But it would not be a war fought on open fields. It would be fought in secrecy, under cover of night, with poisons and curses. "There is yet another concern," spoke one of my allies. "Sir Horace, a Knight of the Star." "What of Sir Horace?" asked my other ally, a nobleman. "He knows about these meetings," the first replied. "Of course he knows," the nobleman spoke. "He is the highest representative of my household, outside of Beinison. He was to be the representative of our family. I am acting in his stead." "And you have told him of our plans?" I asked. "You have told him that Untar's life hangs in the balance?" The nobleman stood up, nearly shouting his defense. "I *report* to Sir Horace. He must know what occurs in these meetings. Only then can I act out his will." "You have been foolish," the Amantean witch stated. "Horace's loyalties have always placed the royal line before Beinison." "The royal line *is* Beinison, bitch!" Hissed the nobleman. "Untar is the last of his line; his life must be preserved. The military has the power -- " "The military," I spoke, "has had all but the very worst luck, in recent months, Sir. That issue is not to be debated, at this time. Presently, the six of us are in conflict. There is no cessation from either side. But involving Sir Horace has been a mistake." "One that must be dealt with," the dark priestess spoke. "He is my lord," protested the nobleman. "I cannot --" "You have little choice." This was the General, speaking at last. "Horace is an excellent knight, and your leader ... here. But your true fealty lies to your family, in Beinison, and Horace threatens their existence by making our presence known to Untar. He must be dealt with." "But how?" my ally spoke. "He is still well loved by the emperor. No challenge to his honor would even be believed." "I shall arrange it," spoke the Amantean priestess. The Knight of the Star and the General rose simultaneously, placing their hands on their swords. The Knight spoke. "No assassin is going to stab Sir Horace in the back, witch. Your blood will spill before his." The Amantean priestess smiled, the wrinkles splitting face into a thousand pieces. A pleasant appearance came upon her, and it frightened me. It frightened all of us. We could hardly imagine what pleased her. "Untar himself will give the order for Horace's execution." "You have summoned me, my emperor?" Sir Horace asked. Untar sat in his pavilion, on a temporary throne, his personal guardsmen in attendance. Untar's royal cloak hung from tired shoulders, and his eyes stared forward with determination. Again, Horace realized how much older Untar had become. He looked, now, like an emperor -- no more the youth Horace had known. Untar's gaze focused on Horace. "Tell me about your secret group, Sir Horace. I have reason to believe what you say is, at least, partially true." "I can say no more than I have already told you, my emperor. I am unaware of the exact participants within the circle. I could only guess." "I do not want guesses from you, Horace." Untar stood up. "I want the truth! You enter my pavilion, approaching me in secrecy, and attempt to dissuade me from my assault on Magnus. Why?" Horace stood silent; shocked. "Then you inform me of a secret group, who decides my very fate. Why?" "My emperor, I -- " "THEN! Then you tell me that we are being ineffectual against Baranur! Why?" "I -- " "SILENCE!!" Untar approached him. Horace looked around himself, alone in the room with the Emperor and all ten of the Royal Guard. Untar never kept all of his guards with him at once. This was an inquisition, Horace thought, albeit a benign one. "Tell me one thing, Horace," Untar pleaded. "You have been well-loved in the court. I have found evidence that you plot against me. It is difficult to believe. Prove your loyalty to me. Who is in the group?" Horace was stunned. "Emperor, I have never --" Untar whirled suddenly, slamming the back of his fist against Horace's jaw. "Do not insult me again! Thieryn, bring the other prisoner." Untar's personal guard signaled, and a body, heavily bloodied at the mouth, was dragged into the room. "I have, as you can see, your protege, Sir Rosgood. His tongue has been removed. Heavy interrogation by Thieryn has determined that you were the principal element in leading your secret group towards your own secret ends, and the ends of your household. It is sad that his fealty to his own household crumbled in the last instant. Before he drowned in his own blood, he indicated your activity in the group, and lead us to these papers." Untar walked to his throne and picked up a parchment with Horace's family crest. It was a parchment sent to Horace, requesting that he meet with the six members of the secret group. "Emperor, that document only requests that I meet with the group. It indicates nothing else. I did not even attend those meetings! I sent Rosgood in my stead!" "And so, your lies meet an end," Untar said. Untar looked sad, worn, and at the edge of tears. Horace, with his very life suddenly depending on the outcome of this audience, still felt pity for Untar. He loved his emperor. "This document," Untar continued, "indicates a secret treaty that your family has initiated with Haralan, King of Baranur. It further gives you authority to grant special dispensations to the other members of your group, should they be convinced to pledge fealty to your family. YOUR family!" Untar slapped the scroll across Horace's face. "What have you to say in your defense?" Sir Horace was speechless. The document never stated anything of the kind, he thought. It only requested his presence. And Rosgood ... Gow, Rosgood had been his closest advisor. Untar knew this. "There is nothing I can say, my emperor. I am innocent. I request a trial by my peers --" "You request nothing," Untar began. "This is treason on the highest level. We are in enemy territory, in the midst of war. And you plot against me. "Thieryn!" Untar called. "Take him away. We want his head on a pike, in the middle of camp, and his body hanging from the tallest tree. Let us show his compatriots what happens to those that plot against our divine will!" We met again, for the last time. This time, however, there were only five. We all had questions to ask her. Why Rosgood? Why implicate one of our own? But we knew the answer. She had decided it was safest for the rest of us, and had acted as she saw fit. We could not question her. We had had little to do with it. But I would still attempt to sway her from Untar's death, or block her ability to order it. "In light of recent events," I began, "we are without our Sir Rosgood, a nobleman and leader. However, I feel his family should still have representation. Therefore, I suggest we honor his family by requesting they appoint a new representative." As I looked to the faces in the group, I knew they would all support me. No one felt comfortable with the dark priestess' plan to remove Rosgood. He was not part of the deal. I stared at her. She met my gaze calmly. "I agree," she said. "However, since Untar is certain to begin moving his reserve troops against Rosgood's household, it is unlikely that they will send another representative." "But they must be represented," I said, "or this council is invalid." "Then I suggest we request the advice of the highest ranking official of their bloodline that is present at this war front," Amante's daughter spoke. I agreed. We all did. "Then we shall reconvene tomorrow night?" I offered. "No," she stated. "Our meetings have drawn to an end. We must act upon our majority rule." The General spoke. "But we must find the representative --" Once again, she smiled. It was all she needed to halt his speech. "I am that family's highest ranking official. Horace was my brother." We all stared. I was dumbfounded. I had attempted to circumvent her plans, but had given her the key. And then I knew why she had removed Rosgood from our circle. Now she held two votes. "Then our mission is complete. Rosgood opposed your desire to remove Untar." "That was the issue in conflict. And now this council is no longer divided. We can act." Peacefulness rested on her shoulders. "I protest!" shouted one of my allies, Thieryn. "Untar's life is my charge!" "And yours shall be the sword that ends it," she answered. There was nothing we could do. Our council had met to decide the fate of a nation, and we had done so. "Untar has brought his fate upon himself." Untar parted the tent flap that led into his private chambers, followed closely by his personal guard, Thieryn. He had dismissed the others, wishing to be alone in his thoughts, but Thieryn had refused to leave him. In light of recent events, the Emperor of Beinison must not be left alone -- and could not gain the privacy he desired. He sat in a chair, facing the only remaining friend he had. "Sir Horace denied the pamphlet's contents, Thieryn. And I killed him. No trial. He's dead." Thieryn's face was stone like in its lack of movement. His lips parted slightly. "We had evidence of his treason, my Emperor." "Couldn't it have been a forgery?" Untar's eyes were red, fighting back the tears that came with his loss. His voice cracked, slightly, and Thieryn realized his Emperor, with all his power, was still only seventeen years old. "This war has made me mad," Untar said. "Killing the people I would rather be ruling ... how am I ever to trust these people? How could I know they loved me as their Emperor? What good is it to rule over people who would rather have another in your place? Would they not rise against me? Challenge my divine right as Emperor, and put a false king in my place? Were I killed and Beinison placed in Haralan's hands, would you follow him so loyally as you do me? "This has gone on too long," Untar continued. "I am too tired of this battle. Thieryn, what if I've just condemned an innocent man? Set this man's head upon a pike, as a testament to what happens to loyal subjects? He was one of my strongest supporters, and wisest advisors -- but the pamphlet was so public! Thieryn, when you arrested Rosgood so publicly, you tied my hands. I had to show that I am a strong ruler. But did I have to kill him? I became so angry with him -- and now I have failed a man that believed in me. I have killed a loyal subject. "I am not a great ruler, Thieryn. I am nothing. I do not deserve to live. Horace tried to warn me -- I am wasting lives, here, and accomplishing nothing. All my friends are gone -- Horace, Mon-Taerleor -- I am so alone. Except for you, Thieryn. I have caused so many problems, cost so many lives ... for what? And how can I repair that which I have broken? "I no longer want Baranur. This cold, desolate, barren land, not at all the like the beautiful mountains of Beinison, the long sloping planes of the Central Region, the warm waters off the western coast. Nothing but cold. With cold-hearted subjects that would attempt to assassinate me at every turn." Untar looked up at Thieryn. "But I cannot go home, can I, my friend? How do I tell the ruling families that the thousands of lives I've cost them were for nothing? Their sons, daughters, subjects, dead at my hands and nothing to show for it! I must die here, in Baranur, alone except for you." Suddenly, Untar looked brightly up at Thieryn, the tears running down his face glinting in the torch light of his tent. A spark of hope glinted in his eyes, and something akin to madness. "Yes! That's it! There is no other course! I must die. It must be here. And now! Thieryn, you must leave me. I have to be alone." Thieryn stood in shock. He had been sent to kill his emperor, but now Untar wanted to commit suicide. Untar's family line would be disgraced. But it would save Thieryn the responsibility of killing him. Killing a man he had sworn to protect, whose life he had guarded for over ten years. But if he let his emperor commit this act, then it were as if he had struck the knife to Untar's chest with his own hands. "No, my emperor, you must not!" Thieryn stepped forward, grabbing Untar's shoulders and turning him to face Thieryn. "Yours is a proud line, full of noble emperors generations in the counting. Your father conquered two kingdoms and took them into Beinison, and now the nobles are your loyal subjects. Your grandfather defeated the Lederian Invasion, pushing back their forces and claiming half their own lands. You shall be as victorious, one day!" Untar looked at him, confused. "But ... I have failed. I have nothing. The other families -- " "The other families can say nothing. You have taken two full duchies with this army ... Taken them from the largest force Beinison has ever faced. You have personally lead glorious battles! You could order the troops to fall back to Duchy Pyridain, fortify our holdings, and prepare another assault for the coming year. In a few months, Haralan will have no choice but to treatise with you to spare his very life!" Untar stood up. "You are right, Thieryn." He moved out of Thieryn's grasp and turned his back to wipe his eyes. "You are correct. I have nothing to fear from the other nobles. I am the emperor! They will listen to us! *We* are Beinison!" Thieryn noticed Untar's usage of the royal plural. He smiled, even as a tear fell down his cheek and he silently drew his sword from his belt. He could not let his emperor die like a cowering, weak, terrified child. But an emperor, standing tall, confident in his power ... that was how his emperor should be remembered. A quick thrust. Torn fabric. No groan from his emperor. No sound of pain. Just a little bit of liquid soaking into the ground. ======================================================================== Screams of War by Mark A. Murray Magnus, Sy 1014 The screams were the worst. Wynni ran down an alley trying to put the screaming behind her, but she kept running closer to it. It seemed to come from everywhere. The screaming echoed off the walls. It came from the people who ran around her. The night sky was lit from the fires and the whole city seemed to glow. A dark cloud hovered above it all; a dark cloud of black smoke that covered the sky and reflected the burning back upon Magnus. The fires hadn't worked their way to her, yet. For this, she was glad. She also had managed to avoid most of the Beinison invaders. If she could just find a way out ... "They shouldn't be here!" her mind screamed as she turned a corner and saw soldiers. "This is Magnus. We're not supposed to be invaded." She turned around and ran down another street. Waves of heat assaulted her and she had to run down a side alley to escape the flames. "Sweet Stevene, help me," Wynni cried softly as she ran. "If you help me out of this, I'll never sell myself again. Please, Stevene!" she pleaded. Wynni heard soldiers behind her and she quickly turned down another alley. As she turned the corner, blood splattered her face and body. "Augh!" she yelled as she wiped the blood from her face. Her movements were jerky and erratic as she tried to get all the blood off of her. When she opened her eyes, she saw a small battle in front of her. "Go away!" she screamed in her mind. "Go away!" As she backed into the alley wall, she watched in horror as men cut and slashed each other. With each wound, a part of her seemed to die. Swords whistled and clanged. She heard a soft fleshy thunk as a mace was buried in a man's stomach. She didn't hear the screams until she saw an arm severed from someone. Blood spurted everywhere. The man who had swung the sword was covered in it. She saw several men on the ground clutching different parts of their bodies and screaming in agony. A man slipped in the blood and before he could get up another man stabbed him from behind. The stabbed man turned and she saw recognition in both of the men's eyes. She thought she heard the standing man say he was sorry, but couldn't be sure because a sword took his head. "Stop it!" she screamed aloud. Nobody heard her. "Oh, Stevene, please stop it," she cried. The battle raged fiercer as new men joined the fray. She turned and threw up. The screams echoed in her head as her stomach emptied what contents it had held. "Go away!" she screamed to the screaming. Looking back at the battle, she saw a man coming toward her. She turned and ran down an alley. As she turned the corner into another alley, she ran into a warrior. "Let me go!" she yelled as she tried to pull away. "What have we got here?" the mercenary asked. "Looks like you've seen some fighting." He held her arm tightly. "Let me go. You're hurting me!" she told him. "Looks like a pretty thing, doesn't it?" he said as he wiped more blood from her face. "Hold her still," he told his companion. The other man grabbed her upper arms and held her tightly. "I've got her, Arvid," he said. Arvid let go of her arm and grabbed her shirt. "Let's see what we've got here," he said as he started to undo it. Wynni squirmed but it only caused her shirt to rip. Arvid smiled. "The building behind you looks empty, Arvid," the man holding her said. Arvid turned and looked in the open doorway. He stepped in for a moment and when he came back out, he grabbed Wynni and pulled her inside. "Please let me go," she pleaded. "Do what you're told," Arvid said. "No, no --" she started to cry but stopped as Arvid slapped her. "You gonna take the rest of them clothes off or do I have to slap you again?" he said. "Please," she cried. Arvid slapped her again. Wynni fell to the floor and Arvid stood over her. When he moved to undo her pants, she kicked at him but he dodged it easily. "Hold her, Burke," he told his companion. "She's a slow one." As Burke held her, Arvid used his knife to cut her pants. He didn't care this time and left many long narrow slices in her legs. "Stevene!" she cried out. "He's burning with the rest of them," Arvid told her as he undid his pants. She screamed until her voice gave out. They had left her alive. "It was just another paying man on a regular night," she told herself, but it didn't help the pain go away. She was on the floor and her body shivered. As she tried to stand, the physical pain of the rape and the many cuts in her legs caused her to lay back down. She curled up into a tight ball and tried to make it go away. She wanted to die, but instead from somewhere in the night, she heard the screaming again. "Why, Stevene, why?" she asked softly into the night. She cried as the city died. "I'm sorry," came a voice inside the room. She jerked and looked around, but didn't see anything. "Who's there?" she asked. "I came too late," the boy said as he emerged from his hiding place. "I didn't have a weapon and I wouldn't know how to use it if I did," he said. "There was too many of them. I'm sorry." "Who are you?" she asked as she tried to cover herself with her torn clothes. When the boy came closer, she saw that he was older -- he was a young man. His beard was just coming in and he had the start of a mustache. His brown hair was cut short and he wore a priest's robe. "I'm Ammon. My dad was a baker. He's dead. So's mom," he told her. "I have a robe if you want it. It's a priest's robe and it's got blood on it, but what doesn't now?" "Thank you," she said taking the robe. "We should go. I think the fire's coming this way." She stood and pain lanced through her. She stumbled and he caught her arm. She looked at him and saw tears in his eyes. "So much pain," she thought. "When will it end?" "Soon," he answered. She was too lost in her pain to notice his unusual answer. They left the room and went into the alley. The city was brightly lit. As they walked in a direction that was away from the worst of the fire, they saw bodies lying everywhere. She tried not to look at them, but it was impossible not to. Some were burned and blackened while others were twisted at odd angles. And the screaming continued. "I had a friend once," Ammon said. "He was the best friend that I've ever had. He was a teacher and I was an arrogant kid when he found me. He taught me many things." Ammon stopped as they hid in a darkened alley and waited for the soldiers to go by. After some moments, he deemed it safe enough and they continued on in silence. There were many times that they had to hide or run, but it seemed to Wynni that it was different. With Ammon next to her, the way was easier and the screaming seemed distant. "I don't have any friends," Wynni said. "Just close strangers." "I did a lot of things that I shouldn't have. Until my friend found me. After that, life wasn't the same." Ammon stopped again, but this time it wasn't because of soldiers. Wynni could tell that something was bothering him. "What's wrong?" she asked. "He was killed," Ammon answered. "Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I had been with him ..." "This war hurts us all," she said trying to ease his pain. She didn't think that he could have helped his friend. After all, he wasn't able to help her. Ammon looked at her then and smiled. She started to say something, but they had reached the river. "We should be safe here," Ammon said as they crawled under a bridge. Ammon curled up to her as they settled in their hiding place. He was warm and soft. Wynni put her arms around him and held him tight. As she drifted to sleep, she wondered where the screaming went. "You there!" someone shouted. Wynni jerked awake and saw several soldiers standing near her. "Think she's Beinison?" said a soldier. "Get her across the river and question her," the leader ordered. "Make sure she's not." "Ammon, we're safe," she whispered, but when she turned to where he had been, he was gone. "Looks like she's been in the worst of it. No rough handling with this one, though. Understand?" the leader asked. "Ammon?" she asked again as the soldiers led her to safety. "Did you say 'Ammon'?" the leader asked her. "Yes," Wynni answered. "He helped me out of the city." "How many does this make, Cap'n?" a soldier asked. "Nine," the leader said. "You're the ninth person to have been helped by this 'Ammon'. Nine we know of, that is." "Blessed Stevene!" a soldier said and the words shocked her. "Stevene," the soldier continued, "had many disciples. One of them was named Ammon. Ammon wasn't there when Cephas Stevene was killed. He came days later and was murdered for proclaiming to be a disciple of Cephas. He was too late to save his friend. Maybe he's trying to make up for that?" "Stevene," she thought. "He had said his best friend was a teacher who had changed his life. His friend was killed when he wasn't there. His friend had to be Cephas Stevene!" "Ammon?" she asked the silent air around her. ========================================================================