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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 3
-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 6
DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE ||
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-- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 6 05/04/90 Cir 984 --
------------------------------------------------------------------------
-- Contents --
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DAG Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Editor
Materia Medica IV Max Khaytsus and
Michelle Brothers Yuli 24-30, 1013
Hunting of the Red Tiger I Wendy Hennequin Neber 1013
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Dafydd's Amber Glow
by Ye Olde Editor, Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
(b.c.k.a. <white@DUVM.OCS.Drexel.EDU>)
This editorial will be brief. I just wanted to make you all aware
that there is (finally!) a source for back issues of DargonZine other
than myself. I had wanted to test out the access method before telling
you all about it, and just received the results of that test today. In
the interest of getting an issue out (it has been over a month, after
all), I decided not to put a lengthy description about this here -
look for a longer DAG next issue (out next Friday, if everything goes
well) which will describe everything you need to know about this
archive service (or at least as much as I know). If you are really
anxious to know, you can send me a mail message at either the above
address or the one in the copyright notice at the end (they are
equivalent in every respect) about it and I will send you the updated
DargonZine Info file which has this information in it.
Thanks for waiting and Enjoy!
Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
P.S. Wish me happy birthday - I break three decades on Sunday!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Materia Medica
Part 4
by Max Khaytsus
<b.c.k.a. khaytsus%tramp@boulder.colorado.edu>
and Michelle Brothers
<b.c.k.a. brothers%tramp@boulder.colorado.edu>
"I just don't understand why he didn't come back last night,"
repeated Kera for the fifth time since they had started out from
Connall Keep, less than two hours ago. "Or at least send a message. If
he was going to be late he would have sent a messenger back...wouldn't
he?" The nagging feeling that something dire had happened crept into
her worried commentary.
"I am certain he is all right," said Ittosai patiently, also for
the fifth time. "Merely detained."
Dawn had just broken when Kera went to Myrande to tell her that
Rien hadn't made it back during the night, declaring her intention to
go after him as soon as her horse was saddled. Sable had managed to
convince her to wait long enough to have Ittosai go with her as both a
companion and an escort in case of trouble. Not for the first time,
Myrande thanked god that the Castellan rose early.
As the pair came within sight of Dargon's walls, Kera pulled the
hood of her heavy cloak up so that her face was hidden in its shadowy
folds. Ittosai gave her a questioning look.
"There are some people in Dargon who would be happy to know I'm
back," Kera explained evasively. "I don't have the time to be making
social calls."
Hiding a faint smile, Ittosai inclined his head in understanding.
A few minutes later they rode through the main gates of Dargon.
Kera was able to get them to the inn that she and Rien had stayed
at in record time. With the strong, comforting presense of Ittosai,
she felt safe enough to take a few short-cuts and her companion did
not feel the need to ask how she knew the routes, for which the thief
gave silent thanks.
"Have you seen my companion?" Kera demanded breathlessly of the
innkeeper, as soon as she was inside the inn, while Ittosai tethered
the horses.
The man started and looked quickly up from the ledger he was
leafing through. "Your companion, miss?" he said, looking at her
blankly.
"He was supposed to be here last night," continued Kera. "To pick
up our belongings. We were staying in room three," she added when the
man continued to look questioningly at her.
"Ah, yes, that gentleman. Taller than him," the innkeep waved a
hand at Ittosai as he was coming through the door to join Kera.
"Blond, slender, long blue cloak?" Kera nodded eagerly. "Showed up
yesterday evening with plans to move out. Asked me to get him a horse
and went upstairs, but never came back down. I managed to find him a
good horse, too," he hinted, but before he finished, Kera was halfway
up the stairs with Ittosai hot on her heels.
The door to the room she and Rien had shared was closed, but when
Kera tried to push it open, it was unlocked. Suspicious, because the
caution she and her mentor habitually practiced included locking
doors, Kera pushed the door open. Behind her, Ittosai loosened his
sword in its scabbard, anticipating trouble.
The door opened with a low groan.
Light peeked through the cracks in the shutters and Kera took a
second to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness before cautiously
entering the room. She glanced hastily around, seeking intruders
1before her gaze was caught by a figure lying sprawled on the bed.
With a soft curse, Kera stepped over and rolled the body onto
it's back. Rien's hand, the fingertips stained a dull red, flopped
over the edge of the mattress.
"How is he?" asked Ittosai softly as Kera checked to see if he
was breathing.
"Alive," she replied after a moment. She shook Rien, in an
attempt to revive him, but got no reaction. She tried again, harder,
with the same result. "He's alive," Kera repeated grimly. "But not
much else. We should get him back to Marcellon as soon as we can." She
pulled her pouch off of her belt and offered it to Ittosai. "Would you
please pay for the room and that horse? I'll get him ready to go."
Ittosai accepted the money with a slight bow and a look of gentle
sympathy and disappeared down the hall. Kera stared at Rien's immobile
form and bit her lip to keep the tears back. `This is hardly the time
to be losing control,' she thought to herself firmly. `You said you'd
get him ready, so do it.'
She gathered their possessions together first and carefully tied
them into as compact bundles as she could, hoping that Rien would wake
up while she worked. Yet, when she finished, he still hadn't stirred
at all.
With a sigh, Kera grabbed Rien's arm to attempt to haul him
upright so that when it came time to carry him downstairs, he would be
easier to pick up. With a great deal of effort, she was able to get
him upright -- Rien was not nearly so light as he appeared -- and then
dropped him as a low scraping noise caused her to turn quickly,
reaching for her daggers.
Rien hit the rough wood floor with a loud crash, Kera's attempt
at grabbing him coming too late. Ittosai, who had startled Kera with
his return, ducked inside and joined her at her mentor's side. Rien's
eyelids flickered and he slowly opened them to look up at the pair.
"Rien...Rien! Are you all right?" Kera asked, helping him into a
sitting position from behind.
"I'm fine," Rien said after a moment. He put a hand to the back
of his head, where it had hit the floor. "Or rather, I will be in a
bit." His glance was caught by the red on his fingertips and he
studied them curiously as Kera let loose a flood of questions.
"Why didn't you send back a message?" she demanded. "Who knocked
you out? Why couldn't I wake you up, what happened to your horse and
are you sure you're all right?"
Ittosai simply knelt opposite him and observed him quietly,
prepared to offer Kera a hand should Rien collapse again.
"I didn't send a message because I hadn't planned on being late,"
Rien said sharply, pulling his gaze away from his fingers. "That's a
foolish question to ask." Kera flushed and Rien continued. "Someone
stole my horse, just after I got into town," he said slowly. "I'm sure
I'll recall the circumstances later. Did the innkeep find me another
horse?" he asked suddenly, as though just remembering that he had made
the request.
Ittosai nodded. "It is a fine animal," he said. "Light cavalry. I
have paid for it and your room." He offered Kera back her pouch and
she absently took it back.
`Cavalry?' Rien thought. `I just wanted a horse...' "Thank you,
Castellan," he said aloud. Ittosai bowed and Rien looked down at his
hands again. "You couldn't wake me, Kera, because I forced myself into
a jashch," -- she wondered how he managed to get all those sounds out
without damaging his tongue -- "it's a trance like state that isolates
me from normal bodily control. I assume I was poisoned," he said,
looking up once again. "My senses failed me completely."
"Are you all right? Who would do something like that? Where did
1it happen?" Kera burst into a string of questions again.
"I told you already, I'm fine. I don't know who did it or where
or how. It just happened."
"Could it...could it have been the disease?" asked Kera,
swallowing hard.
"Possibly," Rien said, frowning. "I'm not sure..." He looked back
to his hand. "I'm sure this is somehow involved," he indicated the red
stain.
"We need to return to Lord Marcellon," said Ittosai decisively.
"He will know. Are you well enough to travel?"
"Yes."
"Then let's get moving!" declared Kera, grabbing the bundles that
contained her's and Rien's possessions. She headed for the door.
With Ittosai's help, Rien walked out of the inn and mounted his
newly purchased horse. They left for Connall Keep immediately.
"That was indeed nightshade," Marcellon said putting away the
beakers after pouring out the solutions he used. "You say your race is
immune to the effects of the plant?"
Rien nodded. "They are. I am surprised it had this effect on me."
"Have you tried it before? Was there a reaction?"
"No, I never tried it before," Rien said. "At least not to my
knowledge and not deliberately."
"But you are half human..." Marcellon stroked his chin absently,
staring at nothing in particular. "You could have a different reaction
to it, especially now that you have the disease to worry about. This
is the most positive proof that some changes have taken place. Do your
people respond to it as a narcotic?"
"No. It's a simple forest grass."
"None the less," the wizard went on, "it was nightshade and it
did affect you as a hallucinogen."
"At least it's not the disease," Kera sighed. She had been
seriously concerned the entire morning, even after Marcellon assured
her that it could not be the disease, and only now was beginning to
relax.
"Young lady," Marcellon looked over at her. "What happened today
stressed the one factor which we all should be concerned about. Rien
is neither human, nor Ljosalfar. In him the disease may take any
course imaginable. For all I know, he may display more symptoms
tomorrow morning than you will in the next month. He is one of a kind.
There is no precedent for what we are dealing with."
Kera shuddered at the images the wizard invoked with his words,
as he turned back to Rien. Visions of Rien mutating into a wolfling
were fore-most in her mind as the wizard continued talking with her
mentor.
"This still leave the question of who poisoned you."
"Over all, I see Dargon as a friendly town..."
"Any people in town who may for some reason dislike you?"
Marcellon persisted.
"None that I could think of, sir," Rien answered.
"Even the men you rescued Kera from?"
Damn, he had a good memory! "I would imagine they are still in
custody of the guard. Penalties for armed assault are stiff...and I
doubt they had the knowledge to make the poison or the money to
purchase it."
"Very well," Marcellon nodded. "One last question. You said you
forced yourself to pass out. Could you elaborate on that?"
Rien gave the question some thought. To him it was something
natural, but equating it to human norms would be a difficult task.
"Sometimes after sustaining injuries humans go into shock," he said
1finally. "This reflex is triggered by pain or perhaps loss of blood.
Jashch is similar to that. It protects from unwanted sensations, but
it can be triggered by a conscious effort. It is in a way opposite of
going into shock. The action is controlled at the start, but while
humans recover on their own, I would have to be `removed' from the
condition forcibly."
Kera lowered her eyes as Marcellon looked at her.
"And you dropped him. On his head."
She nodded. "It was an accident..."
"Otherwise I would probably still be unconscious," Rien said,
feeling the lump on the back of his head, and grinning as Kera flushed
a deeper shade of red.
"The condition isn't permanent, is it?" the wizard asked. "There
must be other ways to regain consciousness."
"Hunger would have woken me up," Rien said, "but that could take
a while."
"Very well," Marcellon stood up. "That satisfies all of my
curiosity for the moment. Let me return to my work and I shall see
both of you at dinner."
Rien and Kera stood up as well.
"By the way," Marcellon stopped them before they reached the
door. "Rien, an old friend of mine, someone I attended the University
in Magnus with, will be stopping by here in a day or two. He is an
archivist. I am sure he would be interested in meeting with you. Would
you object?"
"Not at all," Rien answered and promptly left with Kera. "I hope
his friend isn't as strange as he is," Rien said as they walked down
the hall. "He asks far too many questions."
"You lied to him, you know," Kera said. "You said you didn't have
enemies in town."
"Morality from you? Is profession of thievery becoming moral?"
Rien jested. "I did not lie. I stretched the truth, emphasized some
misleading facts, but it was not a lie. He suspected someone from
Dargon attempted to poison me. I believe it was someone from outside
of Dargon."
"Huh?"
"I told him it was not an individual from Dargon who did this."
"You know who it was?"
"No, but I suspect. The innkeeper told me an elderly woman came
around asking for me. The lock to the room was jammed. Marcellon
established beyond doubt that the poison was administered through the
hand." He displayed for Kera the still visible red stain. "I assume
that the old woman, very likely a witch from Maari's coven, came
around and set up the `trap' for me, most likely expecting the poison
to kill me. It would have to be left on a surface that I would be
guaranteed to touch...such as the door. The lock was probably jammed
so that my exposure would increase."
"Very convincing," Kera said.
"So, as you can see, I did not lie. I simply did not tell him the
whole truth. If he or the Baron were to learn the truth about Liriss
or Maari, our position could become compromised. In either case, this
convinced me that Dargon is far too dangerous for us. The sooner we
can leave, the better it will be."
"Could it have been Liriss's assassin?"
"I doubt Liriss would hire someone's grandmother to kill us,"
Rien smiled. "Usually grandmothers are self-motivated."
A laugh escaped from Kera's mouth.
"I would imagine that the assassin is looking for us in Tench by
now. He will track us here eventually, but we will be gone by the time
he figures out where we went...I hope."
1 They walked in silence to the door of one of the rooms given to
them, considering all the dangers that waited to present themselves,
then Rien turned to Kera once again. "I do have a question for you
about Liriss. When I made it to Dargon yesterday, I went by the docks,
including Liriss's pier. Three men were trying to drown a girl there.
She was your age, perhaps a bit younger. About five foot, light frame,
light brown hair, amber eyes... She's the reason my horse was stolen.
I stopped to help her out and I think she took it. Does that sound
familiar?"
"Sorry. I never had a horse stolen like that." Kera grinned. "And
no one I know is into horse theft. It's too hard to get rid of the
goods."
Rien glared down at her. "It's not funny. Do you know the girl?"
Kera shook her head. "I was the youngest one. His ward, in fact,"
she added bitterly.
Rien continued, not really hearing the last part of Kera's
comment.
"I've seen those eyes before..."
"I'm very glad that you were willing to make this record with me,
Rien. It will be invaluable for future generations. Perhaps we will
even stop fearing your people because of this."
Rish Vogel made himself comfortable in the Baron's chair and,
placing an ink well with a goose quill on the desk, pulled out a long
rolled up sheet of parchment.
Rien watched as the old chronicaler set everything up, opening
pots of ink, pulling out extra pens from a small box engraved with the
quill and scroll of the Archivist Guild, laying out a blotter and a
large pile of clean parchment. Vogel came across as a man completely
dedicated to his profession; perhaps so much so that he seemed to
forget everything else, although he never forgot information that
applied to his craft. He even, to Rien's mind, dressed like a
historian should -- long brown robe with the crumbs of his last meal
clinging to the front, worn belt with additional quills, a jar of ink
and several small rolls of parchment dangling from it. Rien had asked
the reason for the extra equipment and had been told flatly that after
being caught without paper and having to record a very important event
on a napkin in wine, Rish had vowed to never be caught without proper
tools again. Hanging the items from his belt was his way of making
sure that they were on hand at all times. Rien found this to be highly
amusing.
He had agreed to the interview only because he believed in the
chronicler's desire to have the unknown recorded for later generations
of people. And he hoped, like Rish, that this information would
someday lead to friendly contact between the two races.
"Now," Rish dipped the quill in the ink well and poised his hand
over the page. "Your name?"
"Could we set a few `house rules' first?" Rien remained
motionless in the middle of the room.
Rish looked up, without actually moving his head, then jotted
down a few words. The chronicaler was actually writing every word!
Rien frowned.
"If you insist," Rish said, "but I intend on making this an
accurate record."
"First of all, this record is for your and the Duke's reference.
No one else is to see it."
Rish nodded and set his pen to the paper again.
"You will not use my name or make any specific descriptions that
relate directly to me. After today, you do not know me. Nor will I
make any specific references to names, places, or dates to protect my
1tribe."
Rish mouthed the last few words as finished writing them and
looked up. "Understood. How old are you?"
Rien hesitated. That was a very personal question, but it was not
something that could compromise him in the long run. The bookish
chronicaler was not breaking `the rules' and was still getting as much
information as he could. Rien could see why Rish was able to make such
complete records -- he knew which questions to ask. Still, Rien
temporized. "Over a century," was all he permitted the historian to
write down.
Rish began writing again. "I understand that your people are
immortal," he said, his pen scratching over the paper, recording his
own question.
"We are not immortal," Rien said. "Not in the true sense of the
word, anyway. We do have long lifespans and in our recorded history no
Ljosalfar has died of old age, but we do die." Rien's voice was
somber. "We suffer from disease and accidents just like humans. And we
can be slain just as easily."
Rish paused to dip the quill in to the ink again. "How do you
live?"
"I personally?"
Rish looked up, irritated that Rien could not handle a simple
question. "How does the society function?"
"We function as a tribe with a central leader, but each
individual, once they come of age, has a voice in making the decisions
that effect the tribe as a whole. For example, the leader might settle
a dispute between two people, but if there is a question of whether
the tribe should move elsewhere to winter, it is discussed by
everyone." Rien drew a deep breath and continued as the chronicaler
finished writing his last sentence. "We don't have a money based
economy. Barter is the usual method of distributing goods and skills.
There are no social classes. Everyone helps to take care of everyone
else and no one goes hungry. We have no crime and--"
"No crime?" Rish interrupted Rien, looking up sharply. From years
of ingrained habit he used the opportunity to get more ink on his pen.
"There are very few of my race left," Rien said. "We can't afford
to hurt each other. There are plenty of outsiders who do that for us."
"No crime at all," Rish repeated musingly, jotting down a quick
notation on the bottom of the page so that he could cross-reference
the statement with other records at a later date.
"Practically none," Rien conceded. "There are recorded cases of
individuals being cast out, but they are few and far between, and none
of them recent. The idea of consciously stealing from your sister or
harming your brother is as foreign to us as the concept of lack of
crime is to you."
Rish pulled the ink well closer, not quite satisfied with the
response, but knowing that he would get nothing else on the subject.
"From what you said, I assume your tribe is very closely knit...?"
"Yes."
"Were you cast out?"
That hit a sensitive nerve. "No," Rien said, forcing himself not
to snap. "My father was human. I wanted to explore his world."
Rish kept scribbling along, not noticing Rien's discomfort.
"`Keegan' is a human name. Was that the surname of your father?"
Rien did not answer and the chronicaler looked up. "I am sorry."
he said, looking a little abashed. "We did have an agreement..." He
was about to say something else, but Rien spoke.
"It's the name of the man who trained me. He recommended I take
it as two names are expected in your society. I was honored by his
offer, so I accepted the name."
1 Rish nodded and bent his head to the page again. "Can you tell me
the early history of your people? And do sit down. This won't go any
faster if you stand!"
Kera sat up in bed with a ear piercing scream. She was in cold
sweat and out of instinct she tried to dodge the arms reaching for
her. She slammed into Rien who was lying next to her, to avoid being
grabbed.
"A dream..." she muttered to herself, realizing no one was after
her. She tossed her hair back over her shoulder and wiped the sweat
from her face. It was chilly in the room, cooler than usual for the
summer and Kera pulled the blanket up. It was strange, she thought,
that Rien hadn't responded when she hit him. Usually he was more alert
than that...
She turned to look at her companion, expecting to find him still
asleep, but instead found herself staring into unfamiliar eyes. Next
to her lay a beast -- she could think of no better word to describe it
-- with grey-white fur, extended dog-like jaws and large ears at the
top of the skull. The jaws were partially open, displaying rows of
snow-white teeth, four of which stood prominently at the front, each
half the length of her index finger. The creature stared hungrily into
her eyes and she realized that one of its hands was clamped tightly
around her wrist.
Kera tried to pull her arm back, but the creature prevented her
from withdrawing. Instead the grip tightened further and, using her
for leverage, it sat up. Kera tried to scream, but her voice refused
to obey her. Instead of a shout, a small whimpering noise escaped her
throat. The creature's lips pulled back in a viscous smile, tongue
lolling out of it's mouth.
"Let me go..." she managed to whisper.
The creature responded by forcing her onto her back, its strength
so great that Kera found herself unable to struggle effectively
against it.
"You will be like me," she heard Rien's voice, issuing from the
creature's throat without accompanying jaw movement. "You will be like
me," she heard again and this time the mouth moved, the voice a rough
parody of Rien's usually gentle voice.
She felt its fur against her chest as it moved to loom over her.
"No..." she screamed, fear finally forcing the words out.
"Like me..." the phrase was repeated again, the words distorted,
barely recognizable. The claws on the arms that held her dug deep into
her wrists, piercing the skin and bringing up trickles of blood, even
as her hands went numb.
"I don't want to be like you!" Kera shouted out at the top of her
lungs, twisting beneath the heavy body with a last burst of strength.
"Be like who?" the form above her asked. The voice was strict and
concerned -- Rien's.
"Like you!" she shouted again and continued to struggle. She felt
cold and wet and angry at being restrained, but above all lurked the
fear of the creature above her. She bit into the arm holding her right
wrist and it was released immediately. Her next thought was to punch
up and she did. The figure over her swayed from the blow and she
continued to hit at it, to drive it away. "I don't want to be like
you!"
"Stop it!" Rien's voice sounded again, this time a lot closer and
a hand locked around her free wrist once more. "Kera! Wake up!"
She stopped the struggle long enough to look up. Rien was leaning
over her, holding on to her arms. "It's only a dream. Relax." He
pulled her up to a sitting position and cradled her protectively.
"It's going to be all right."
1 Kera stared to cry softly.
"I wouldn't want you to be like me," she heard him say. "You'd be
boring."
The door burst open and two guards rushed in. One held a readied
sword and the other a burning torch. "Let go of her!" the first man
ordered Rien.
"She had a nightmare," Rien responded, drawing one of the sheets
around Kera's shoulders. She was cold, covered with sweat and shaking
from the dream she just had and on top of all that, clammy. It was the
last that Rien objected to the most, as he held her.
"Let go of her," the guard repeated, not sure what to believe. "I
want to hear that she is fine from her."
Rien sat up straight, holding onto Kera's shoulders. She was
still sobbing. "Are you all right?" he asked softly.
"I'm fine," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Really, I
am," she finished, turning to face the two guards.
"We'll be in the hall if you need anything," said the man with
the torch while the other glared at Rien and they stepped back
outside, pulling the door closed.
Rien turned back to Kera who was still shivering.
"Are you sure that you're all right?" he asked, holding her by
the shoulders and staring intently into her eyes.
"I'll be fine," Kera replied. She wiped the last of the tears
from her cheeks. "It was just a nightmare...I dreamed...I dreamed that
you had changed into a..." She choked on the last part of the sentence
and Rien pulled her close again.
"It's all right," he said, stroking her hair. "I haven't changed
into anything yet and Marcellon will find a cure so see that I don't,
ever."
"I hope he can," whispered Kera.
Rien held her until she finally fell asleep, and stared at the
wall for a long time afterwards.
"Sir Keegan? The High Mage wishes to see you right away." The
summons came right after a quick knock on the partially open door to
Baron Connall's study.
Rien frowned. Rish must have already let it slip that he was a
knight. At least he hadn't tell the chronicler much more than that. He
closed the book he was reading and stood up. "Thank you. I will be
right there."
The guard left the room and Rien got up to replace the book on
the shelf. Baron Connall, it seemed, was very preoccupied with the
`art' of war, but then again so were most other Humans. For some
reason the society was more interested in perfecting methods of
fighting, claiming all the while that those preparations did more to
insure peace than any other occupation. It struck Rien as a
hypocritical view, but how could one argue that a whole race was
misinformed?
Rien made his way to Marcellon's laboratory. The wizard was
talking with Myrande and Kera and there was some sense of excitement
about. Rien closed the door and came up to the group. He noticed Kera
trying to hold back a smile.
"I believe that I have solved it," Marcellon told Rien and Kera's
smile finally burst free.
"You did it?" Rien asked, just to make sure he heard it right, in
spite of Kera's expression indicating the question was useless. "You
found a cure?"
"I believe I did," Marcellon said again. "Believe," he
re-emphasized the word as Rein started to develop a smile much like
his apprentice's. "Kera is still capable of seeing in the dark, but
1there is no other evidence of the disease in her body. The change
appears to be a permanent physical alteration, but just in case it
decides to reverse itself, I would like to observe her for a few more
days."
Kera jumped off the stool she was sitting on with a laugh and
embraced Rien, eyes shining.
"Ah!" Marcellon grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her back.
"Stay away from him. He's still sick. I want to be positive that you
don't become ill again through contact with him."
Reluctantly Kera returned to the stool, the happy sparkle still
in her eyes. Rien found her good humor to be contagious and was still
smiling as Marcellon turned back to him.
"Now," said the wizard, leaning up against the table's edge. "I
have a good idea what the cure is. We will definitely know tomorrow if
it is a hundred percent effective. Meanwhile I would like to begin on
you."
The High Mage began his work. Kera remained in her seat, watching
the now familiar procedure, until Marcellon told her to leave the
laboratory, as contests were the only spectator activity of which he
approved.
Annoyed, Kera left the laboratory and wandered around the public
areas of the keep, trying to find something to do. After five days in
the laboratory, wistfully thinking of all the things she would like to
do, she had no idea of what should actually be done with the free time
she suddenly gained. If nothing else, she could use the time
productively, Kera decided finally. She went up to her room and
unpacked the bow that Rien had purchased for her a week ago. Going to
the stables Kera told the servant she was going for a ride and, after
saddling her horse, left the keep.
She followed the road as it passed by the keep's wall, turning
south-west, then took the road that turned sharply north, heading
towards the coast line. In an hour the evergreens gave way to a broad
leaf forest and Kera turned off the road to a small side trail. She
dismounted a fair distance from the trail, strung her bow and, after
securing the horse, went in search of game.
The day was warm and sunny and Kera had no problems finding
something to shoot at. She spotted a fat magpie perched on a tree
branch and after a moment of aiming, released the arrow.
The missile passed just over the bird, crashing into the leaves
in the upper branches and finally fell back to the ground. The bird
took the hint at the first sign of trouble and flew away. Retrieving
the arrow with a muttered curse, Kera went further down the path,
hoping the next shot she took would be more effective.
Scrambling up a small hill, she sat down and looked around the
forest. It was filled with life. Up above birds flew back and forth at
the tops of the trees, but Kera would not even dare shooting one in
mid-flight. She spotted a squirrel and took aim, but immediately began
to feel sorry for the little animal, peacefully nibbling on some
forest fruit. What if she were to get lucky and hit it? She sighed and
replaced the arrow she held in the quiver on her back. The squirrel
happily snapped its tail and kept on eating. Kera smiled at it and
climbed down the other side of the hill.
The slope here was much rockier and steeper and it took Kera much
longer to go the same distance to the forest floor. The woods here
took a darker appearance, the broad leafed trees once again merging
with pines.
Kera looked around. On a second glance the forest wasn't all that
different. The birds were still high above in the trees and a pair of
squirrels chased each other around a particularly large stump.
Kera wandered a little deeper into the forest. One pine had a
1natural discoloration that looked like a rabbit and Kera drew another
arrow, thinking that an inanimate target would be as good as a live
one. She drew the string back to her ear, as Rien had taught her and
let the arrow fly. Missing its intended target, the arrow struck a
tree a few feet back.
Kera threw the bow down in anger and marched over the the tree to
get the arrow back. Rien ordered these arrows after they returned to
Dargon a week ago. They were normal except for the fletching that
permitted the arrow to fly straighter and different color rings
painted around the shaft, each two finger breadth apart.
The arrow was stuck in the trunk up to the third ring and Kera
quickly realized that the arrow was stuck in there for good, at least
as far as her strength was concerned. She kicked the tree and stomped
off in anger. After some time of pacing Kera once again picked up the
bow and tried shooting the tree again. This time the arrow lodged
itself just above the target and did not go in far enough to get
stuck.
Kera practiced for an hour longer and finally felt competent
enough to shoot at reasonably large, stationary target.
She returned to her horse and continued north, towards the
Akmeron Ocean, in search of large game. By mid-afternoon she reached
the north shore without seeing anything larger than a raccoon. It was
as if the whole forest knew she was ready to shoot and was avoiding
her. Broadleaf trees gave way to pale yellow sand and crisp waves
making their way towards shore. A faint hint of salt permeated the
air, distinct from the cool, earthy smells of the wood.
She hopped off the horse and lead it west along the sandy shore.
At first the animal complained at its hooves sinking into the sand,
but soon got used to it and followed her obediently.
Off in the distance Kera noticed a man on top of a horse coming
towards her. She slowed her pace, moving closer to the water line to
give him room to pass. As they got closer, she got the dreadful
feeling that she knew the man approaching her and drew up the hood of
the cloak, hoping she was not recognized.
As the two got closer, the man jumped off his horse and
approached Kera. "Haven't seen you in a long while," he greeted.
"Yeah, a long while," Kera stopped, her fears of discovery
realized.
The man left his horse behind and walked over to her. "Where have
you been for the last two months?"
"Tench."
"Kera, don't give me that look. Liriss is really mad about you!"
Kera did not expect any less. "That's his problem, isn't it?"
"You're going to come back with me and tell him that yourself."
"Keep dreaming, Garold," said Kera coldly. "I'm not going to do
anything to further your career!"
"You're coming back with me, whether you want to or not! Even if
I have to knock you cold." Garold grabbed Kera's arms.
Kera jerked an arm free and punched Garold in the chest. He did
not even flinch, but backhanded her as she tried to pull her other arm
free and permitted her to fall back into the water.
Kera stood up, wet and angry. In her hand she held a dagger.
Garold grabbed her arm and twisted until Kera dropped her weapon, then
started trying to pull her tunic up. "Before we go..." Kera struggled
more furiously, forcing Garold to use both hands to hold her still and
preventing him from doing anything more with her clothing.
"What's the matter? It's not like we haven't done this before."
He dragged Kera back to the bank and shoved her down. As he leaned
over her, a glimmer of steel shone in Kera's hand and sharp pain
engulfed his arm. Kera rolled out of the way as Garold hit the sand in
1anger and bolted for her horse. Garold got up slowly, his left arm
dripping blood and drew his sword. "You're dead, bitch! Liriss will
take you either way."
As Liriss' thug advanced Kera grabbed the bow and off her horse
-- she had kept the bow strung, since she was hunting and did not want
to take the time to restring it each time an animal appeared --
notched an arrow, and drew back the string. "Stay back!" she ordered,
aiming at his chest. "Or I'll kill you!"
Garold either did not hear her or was so taken with his anger
that he did not even pause at her words and Kera released the arrow.
It struck its target in the stomach and he gasped, bending forward, as
if the wind had been knocked out of him.
Kera quickly prepared another arrow and as soon as Garold moved
forward again, fired. This arrow took him square in the chest. His
legs buckled and he sank to his knees. Kera hesitated with the next
arrow. Garold tried to speak, but blood foamed at his lips and he
collapsed forward, the two arrow shafts breaking beneath him.
Afraid that the man hadn't been alone, Kera looked up and down
the beach and, not seeing anyone, quickly remounted and encouraged her
horse towards the forest. The animal started out at a lazy walk and
Kera kicked it as hard as she could with her heels. "Faster!" The
horse lunged into the forest, leaving behind the body, with its blood
being slowly washed away by the tide.
The sun was just sinking below the horizon when Kera galloped
through the gates to Connall Keep, eyes straining behind in fear of
pursuit. She nearly jerked the horse around and bolted when the gate
guards came out to see what the racket was, but managed a bright smile
and a wave as they realized who she was and called polite greetings.
Shivering with a combination of chill and fear, Kera guided the
horse to the main stable doors and dismounted. As she gathered the
reins to lead the animal inside to rub down, voices floated out into
the courtyard.
"..prentice indeed. If'n he's a knight, she should be a squire,
not an apprentice," The rough voice of the stable master was easily
identifiable. Kera froze where she stood, unable to stop listening.
"Bet he jus' gives the title t' make it sound good, and t' make her
believe she's more'n just a bedwarmer."
Kera flushed angrily at the implication the man made, but decided
that a confrontation would be a bad idea. Drawing her daggers on a
servant of a baron could be almost as dangerous as leaving Liriss's
employ. The thief glanced sharply around the courtyard, expecting to
see yet another of her former master's men lurking about. Feeling far
too exposed outside, she called for a stablehand to come deal with her
horse and ducked off towards the main keep before the child made it
out of the stable to follow her orders.
Praying that she would meet no one until tomorrow, she pulled
open the keep door and nearly ran Myrande down on her way inside. Only
luck prevented Kera from going for her remaining dagger.
"Kera!" exclaimed the senechal in surprise. "I was just looking
for you. Dinner's ready and -- my goodness! What happened to you? Your
shirt's all bloody!" Her dark eyes lingered on the deep maroon stains
on the other woman's tunic.
"I decided to go out hunting," began Kera, honestly enough,
trying very hard to sound normal. "After being cooped up with High
Mage Marcellon in his laboratory for so long, I needed to get out. I
tried to shoot a rabbit while I was out and it wasn't quite dead when
I picked it up." She pulled at the shirt ruefully, hoping that the lie
didn't sound as transparent as she thought it did. "This was the
result. Ruined a perfectly good tunic because of the darned creature
1and couldn't even bring it back in with me to show for the trouble."
Myrande smiled sympathetically.
"Go ahead and change then," she said. "I'll have them hold dinner
and send someone to clean the shirt."
"I don't feel very hungry, my lady," said Kera quickly. "I think
I'll just go to bed. If you don't object."
"No, I don't mind. I'll see you in the morning then. Goodnight,"
and she continued out into the courtyard.
Kera breathed a sigh of relief and hurried up to her room,
bolting the door behind her as soon as she got inside.
"I'm simply not sure," said Marcellon, setting the half filled
vial down on the table in annoyance and looking over at Rien and Kera.
"I wish I could tell you something more definite, but I can't. The
infection appears to have been halted, but there are still traces of
it in Kera's body. Another day, at least, will be required to be
absolutely positive that she will not relapse."
Kera sighed deeply and Rien's eyes narrowed in concern.
"I don't believe that there is any chance of reinfection,"
continued the mage. "If you two wish to associate, you may. But don't
DO anything, understand?" He looked sharply from one patient to the
other.
At any other time, an admonition like that would have brought an
amused smile to Rien's lips and a giggle from Kera, but now their only
response was, "Understood."
"Good," harumped Marcellon. "Now go, Kera. I need to continue my
treatment of Rien. Come by again tomorrow morning and we'll see if the
disease is cleared from your body."
"All right," said Kera. She gave Rien's hand a squeeze and
slipped out the door. Resignedly, Rien seated himself on the stool
that Marcellon indicated with a preemetory gesture.
Two days later, Rien found Kera in the courtyard, stretched out
on the grass with a cup of mead and a book. "I hope this isn't the way
you spent the last two days," he smiled, sitting down beside her.
"You're just jealous that I've been able to do this while you
were cooped up with the mage," Kera retorted with an answering grin.
"Not that it took a long time," she added pensively. "I expected that
it would take weeks and weeks to get cured, but it didn't. We had
better luck in this one place in a shorter amount of time than all of
the months of travelling combined."
"Sometimes it works out that way," said Rien with a slight smile.
"Our luck's finally turned."
"Gods I'm glad of that," said Kera forcefully. "We deserve some
good luck for a change."
They traded the mead back and forth a few more times, watching a
pair of birds fly in dizzy circles in the sunlight.
"I was wondering if you want to leave tonight or tomorrow
morning," said Rien abruptly.
Kera sat up, surprised. "You're cured?"
"According to the High Mage himself."
Kera embraced him with a strength he didn't think she had. "I'm
glad it's over, but how can he know so quickly? He didn't pronounce me
healthy until last night."
"I was his second patient," Rien said. "He already knew the
disease and the cure."
"Where do you want to go?" Kera asked.
"Not Dargon. I want to take care of matters that were brought to
my attention two weeks ago."
"The messenger? What was it all about?"
1 "Have a seat," Rien indicated. "Two months ago a brigand showed
up in the Duchy of Quinnat. I was asked to go there and remedy the
problem. That's really all there is to it."
Kera offered him the cup and he took a sip. "Can't the local
constable handle it?" she asked.
"I'm afraid not," Rien said, returning the cup. "The local
constable, it is reported, made a very valiant effort before dying.
It's really not his job to control renegade knights in the first
place."
"So you're going to do it?"
"That's why the job was offered to me," Rien said.
"I really would like to leave right now," Kera said, tactfully
refraining from commenting about his confidance. "This place is too
stuffy for me. Everyone is always so proper."
"Lady Myrande," Rien said, using a stiff and somber tone of voice
on purpose, "has asked us to stay for a special dinner tonight, as we
are finally able to return to a normal life in society now."
"I guess since she asked, we should stay," Kera agreed. Over the
last week and a half she had gotten to know Myrande rather well and
could not personally object to such a request. "We can leave in the
evening, I suppose. It would be safer to travel by night anyway."
"Safer?" Rien asked.
"Who'd be able to see us? I guess since I am stuck with being
able to see in the dark, I might as well make the most of it."
Rien embraced her and they both fell back in the grass. "Tonight
it is."
"Dinner was just wonderful," Kera said with a smile. "I have
never eaten this well before in my life."
Myrande smiled back at her as they walked out of the hall,
towards the outer doors.
"It's too bad that you can't stay longer," said Luthias.
"Yes, well...Rien thinks it's about time we leave," replied Kera,
stealing a glance behind her. "So..."
"Are you sure that leaving at night is a wise?" asked Myrande.
"Travelling it night isn't the safest way to go."
"Between the pair of us, Rien and I should be able to spot anyone
or anything coming at us before it sees us," Kera reassured. "We'll be
all right. Really."
"And are you certain that you have enough supplies?"
"Yes, my lady," said Kera patiently. "What you've provided was
more than generous and we plan to supplement it with our road kill
anyway, so I'm sure we'll be fine."
Rien and Marcellon slowly followed everyone down the main
corridor of the keep. "I am positive the disease has been cured," the
wizard was telling his patient, "but should you suspect that you still
have it or that any side effects appear, seek me immediately. I expect
to be here for a few more months. If you will be unable to locate me,
my daughter, Lauren, the Duke's wife, will be able to direct you."
"That's very kind of you, sir. And about our arrangement...?"
"Don't bother with our agreement," Marcellon answered. "When I
will need you, I will find you. I suspect you will outlive me as it
is."
"And..." Rien began, but Marcellon interrupted him again, as if
reading his mind.
"I have promised you and I never go back on my word. Your morals
will not be compromised."
They caught up to the others waiting for them under the entry
arch to the great hall.
"...welcome here, Kera," Myrande was saying as Rien and Marcellon
1joined them. "That goes for you also, Sir Keegan. Should you ever
travel back to Dargon in your adventuring, please come by."
"Yes," seconded Luthias. "And perhaps next time you and I can
have that bout I mentioned."
"Perhaps, lord," said Rien noncommittally. "I would like to thank
you for your hospitality. I and my apprentice greatly appreciate it."
He inclined his head respectfully to Luthias and Myrande and Kera
followed with a quick bow to each. The pair smiled.
"Good journey to you," said Myrande as they stepped outside.
"I certainly hope it will be," muttered Kera, and they headed for
the stables.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Hunting of the Red Tiger
Part 1
by M. Wendy Hennequin
(b.c.k.a. <Hennequi@CTStateU>)
Donegal na Valenfaer had never thought he'd live to be bored in
the Port of the Sun, but it had happened. He told Captain Fynystere
this, and the captain laughed.
"Well, after seven years of wintering, anything would pale,"
Fynystere supposed, "even a city on the coast of Duparyn." The captain
considered. "I once thought as you did--that there were so many things
to do in the Port of the Sun that I could never do it all. But I did,"
Fynystere concluded with a smile, and Donegal shouted his laughter.
"Richard's borrowing my sailboat for a trip to the Isles of the Sun;
why don't you ask if you can go along with him?"
And so Donegal had sought Richard just Richard, a shipmate who
had served--and wintered--with Captain Fynystere nearly twice as long
as Donegal had. After quickly scouring the house, the surgeon found
the man he sought in a work shed set up to make and repair arrows.
This was hardly surprising. Richard was the Eclipse's bowmaster, or
chief archer; besides expertly shooting a long bow, he manned the huge
crossbow and tended the hellfire in battle.
Richard looked up at Donegal and smiled when the surgeon entered.
"Come in," the archer invited amiably. "I'm almost done."
Donegal watched Richard glue an arrowhead onto a shaft,
reflecting as he did so how different he and the archer were. Oh, they
were about the same height and build, and they were both reasonably
good-looking, but there was no other likeness. Richard was bright as
Braigh, his skin bronzed and his hair gilded by sea and sun, and his
eyes as blue as the water he sailed. As for Donegal, the surgeon
doubted that even the night goddess could have been as dark as he was.
His curly hair was raven black; his eyes were a deep, warm ebony; and
his skin was the color of the smooth, dark chocolates with which his
former master, the kind leech, had often treated him when he was a
child. Night and day, Fynystere called them sometimes, night and day.
And Donegal laughed. Richard looked at the surgeon, smiled
through his neat beard, and continued repairing arrows. "The captain
says you're sailing to the Isles," Donegal began, leaning comfortably
against a wall. "Want some company?"
"Certainly," Richard accepted quickly, picking up a half-dozen
newly mended arrows and depositing them in his quiver. "I'll probably
be in need of your skill, Donegal."
"What're you doing?" the surgeon wondered eagerly, standing
straight.
"I am going to do something I've wanted to do for thirteen
years." Richard lifted his long bow from a shelf behind him. "I am
going to hunt the Lowenrote."
Now Donegal had heard of the Red Tiger--or Lowenrote, as the Sun
People called him--that roamed and ravaged the Isles of the Sun, but
he had never thought anyone would be crazy enough to chase the beast
down. Well, Richard was strange, all right, but he wasn't boring. So
despite the madness of the scheme, Donegal sailed at dawn to the
island of Grian with Richard. The trip was calm and quiet--for which
Donegal offered brief thanks to Moire--and by mid-day, Richard pulled
the sailboat onto the beach.
After several determined attempts, the archer and the surgeon
managed to yank the small ship past the high tide line, and then took
the extra precaution of tying the boat to a stout palm tree. That
done, Richard leaned past the sail for his bow and quiver, and Donegal
1recovered his Bichanese sword, his knife, and his surgical pouch. "How
long're we going to be here?" Donegal wondered as Richard strung his
bow.
"I don't know," Richard answered simply. He reached beyond the
surgeon for a small bundle. Unwrapping it, he put a piece of flint
into a pouch, hung his spying glass on his belt, and slipped two large
wine skins' baldrics over his shoulders. "We'll leave tomorrow noon at
latest."
"I don't know," Donegal hedged, hefting a small backpack
containing some food, cloaks, and extra medical supplies. Well,
Richard couldn't very well carry it with that quiver on his back. "I
hear they sacrifice people here."
"That's over in the Siopi Islands," Richard corrected swiftly.
"We'll leave before nightfall, if you like," the archer offered, but
Donegal could tell that Richard would prefer to stay and hunt the Red
Tiger.
Well, that's what they were here to do, and as Richard reached
for his short sword and knife, Donegal asked him, "Where do we start,
Rich?"
The archer straightened and smiled as he placed the weapons in
their sheaths. "I honestly don't know--" Suddenly, Richard stared and
grabbed the surgeon's arm. "There! Look!"
Donegal whirled and caught a brief glimpse of blurred, fiery red
on the dark, tropical green.
"It's the Lowenrote," Richard concluded, sprinting toward it.
"Come on, Donegal!"
And slightly surprised, the surgeon followed the gold streak that
was Richard's long hair. Donegal could hear the swiftness of the
chase, the crashing of the brush, and the cry that could only belong
to a creature of such ferocity as the Red Tiger. The surgeon followed
the haphazard trail of broken brush and broken noise that Richard had
left in his wake with confident speed. Oh, Richard was strong enough,
stronger than Donegal on any day of the year, and that was his nature;
but Donegal was swifter by far, the best runner and the quickest, most
limber fighter on the Eclipse.
Within moments, the surgeon compacted violently with the archer,
whose drawn shot sprung, spoilt, from the long bow. Over Richard's
shoulder, Donegal could see the Lowenrote rear its head and cry out,
as if laughing, in triumph and invitation. Donegal heard Richard speak
a foul word--yeah, he and Donegal knew them all--and then, the archer
drew another colorful arrow.
Laughing, the Red Tiger sprang into the jungle.
Without hesitation, Richard relaxed his draw and raced after it,
and Donegal effortlessly ran after him. "Let me track," Donegal
begged. "I'm faster."
"I have the bow," Richard reminded him through slight panting.
"And I can't shoot," Donegal finished. It was something that the
surgeon considered a fault. Yes, once they returned to the Port of the
Sun, Donegal would ask Richard to teach him to shoot a bow.
They stumbled through the jungle, always just in sight of the
scarlet flash that was the Lowenrote. Only once did they lose sight of
the animal, and then, suddenly, there is was, twenty yards ahead of
them, as if it had waited for them. Richard paused, drew his readied
arrow, aimed, and--
The arrow followed the Red Tiger into the dense jungle. Richard
cursed again, and Donegal followed his companion and the beast.
The tiger suddenly and conveniently chose a broken, well-used
path. Donegal had slight misgivings; the People of the Sun weren't all
that far from barbarians. Richard sprinted without concern, and
Donegal knew that running a cleared path would be easier for Richard
1anyway, so the surgeon left his fear in the jungle and followed.
And abruptly, the pathway stopped. Well, not exactly stopped,
Donegal amended hastily, just veered right and left instead of
straight. A quick glance assured Donegal that the Red Tiger was
nowhere nearby.
"What now, Rich?" Donegal wondered.
The archer grimaced, then reached for the spy glass on his belt.
Gently, Richard took both ends and pulled; the six inch tube expanded
to twelve inches. Richard put it up to his eye and glanced down both
trails. "Nothing," he concluded with disgust.
"What *does* that thing do?" Donegal asked, reaching for it.
Richard looked over at him abruptly. "Seven years on a pirate
ship, and you've never looked through one, Donegal?" The surgeon
smiled brightly but shook his head. Richard handed the contraption to
him. "Here."
Slightly dubious, Donegal took the thing and held it up to his
eye. Richard's beard became gigantic. "By Sanar," Donegal swore with a
smile. "It makes things bigger."
"No, it only makes them appear so," Richard explained. "Marcellon
told me that it has something to do with the shape of the glass
inside."
"Who's Marcellon?" Donegal inquired automatically, gaily
examining treetops and the far edges of the paths through the spying
glass.
"An old friend," Richard replied evenly.
Abashed, Donegal quickly looked away. He had just broken one of
the two sacred rules of the Eclipse: "Ask no questions." (The other
was, "Tell no lies.") Whatever happened before a man came aboard, the
captain had explained to Donegal when he signed on seven years ago,
was that man's business, and his alone. Anyone might disclose his
history--Donegal's, for instance, was well-known--but, as a point of
honor, the entire crew, Fynystere included, avoided interrogations.
"Sorry, Rich," the surgeon mumbled, handing back the spy glass.
Richard smiled and clapped his friend's shoulder. "Let's go catch
a tiger," the archer suggested, and Donegal knew that Richard had
forgiven him, if, indeed, the man had taken offense in the first
place.
"Lead on," Donegal agreed.
Richard looked left and right, considering, when both he and
Donegal were startled by voices. Richard again raised the spying glass
and looked toward the jungle directly in front of him. The archer
stepped forward, parted the growth in front of him, and peered through
the glass again. "There you are," he said with satisfaction, and he
handed the glass to Donegal and pointed. "There she is."
Donegal took the spying glass and gazed at the indicated spot.
Graceful and patient, the half-hidden Lowenrote stood across a huge
clearing filled with about a hundred People of the Sun, twenty-five
sailors, a great pile of palm nuts, palm fruits, and filled botas.
"We'd better go around, Rich," Donegal advised as he handed the archer
the device. Richard folded it and replaced it on his belt. "I hear the
Sun People worship the Red Tiger as some sort of god, and I don't
think they'll take kindly to us hunting it."
"You're right," Richard concurred, lowering his voice. He readied
another arrow and turned to the left footpath. "Let's go, and quietly,
Donegal."
Listening to the Sun People's chatter, Donegal nodded and
followed silently. Someone replied--no, translated, for he said, "The
chief demands two iron swords for the fruit and oil."
All feeling left Donegal's limbs, and he stopped dead. "Rich!" he
choked.
1 "What? What is it?" came the quick, concerned reply. When Donegal
couldn't answer, Richard turned back and joined him. "What is it?" the
archer asked again.
"We have to leave," Donegal finally managed to rasp. The leader
of the sailors gave into the demand for two swords.
"Beinisonian," Richard realized, listening. "Don't worry,
Donegal. They haven't seen us."
"If we go after that tiger, they will," the surgeon, terrified,
pointed out. "They'll take me back. I won't go back, Rich."
"You've covered the brand," Richard reasoned, indicating the
bright, Bichanese band that covered Donegal's forehead. "They won't
have any idea you were a slave, unless," the bowmaster continued,
another thought dawning, "there's some other sign. Were all slaves
like you?"
"Like me?" Donegal questioned, confused out of his fright.
"I don't know--curly-haired, maybe, or dark-skinnned."
Donegal, with much effort, managed to curtail his urge to laugh.
"Do you think my skin-tone matters to the Beinisons, Rich? They'll
enslave anyone--dark as me or light as you, tall, short, men, women,
children, Stevenics, criminals, whatever. If slavery was as plain as
the skin on my face, do you think they'd bother to *brand* us?"
Richard bowed his head. "Sorry." He raised his head to peer
through the trees. "Then you should be safe."
"I'll never be safe, and I'm not going back," Donegal insisted.
"I won't risk it."
"And how much will you ask for the twenty girls?" Donegal heard
the Beinisonian ask. "I can assure them all good marriages, for there
are few women in our land."
Donegal gasped and parted the bush in front of him. "No," he
breathed. But there they were, twenty lovely, half-dressed young
women, excited and eager to be sold.
"He's a liar," Donegal said, more to himself than Richard. "He's
buying them as slaves."
"What do you mean, he's a liar?" Richard demanded. Richard, as
far as Donegal knew, only understood his native Baranurian, which was
also the language of communication aboard the Eclipse, and a little
Bichanese. "What's going on?"
"Twelve pounds of gold, and twelve pounds of silver," said the
interpreter. "More than that we will not ask, for you have promised
them honorable marriages."
"That's a lie," Donegal protested in whispers. "He won't marry
them off; he'll sell them as slaves. Rich," he began suddenly,
grasping his friend's arms, "we've got to stop them!"
"What?" Richard ejaculated, looking at Donegal as if he were a
madman. "Stop them?"
"They're buying those girls," Donegal explained hastily,
indicating the women. "They'll sell them as slaves. We've got to stop
them!"
"Stop them!" Richard, shocked, echoed. "Donegal, they are twenty;
we are two. We can't do anything. Let's hunt the Lowenrote."
"Rich, listen!" Donegal commanded, pounding the soft, fertile
earth. "I know what it's like. They'll take those girls, and they'll
brand them, burn slavery into their foreheads so they can never be
free--And then they take them across the ocean--no beating or rape, of
course, for it lessens the value--but half of them won't survive the
journey. Then, in Beinison, they'll be sold like animals--then beaten
and raped and--"
"I thought you were treated kindly," Richard argued seriously.
"*I* was. Millions weren't. But I know how bad it is, Rich; I saw
it. I talked to them. I helped my master treat beaten and raped
1slaves. Many *died*, Rich. We've got to stop them!"
"You can't stop it," Richard insisted. Donegal opened his mouth.
"No, hear me out. We know there are twenty, and probably more aboard
their ship--wherever that is. And even if we could stop these men,
there will be more coming, Donegal, always more coming. We can't stop
Beinison." Donegal frowned. "Let's go hunt."
The surgeon scowled at his friend. "Go ahead," he sneered. "Go
and chase your cat, Rich. I'm going to do something about this."
Donegal rose and dashed the way they had come.
After a few minutes, he crouched behind the brush and listened.
"Done," said the interpreter.
"Very well," the sailor replied. "Tell the girls to prepare
themselves. We'll leave soon. Mon-Arnor, take the oil, nuts, and fruit
to the ship. I'll follow after the feast with the--the brides."
Nervously, Donegal drew his knife and pondered. What to do, how
to do it...
There was a rustling to his left; with all his swift reflexes,
Donegal whirled and presented the knife boldly. He heard a tear, and
Richard, his blousy shirt ripped, collapsed onto his backside.
"Damnation!"
"What, did the cat come this way?" Donegal snapped.
"Don't be an ass, Donegal. You'll never do this alone." Richard
sat up and squinted through the trees. "What happened? Some of them
are leaving."
"Yeah, they're taking palm fruits and palm nuts and oil to the
ship. The women will follow after they eat, with some of the sailors."
"Looks like five are staying behind. Good." Richard rose. "Well,
let's go," Richard directed expectantly. Donegal stared at him.
"Donegal, trust me. The best bet is to let those fifteen return to
their ship and then sink it before the women and the other five get
there. We can pick off the others later. Otherwise, it will be too
messy--and the women will be killed." Donegal was still confused.
"Trust me," Richard repeated, holding out a hand to help the surgeon
to his feet. "Believe me, Donegal. I was trained to run military
campaigns. And," the Baranurian added, his blue eyes twinkling like a
sunny sea, "I have a wonderful idea."
Desperately wondering why Richard had been so trained, Donegal
rose. "Lead on."
Richard nodded and began to follow the circular footpath around
the clearing. "We'll come to their outlet eventually," Richard
whispered. "We'll follow them to their ship."
"Then what?" Donegal rasped, crouching close to the archer.
Before answering, Richard unfolded his spy glass and carefully
peered through it at the Beinisonian slavers. "They're taking a path
not far from this one; look, Donegal." He handed the spying glass to
the surgeon, who dutifully raised it. Fifteen Beinisonians, hefting
the oil-filled botas and fruit-filled sacks, were making their way
along an eastward path. "We've got to get ahead of them."
"I thought you said to follow them."
"It'll be easier if you get there first. How well do you swim,
Donegal?"
"Better than some fish; I use to live on a river."
"Underwater?"
"Yeah, some."
"Good. I have an idea for disposing of most of these men at
once."
"Let's hear it."
"No time," Richard countermanded. He reached across his shoulders
and divested himself of one of the wine skins. Handing it to the
physician, he instructed, "Take this, and get ahead of them. Swim up
1to their ship, and..." The archer grinned. "You'll know what to do."
"What is it?" Donegal wondered, sniffing the packet. He nearly
dropped the bota when he smelled the sulfur and pitch. "Hellfire?"
Donegal smiled wickedly. Hellfire was just the thing they needed.
But.. "What did you bring hellfire on a hunting trip for?"
"I had-- We don't have time for this," Richard reminded him,
rummaging in the backpack that Donegal wore. He retrieved something
and put it in his belt purse. "You know what to do. I'll meet you at
the beach. And be careful that no one sees you."
Donegal nodded once and stealthily ran toward the path. As
Richard had conjectured, it wasn't far, and Donegal, after a quick
look either way and a hurried prayer to the Masked God, sprinted out
upon it.
After a five minute run--thank the Masked God that the clearing
wasn't far from the coastal beach and that the captain's sailboat was
in another cove!--, Donegal came to the edge of a deserted beach.
Hiding behind a funny-looking plant, Donegal observed a long boat
resting upon the tranquil sand. In the calm lagoon was anchored a
small ship--forty man, Donegal guessed with a grimace--with
Beinisonian flags and markings.
Behind the bush, the surgeon shrugged out of the backpack and
removed the surgical pack from his belt. He took off his high boots
and his shirt and used them to cover the pack and the pouch. He
secured the skin of hellfire over his shoulder, checked his katana and
knife, and snuck silently to the water. Without waiting--every second
he could be observed, killed, or worse--Donegal slid lengthwise into
the shallow lagoon. He smiled, for the lagoon was as warm and soothing
as a bath, and stroked quietly toward the ship.
While taking a breath, Donegal heard the first of the men coming
close to the beach. They were singing a bawdy song and having, Donegal
suspected, the time of their lives. Well, the surgeon thought grimly,
they had better enjoy the time while they had it. Once the hellfire
was in place, the Beinisonians' pleasures would be over.
But he would have to move quickly, lest they see him. Keeping his
strokes as quiet as possible, Donegal approached the ship's bow. For a
moment, he paused, unsure; on the Eclipse, they spread the hellfire on
the water with small catapults, not swimmers.
A little on the ship, then a ring of hellfire, Donegal decided
after the short consideration. And best to start here at the bow, he
reasoned, before they get to the beach and can see me. And if I stay
reasonably close to the ship, its curves should hide me from those on
board.
Donegal chose what he deemed a good spot and began treading water
with his legs. With his arms thus free, it was easy to open the wine
skin and begin pressing the jelly-like hellfire onto the bow of the
ship and then onto surface of the water.
Watching the greasy hellfire float, Donegal remembered how he and
Richard had discovered the stuff five years ago. They had been looking
for some way to fuel the Eclipse's lamps; the pirates had run out of
oil on the latest attack, when they had used it to ignite the victims'
ship. So Donegal, who knew a little about alchemy from his medical
training, and Richard, who knew a little about alchemy from Sanar
knows where, volunteered to try to make something to tide the ship
over until they reached port.
The surgeon and the archer started mixing all manner of flammable
stuff--exotic oils, the yellow sand which Richard called sulfur,
incense, tar, pitch, potatoes, wine, ink, whatever they could find.
They found that an excellent, bright, long burning fuel could be made
of a neutral jelly- grease, sulphur, pitch, and a few other--now
secret--ingredients.
1 The hellfire had burned so brightly, Donegal recalled, continuing
his deployment, and had kept the ship so well and economically lit
that the captain insisted upon buying the ingredients for the
yet-unnamed hellfire instead of oil when they reached port. While
testing the second batch, Donegal accidentally splattered some in a
filled bucket, and he and Richard realized how extraordinary their
invention was.
Soon the Eclipse became the most famous--and feared--ship on the
Valenfaer Ocean.
Donegal finished his circle of death by placing some hellfire on
the slaver ship's stern for good measure. Pleased, the surgeon looked
toward shore and frowned; the Beinisonians had arrived.
Donegal cursed internally. He couldn't stay by the ship; only
Sanar knew where they would bring the long boat. If he struck for
shore now, they might see him, and that would be his undoing. The
Beinisonians would hardly think Donegal a native--a Man of the Sun, in
Bichanese clothes?--and if they removed the headband--
No, he would kill himself--and some of them--first. And if he
couldn't, well, then Richard and the hellfire would take care of it.
The Beinisonians pushed the long boat into the balmy water and
rowed toward their mother ship.
Without thinking, Donegal sank himself and swam away from the
slaving vessel. It will be a long swim, especially as he was taking an
indirect path to avoid the long boat. A shot of panic seared Donegal
like lightning. He hadn't swum beneath the waves in so long--
But Donegal had mastered water and fear as a child, and he
refused to let them conquer him now. Was he not Donegal, the surgeon,
the pirate, and the runner? A brief lack of air could hardly vanquish
him. Determined and again secure, Donegal pulled himself toward the
shores of Grian.
He reached the shore only a little short of breath. Am I not
Donegal, he repeated, laughing silently at himself, the runner and the
pirate? Aye, and a good thing too. Richard, though strong, could
hardly survive so long beneath the waves. Satisfied, Donegal pulled
himself onto a shady spot of the sand, and after only a brief glance
at the Beinisonians, he dashed behind the funny-looking plant and
recovered the rest of his belongings. Richard would be coming soon,
and Donegal would have to be ready to dispose of the rest of the
slavers once Richard had disposed of their vessel.
Donegal idly replaced his boots on his feet and carefully watched
the Beinisonians. The long boat, which had just reached its
destination, was filled to its capacity, but a large, somewhat sloppy,
pile of palm fruit, palm nuts, and oil skins still dominated the
lagoon's shady beach. Four trips at least, the surgeon decided. He and
Richard had plenty of time.
"Donegal," a whisper rasped behind him. Donegal waved the archer
forward. Richard crawled out of the jungle to sit beside him. "All
ready?"
The surgeon grinned. "Whenever you are."
Richard took out his spy glass and watched the long boat. "How
far away is the hellfire circle?"
"Not more than ten feet, and I put some on the bow and stern."
"I can see it. Good job." The Baranurian archer lowered the
spying glass and considered. "Ten feet...we'll wait for them to start
the return trip," Richard decided, "which is just as well." He reached
into his quiver and pulled out five arrows swathed in Donegal's best
bandages. The surgeon grimaced at the ill use of his medical supplies,
but Richard sent him an ironic glance that silenced the leech's
protests and handed his friend a piece of flint. "When I give the
word, light the arrow."
1 "Just like on board," Donegal finished, grinning. He drew his
sword and experimented upon it with the flint. The water on the steel
prevented a spark. The surgeon frowned and dried the blade with his
shirt. "We've been through this a thousand times, Rich; I know the
routine."
"They have a sweet little cargo there," Richard remarked,
glancing again through the spy glass at the sailors unloading the
fruit, nuts, and oil. "It'll be a shame to torch it."
"Better it burns than the women."
Richard nodded, but didn't lower the spying glass. "Freedom never
comes cheaply," he agreed; then abruptly, a shadow of pain crossed his
face. "I'm still paying for mine."
Then the archer set the spy glass on the sand and readied an
arrow. "Get ready," he warned, watching. He stood, looked over the
distance once more, drew the arrow, and aimed. "Now."
Donegal struck the flint against the katana, and an eager spark
leapt to the loose end of the maligned bandage. Richard allowed
himself a fractioned second to check his aim and let the shaft fly.
With eerie beauty, the blazing arrow soared across the sky like a lazy
comet and landed upon the bow of the ship. Another flaming shaft
followed it closely and struck the water just as the long boat pulled
ten feet from her mother ship.
The lagoon, the long boat, and the ship erupted into demonic,
blue- white flame.
"Good shot!" Donegal declared, elated with the inferno and the
screams of the damned. Well was their concoction named hellfire.
"Get back," Richard warned sharply as he readied another arrow.
"There'll be stragglers."
"They won't make it through the hellfire," Donegal protested, but
he drew his Bichanese sword anyway.
"Don't count on it," Richard advised. "It's been done before."
The Baranurian archer smiled with sinister glee. "But it won't be easy
or painless; freedom never comes cheaply."
Donegal chuckled. "If Jilana wills, they won't be able to buy it
at all."
"I'm so glad I was raised to believe in one God," the archer
muttered. "I'd never keep track of so many."
"But monotheism is so dull," Donegal reminded him with a grin.
"Don't make me laugh," Richard commanded sternly. "I'm trying to
concentrate."
Richard often was like that, Donegal noted with a smile, joking
one moment and ordering people around the next. Yet Richard commanded
well, Donegal admitted. Perhaps, since he had been trained for
military strategy, Richard had also been trained in leadership. In any
case, the leech obeyed.
"Take my spying glass," the Baranurian said, "and look at the
water. Is anyone swimming toward shore? Check all directions."
Once again, Donegal did as he Richard bade him. "Two, coming from
the long boat. I doubt anyone made it off the mother ship alive--no,
wait. Two more, heading toward us!"
Richard squinted. "Four! Damnation!" Re-aiming, he let his arrow
loose. The archer re-loaded his bow without waiting for the scream
that confirmed his accuracy, and he shot again. Richard immediately
loaded his bow.
Donegal concentrated his spying glass on the ones heading toward
Richard and himself; those two were, after all, the immediate danger.
No, not two, one; a slick of blood was rapidly forming on the lagoon's
surface. "Got him, Rich!" Donegal cried as Richard fired the second
arrow. In the spying glass, Richard's arrow was seemingly swallowed by
the other. "Right in the throat!" Donegal exulted gleefully. "Well
1done!"
"Two on shore!" Richard cried, turning. He drew another arrow and
shot.
Donegal whirled to the pile of tropical produce. Two were indeed
on shore; they were badly burned, but well-armed. One, whose arm had
been nicked and bloodied by Richard's swift arrow, had a mean-looking
cutlass; the other had a bow and--
"Get down!" the physician screamed, collapsing heavily onto the
sand. But Donegal heard the shot release--or was it Rich's shaft?--and
heard it dully contact with a tree. A dull twang sounded; Richard's
arrow had misfired, and he cursed.
Brandishing his Bichurian sword, Donegal shouted a Highlander
war-cry learned from the mate, Cedric of Gallows' Lane, and charged
the intruders. Aye, intruders, for they had invaded this peaceful isle
to take advantage of its serenity. Donegal? He only came with Richard
to hunt the Lowenrote, but Erida could take his soul and devour his
body before he would just allow these serpents to destroy this
island's women.
The Beinisonian archer clumsily prepared a new arrow, and Donegal
didn't bother to suppress a contemptuous grin. Richard would have had
another shot off by now--why *didn't* Rich have another shot off by
now? Donegal dived at the archer, spoiling his shot and breaking his
shaft. One swift stab--right to the heart, Donegal thought--and it
would be over for this one.
The archer twisted with a bestial cry, and Donegal managed to
plunge the tip of the katana in the man's stomach. The leech withdrew
the blade, held it high--
"Donegal!" Richard shouted with alarm.
The katana fell, and the surgeon heard an arrow make a *thunking*
sound behind him as it penetrated the swordsman's flesh. A *thump*
followed as the dead man hit the ground. The now-harmless cutlass fell
simultaneously off Donegal's back. The archer's blood spurted onto
Donegal's chest.
And Richard was beside him, helping him up. "You were almost
dead," the Baranurian explained. "He had the cutlass ready for you."
Swiftly waxing angry, Richard violently jostled his friend. "Damn you,
don't do stupid things like that! I could have picked them off where
we were, but I couldn't risk shooting you!" The archer took a deep
breath and smiled. "You stupid surgeon. Are you all right?"
Donegal nodded. "You?"
"That arrow sailed right past my ear; God protects archers, I
guess," Richard laughed. He retrieved the cutlass from the sand and
inspected it. "A very nice blade," he complimented the corpse and
slipped the blade into his belt. "Thank you." He took his hunting
knife from its sheath and began cutting his arrow from the swordsman's
flesh. "Would you please run back to our little niche and get our
things? We're going to need the spying glass. I want to see if anyone
got off of that ship."
"I think we got them all, Rich," the leech speculated, but he
returned to the funny-looking plant anyway. Quickly, Donegal slung the
backpack over his shoulder, slipped the surgical pouch onto his belt,
tied his shirt around his waist, and retrieved the spying glass.
Polishing it gently on his shirt, he returned to Richard.
"Can't be wasting arrows." Richard sighed as Donegal approached.
He looked seriously at his friend as he cleaned the bloodied head and
replaced the shaft in his quiver. "We still have much work to do."
"Aye, that we do," Donegal agreed, offering Richard the glass.
The archer took the spying glass from his friend and examined the
blazing ship. It was a glorious sight, Donegal decided, and he
laughed. The purifying blue-white flames of the hellfire were awesome
1and beautiful, aye, an apt agent of just death and essential
purgation. Donegal, satisfied, turned to Richard.
"Yes, we got them all," the Baranurian declared, folding the
spying glass. Snatching his bow, he rose and smiled at his old friend
as he hung the device on his belt. "Shall we get the rest, Donegal?"
"Let's," grinned the leech.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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