💾 Archived View for gemini.spam.works › mirrors › textfiles › magazines › DARGONZINE › dargon.v9n2 captured on 2022-06-12 at 11:19:26.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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
-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 2
DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE ||
\\
\
========================================================================
DargonZine Distributed: 03/02/1996
Volume 9, Number 2 Circulation: 576
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Shadowstone 1 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Naia 11-12, 1014
Friendships Bloody Tear 1 Mark A. Murray Yuli 1015
Knight of the Moon Jewel 2 Wendy Hennequin Sy, 1014
Intentions 1 Dan Granata Yule 1015
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> 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 9-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright March, 1996 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>.
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
<ornoth@shore.net>
One of the jobs of the editor is to take the stories available to
him and achieve a certain balance of tone between all the works which
appear in any given issue. It's difficult for readers to feel
comfortable with a magazine that prints just tragic stories, or just
stories that end "happiily ever after". Our goal is a healthy mix of
light and heavy, happy and tragic. However, depending upon the nature of
the stories that are finalized and printable at any given time, that may
not be possible.
I bring this up because a majority of our recent and upcoming
stories are dark and brooding, and new readers shouldn't take that as
evidence that the magazine is focused solely on printing stories with
unhappy endings. That's not the case at all, and if you stick with us,
you'll see otherwise. It's purely a function of what material I have on
hand when an issue gets assembled.
In Web news, we've added quite a few new features in the past
month. We now have all the back issues in ASCII format available at
ftp.shore.net/members/dargon/back_ish, and pages summarizing the
responses we've received to the user profile and questionnaire. There's
now a page with information designed to get new readers up to speed,
plus maps and a brief history of DargonZine. And a big new feature is
the addition of reference information to Glossary entries, so now if you
look up "Marcellon", you'll also see every story that he appears in!
We're really pleased at the popularity of the Web site, and plan to
continue providing new features and services through that medium.
This issue contains several items of note. Firstly, it marks
long-time project member Dafydd's return to writing. True to form,
Dafydd's "Shadowstone" is a wonderful story which I'm sure you'll find
interesting.
Our second story is the continuation of Mark Murray's story about
Raphael and Megan, and we finally learn some of the background behind
what's been going on in Mark's previous stories.
Wendy Hennequin's "Knight of the Moon Jewel" is completed in this
issue. Originally a four-part story, Wendy moved on before it could be
printed, and as plans for the war changed, parts 3 and 4 were obsoleted.
The group struggled for a long time with how to print this story, and
finally getting it printed is an achievement in itself and enables us to
move on and begin to close the long drawn-out war storyline.
And, finally, we have a new story by a new author: Dan Granata's
"Intentions". It's always a particular pleasure to print a first story
from a new author, and I'd like to congratulate Dan on seeing his first
story through to print. Seeing a story through our peer-review process
isn't easy (as Dan can attest -- Intentions 2 is on it's 6th draft!),
and seeing your name in our table of contents is an accomplishment that
any writer should be proud of.
With that, on to the stories!
========================================================================
Shadowstone
Part I
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<white@duvm.ocs.drexel.edu>
Naia 11-12, 1014
Naia 12, 1014.
3 bells after midnight.
Port Andestn, Duchy Monrodya.
Chandras looked over his shoulder briefly and saw that the three
town guards were still behind him. He continued to run, darting down an
alley, cutting quickly across a square and into another alley, trying to
elude his persistent pursuers.
He knew he shouldn't have done it. And he wouldn't have either, if
she hadn't made him. She had brought all of her considerable persuasive
talents to bear on the matter. When her simple explanation of how
Malkhas had insulted her hadn't been enough to get him to agree to her
demands, she had insulted his manhood, stayed out of his bed for a week,
and then threatened him with the ultimate -- she would leave him if he
didn't do as she wanted.
Perhaps that shouldn't have been enough to send him out on a spring
night to commit murder. Didn't he have any morals of his own? But
Delebye was definitely worth keeping -- at least, he didn't fancy his
chances of finding someone else as beautiful, as talented, as wonderful
as Delebye again. Of course, when it came right down to it, it was just
easier to give in than to stand up and leave her.
Privately, he was pretty sure that Malkhas probably hadn't done
half the things that Delebye had said he had -- Delebye was famous for
holding grudges and getting even in any way she could. But if the way
Delebye had thanked him in the bells between his finally agreeing to do
what she wanted and when he had left on his errand were any indication,
he had thought that doing what she wanted was definitely going to be
worth it. As it turned out, he just might have been wrong.
Chandras slipped into a gap between two buildings and held his
mouth firmly closed, breathing as slowly as he could force himself to
through his nose, which he further muffled with the palm of his hand. He
listened for his pursuers, and heard the boots stomp past the mouth of
the alley that his current hiding place opened off of. He let his mouth
open and started drawing in large -- but slow and quiet -- breaths,
trying to regain his composure as he thought back to about half a bell
ago and the reason he was running.
He had been crouching in the shadow of the chimney for a short
while, trying to decide whether or not to actually do what Delebye
wanted. Malkhas was young and just a little wild, like Chandras himself.
A chance comment, a disparaging remark in a tavern, perhaps even a
spurned advance could have been all that had set Delebye against the
baker's apprentice. Then again, maybe it had been something worse --
after all, to his knowledge, Delebye had never wanted someone dead
before.
Chandras pulled on his hood and stood up. Even out of the shadow of
the chimney he was hard to spot, since his black tunic, leggings, gloves
and boots blended well with the shadows. The hood masked his face
completely, and with the soot he wore around his eyes (so that the
eyeholes in the hood could be large enough not to restrict his vision),
the only thing that showed that wasn't the color of the night were the
light green and white of his eyes themselves.
Still not completely resolved to do exactly as Delebye had
demanded, he let his rooftopper skills take over as he moved towards the
eaves. He had done this much many times in the past: despite the
evidence, almost no one expected a thief to come from the roof and they
concentrated their defenses at ground level. Chandras' rooftopper skills
were well honed enough to have kept him in reasonable comfort for some
time now. So, as his body all but automatically went through the motions
of entering the window of Malkhas' room in the relatively defenseless
Bakers' House, he continued to steel his will to the ultimate task
before him.
Malkhas' room was small, and sparsely furnished. Chandras'
dark-adapted eyes took in the dresser with its pitcher and basin in one
corner, and the wardrobe in another. The bed was just to the side of the
window, with the door on the opposite wall. He heard Malkhas' deep,
steady breathing, and nothing else, which confirmed that the apprentice
was alone.
Turning to the bed, Chandras slowly drew the dagger he usually kept
sheathed under his tunic, habit keeping the blade in his own shadow so
that it wouldn't glint in the light from outside. He leaned over and
drew aside the sheet that Malkhas slept under to find that he slept
topless. Not particularly wanting to find out if he slept bottomless as
well, he let the sheet go when the apprentice's chest was fully exposed.
Chandras knelt and held his dagger carefully over Malkhas' chest. He
willed himself to forget what he was trying to do -- to concentrate on
the patch of skin between those two ribs right there, to make sure that
the dagger slid in exactly right to find the apprentice's heart, but to
ignore that that action was going to kill the man. Somewhere between
chimney and bed he had apparently decided to do Delebye's bidding. Maybe
only because it was easier than not doing Delebye's bidding.
He held his breath, steadied his arm, and lowered his hand until
the sharp point of the dagger was all but touching the skin. Then, with
his heartbeat thudding in his own ears, he stabbed downward decisively.
The dagger moved downward in what seemed to be slow motion, sinking
into Malkhas like a spoon into very thick porridge. Chandras realized
that it wasn't just a trick of his perceptions at this tense moment when
Malkhas' eyes flashed open and Chandras gasped -- both of these events
happened at normal speed, even while the dagger was still slowly sinking
into Malkhas' chest.
Malkhas grinned evilly as he locked eyes with Chandras. Chandras
felt the dagger grate against something, and when he tore his eyes away
from Malkhas' he very nearly screamed when he saw that half of his hand
had sunk into Malkhas' chest along with his dagger!
Chandras sprang to his feet without letting go of his dagger. As he
backed away from the man -- thing? -- on the bed, he noticed that there
was just a single drop of red on the blade. Malkhas sat up and swung his
legs out of bed, still grinning evilly. "You shouldn't have tried that,"
he said. He took a step forward into the light from the window and
Chandras noticed two things: that the wound in Malkhas' chest was slowly
closing up like it had never been, and that the whites of Malkhas' eyes
weren't white -- they were a disconcertingly dusky grey.
Malkhas took another step toward him, and Chandras finally realized
that he had better get away. Since Malkhas was by the window, he took
the only other way out available, and scrambled for the door.
Fortunately, it wasn't locked. Chandras paused a moment to find the
stairs, then took off running through the hall and down those stairs.
Orienting himself quickly in the large open room the stairs led into --
a valuable skill to a rooftopper thief -- he chose what he felt was the
front door and dashed toward it. He unlocked it quietly and opened it,
but he realized that he hadn't heard Malkhas following him down the
stairs. Then he found out why -- as he opened the door and slipped out,
he heard Malkhas shouting from his window to a trio of town guards who
assessed the situation, spotted him in the door to Bakers' House, and
started running toward him.
Boot heels clacking on cobbles brought Chandras back to the
present. He closed his mouth again -- he had regained his composure (and
his breath) while he was remembering -- and tried to determine where the
sound had come from and how many guards that clacking represented.
Another *clack* told him that there was one guard at the mouth of the
alley to his right. As he prepared to dash to his left, he heard two
pairs of boots clacking into the alley from that direction. He rolled
his eyes in despair, slumping against the back of the niche he was
hiding in, and noticed that the narrow opening was only about a floor's
height tall, with gently sloping slate roofs above that. Offering up a
silent 'thanks' to his luck, he braced his back against one side of the
niche, pulled his feet up one by one and planted their soles against the
other side, and began hitching himself up to the roofs.
Soon he was lying along the roof, looking down into the alley as
the three guards met right next to the niche he had hidden in. He lifted
his head to look over the rooftops around him, looking for a getaway
path, and when he looked back down he looked right into the eyes of one
of the guards, who was looking up. The woman was pretty, in a hard way,
with deep blue eyes -- that were surrounded by an eerie smokey grey.
Chandras gasped and lunged to his feet as the woman guard pointed
up to his position. He was running before he could hear anything she
might have said, running across the rooftops trying to think of
somewhere to hole up, and trying not to think about how Malkhas had
survived his assassination, or what the strange eye-color might mean.
Naia 11, 1014.
Castle Pentamorlo, Duchy Dargon.
Kimmentari completed her preparations for her journey, none of
which even remotely resembled the preparations her mate, Morion, had
undertaken for the journey he had just begun with the bulk of the
fighting men of the castle. He was going to help fight a war, and she
wished him luck. Despite the way she had reassured him less than a bell
ago, she really didn't know whether he would be returning from his
journey. While she had the ability to see a short way into the future,
she hadn't used it to foresee for her mate. It was a strange sensation
for her, but she didn't want to know. It ... it would hurt too much.
While Morion knew where and why he was journeying, Kimmentari's
journey didn't have as solid a foundation. Her journey had begun with a
dream -- really, two dreams. Two dreams that were variations on a theme.
Her journey was to find out what the dreams meant, how they related to
her, and most importantly, which of the two dreams was supposed to
happen.
The first of the two dreams began with a long, low, gore-spattered
stone room. The cries of innocents echoed in Kimmentari's ears. A glint
of torchlight on steel drew her attention to a figure moving among the
bodies. She threw back her head and screamed as a face of pure evil swam
out of the shadows and stared at her, mouthing the Araf word for 'you'
inflected with shock and surprise.
The second started with a man in black running down corridors
filled with death and the dead. The man entered a long, low stone room
where cowered the innocents caught up in a struggle for power. And the
man in black rescued these people without a drop of blood being shed.
So, two dreams, one good, one evil. And one Araf with a journey to
take. She checked a final time to make sure she was ready. With a deep
breath and a slight flash of her deep red eyes, she was off.
The acting seneschal knocked on Kimmentari's door to tell her her
horse was saddled and ready. But when he opened the door, the room was
empty.
Naia 12, 1014.
Dawn.
Port Andestn, Duchy Monrodya.
Chandras slipped into the small room and sank wearily into one of
the many chairs around the table in its center. The room was above
Jo'nass' Tavern, a somewhat seedy dive only a few streets from the
waterfront, and it was used by Chandras and his fellow rooftoppers to
meet with each other, and with clients. Right now, he was using it as a
safe place to hide: Jo'nass' Tavern was an unofficial neutral ground to
most, and he hoped that the guard wouldn't think to look for him here
for some time yet.
He had been running from those guards for bells, over rooftops and
through alleys, between stalls in the Market square and through
abandoned buildings. More guards had taken up the chase, and it was only
a matter of time before they started a systematic search.
He didn't understand why there was such an uproar, though. After
all, Malkhas wasn't dead, was he? An attack on an apprentice just
shouldn't warrant an all out search for the assailant! Unless ... unless
it had something to do with those eyes ...
He put his head down on his arms on the table and tried to think.
He had to do something, but what? Hide? Port Andestn wasn't large enough
for him to hide for any length of time. And he didn't know anyone with
enough influence to protect him from the guard. Unless Delebye could ...
but no, while she certainly had the ability to command nearly anything
from him, he didn't think she had that power over the guard. Then, his
only option seemed to be flight, but he was so tired, he just didn't
want to run any more ... at least not ... right ... now ... ...
He woke up with the sun hot on his back and the door to the room
opening. He sat up quickly and fumbled for his weapon as his friend
Haroned edged into the room, head turned to the corridor outside as if
making sure he wasn't being followed. Chandras lowered his knife to the
table top and relaxed a bit as his friend closed the door and turned a
smiling face to him. With a guilty pang, Chandras looked closely at
Haroned's eyes and breathed a little easier when he saw that there was
none of that smoke-grey in them.
Haroned said, "Easy, Chandi, easy! I'm not one of them's as out to
get you -- the reward ain't high enough yet!" The youth laughed
good-naturedly and took a seat across the table from Chandras.
"Reward?" asked Chandras.
Sobering up quickly, Haroned said, "One Mark, put up by the Bakers'
Guild for the capture of the person who attempted to kill Malkhas. Can
you believe it? They must think the underfolk of this town are pretty
low, to sell one of their own for such a meager price." He shook his
head. "And for such a thin crime ..."
He looked up and said brightly, "So, what ya gonna do now, Chandi?
Much as I hate to say it, there *are* underfolk who'd sell ya for a
Round, even. And the whole of the guard is after ya. I heard that the
Guard Captain is going to make a speech in about a bell in an effort to
get the townfolk after you as well: some crap about patriotism, about
how, what with the bulk of the military off warring it up with the
Benosians down south, we need to keep things peaceful here at home.
Seems to me like a lot of nonsense over a rooftopper turned failed
killer, but maybe they think the town needs some kind of excitement
that's closer to home than the War ..."
Chandras listened with half an ear to his friend and fellow
rooftopper babble while he continued to ponder the question he had begun
before his little nap. He had already discarded the idea of hiding --
with the whole town being roused against him, for whatever reason, he
didn't have a mouse's chance in a room full of hungry cats of doing it
successfully. He briefly considered staying to fight it out, but that
was equally futile. After all, he *was* guilty of attempted murder and
the dispensation of justice rested solely in the hands of the Guard
Captain, at least while the Duke and his vassals were off at war. He had
no idea what to expect from Captain Merric, but he didn't think it wise
to trust to her mercy, considering what Haroned was saying about her
efforts to get him captured.
So, flight was really his only option. He had to get away from the
town, at least temporarily. But where could he go? He didn't relish the
idea of going all the way to another town, but then again, he wasn't
exactly thrilled by the idea of camping in the hills around Port Andestn
either. Unless ...
"Hey, Haroned," Chandras interrupted his friend. "You wouldn't
happen to know where the Raiders are holed up, would you?"
Haroned looked at Chandras oddly, and said, "Chandi, you been
listening to me? I was just saying how I was talking to one of the
Raiders last night downstairs and he told me which ravine the camp was
in this week, along with a lot of boasts I didn't believe about how rich
the Raiders were all getting from their banditry."
Chandras looked a little sheepish at having been caught ignoring
his friend, but he didn't wait for Haroned to launch into a detailed
description of what he thought about the nearly infamous bandits who
called themselves Thornodd's Raiders and how he thought their using the
war as an excuse to increase their rampaging was despicable if admirably
practical (he had heard it all before, after all). Interrupting again,
he asked, "So, where are they?"
Haroned gave him some concise, yet detailed and clear, directions,
then said, "So, you're gonna go hide with them? Good idea -- they won't
care about your 'crimes', and they've been hiding from the forces of
order for ages. Hey, buddy, good luck! I'm sure this uproar will die out
soon, and then you can come back to your friends and your job. See ya!"
He stood and slipped out of the room cautiously, leaving Chandras alone
again.
He just sat there for a moment, savoring the momentary peace he
felt. It would take a couple of bells to get to where the Raiders were
camped, so he knew he had to get going. He wondered whether he should
pay a visit to Delebye before he left, but discarded the idea. He had no
idea what to say to her. He was very nearly disgusted with himself for
actually attempting what she wanted. That Malkhas hadn't died didn't
change that. (He shuddered in the middle of his musings: how *had* the
man survived? No, he didn't want to think about that.) And now it seemed
that giving in to her demands was going to get him exiled from his own
city for quite some time. No, he didn't want to see Delebye right now.
Because he just might be tempted to do something violent to the person
who had gotten him into this fix in the first place!
Naia 12, 1014.
Noon.
The Kings' Road just outside Port Andestn, Duchy Monrodya.
The two knights rode at the head of a group of about 30 armed
people that was more of a mob than a military unit. Except for the
knights themselves, only the couple of them who had been militia trained
had any real idea of what to do with the weapons they held, but none of
them were worried. They had been sent to deal with the Raiders, and they
were well equipped by their Mistress to complete the task. Before dusk,
the Raiders would also be subject to their Mistress.
The knights had been present when the betrayer had been brought
before the Mistress. The man had been overheard in a dive of a tavern
boasting of his connection to the Raiders. The guard had had little
trouble bringing the very drunk man into custody, and the Mistress had
had no trouble liberating him from the guard. The knights had watched
the ceremony that had sealed the man to the Mistress' Shadowstone even
as he swore blood oaths that he would never betray his brethren. They
had watched and listened several bells later when the Mistress had
called forth the shade from her Shadowstone. It had hovered there before
her, looking like nothing more substantial than a wisp of smoke rising
from a single still-burning ember. She had commanded it, and it had
spoken, revealing all in a distant, soft voice that still sounded very
much like the blustering man who had sworn never to tell.
The knights rode, and as they turned off of the Kings' Road to head
into the hills themselves, they looked at each other. The one's
grey-surrounded brown eyes locked with the other's grey-surrounded blue
eyes, and they nodded to each other in satisfaction. Eyes forward again,
they continued on to finish their appointed task.
========================================================================
Friendships Bloody Tear
Part I
by Mark A. Murray
<mmurray@ionet.net>
Dargon, Yuli 1015
The day was bright and the forest was full of activity. Birds
seemed to be everywhere, chirping away. Raphael had scared a group of
deer menes ago. Following the deer came two rabbits, a brightly colored
bird that he recognized as a phinchet, and several tree rats that dove
down holes. Raphael stopped at a fallen log and sat on it while Megan
stood next to him and Anam lay at her feet. Looking up at her, he smiled
and took her hand.
"You're very beautiful," Raphael told her. "I still don't know if
you can hear me, but I won't stop hoping and looking for a cure. All
this time and I still don't understand why Kell did it?" He remembered a
time before he met Megan, when Kell and he had been the best of friends.
They were so young.
"Hey, Raph!" Kell yelled from the courtyard. Raph recognized the
voice and turned to look for Kell. Many people were moving about going
from one vendor to another and that made it hard to spot Kell. Moving
and looking around the people, Raphael saw his friend. Kell was small
and skinny with pale skin and light brown hair. His movement was unsure
and wobbly. Kell sometimes tripped over his own feet. Raphael ran to
greet him.
"How'd you get away?" Raph asked.
"Loth's gone for the day," Kell said quietly. "Let's not talk about
him? I think he can hear what we say even when he's not here."
"Alright. What do you want to do? I've got to be home by dark."
"Let's play war. I'll be the hero and you can be the evil
war-lord," Kell said as he thrust an imaginary sword toward Raph. Raph
took the hit on his shoulder and jumped back to avoid another blow. Kell
was swinging wildly with his invisible sword and Raph saw opening after
opening in Kell's defenses. He didn't take them though, as he continued
to be forced back. This was Kell's free time and Kell didn't get that
very often, so Raph let him win. He didn't make it easy for Kell,
however. After Raph's defeat by the great hero, the game changed. There
came another defeat and another change. This went on until the two were
exhausted and the day was nearly over. The two were on their way home
when a bird suddenly flew straight toward Raph.
Raphael jerked out of his dreaming as he realized that the bird was
real. The bird was even more surprised to find that its landing post was
alive and moving. Squawking loudly, it turned and flew away. Anam woke
from the squawking and lifted his head to look for the cause of the
disturbance. Seeing the bird, Anam relaxed and laid back down. Raphael
sat Megan beside him on the log. He brushed her hair from her face and
kissed her on the cheek. He watched as her hair fell back into place.
Her hair moved back and forth across her face. What lovely hair ...
... he thought. Raphael watched her as she moved through the crowd.
Her red hair seemed to cascade around her face and shoulders. With every
turn of her head, her hair swished one way or the other. Her light skin
stood out among the tanned peasant farmers as she browsed the shops
among them. He was too far away to get a good look at her face or see
what color her eyes were, but he thought she was beautiful anyway.
Watching her move, something stirred in his gut. "This is what love must
be or at least lust," he thought smiling. "She is beautiful. Maybe if I
accidentally bump into her? No, that's a stupid idea. How can I get to
know her?" He moved closer to her as she stopped and talked to a vendor.
He caught part of their conversation. She was new to the area. "Hmmmph,"
he thought, "I already knew that! What was that? She lives there?" It
wasn't too far from him. He would have to find an excuse to visit that
area. He hadn't realized how close he had gotten until she turned around
and almost knocked him down. He found himself looking into a pair of
lovely green eyes. The prettiest green eyes he had ever seen. "This is
definitely love," he thought as two circles of green engulfed and
caressed him in their soft light. green ...
What beautiful green eyes, he thought for the thousandth time. He
heard his name being called from far away. He knew that voice. Yes, it
was Megan's voice that called him. Raphael opened his eyes and saw Megan
on a blanket in a field of grass. She was older now and he realized that
his memories had shifted a few years in the future.
"Raph, let's go to the lake today," Megan said. "It's a beautiful
day and I'd like to go swimming."
"Kell and I are supposed to do something later today," Raphael
answered. "Look for certain kinds of plants, or something. I didn't
catch everything he said."
"What? You never do anything, really," she stated and then softened
her voice with "Please?"
"How about if he comes, too?" Raphael asked knowing the answer but
hoping he would be wrong.
"No! He scares me. And he looks at me weirdly, too."
"You two used to get along great. What happened?" Raphael asked.
"Nothing, I just don't want him along," Megan replied. "I wanted it
to be the two of us."
"Alright. I'll have to tell Kell I won't be able to meet him
later," Raphael said giving in. He knew Kell would take it badly and he
felt bad about it. He didn't understand why Megan and Kell couldn't get
along. Something had happened between them, but neither of them would
tell him what it was. He was going to have to drag it out of one or both
of them some day. For now, though, he was trying to figure out how to
tell Kell that he was spending the afternoon with Megan without
upsetting him too much.
He reached the alchemist's shop and went inside. There was a young
apprentice working and he told Raphael that Kell was upstairs in the
workshop. Knowing that Raphael was one of the few people allowed in the
workshop, the young apprentice unlocked the door leading to the stairs.
Raphael started up the stairs to Kell's workshop when everything became
blurry. He looked down at the wooden stairs and wondered how many times
he had climbed these stairs. Too many to count, he thought. His vision
narrowed as he concentrated on the stairs. "I don't want to remember
this!" he shouted. Raphael tried to escape his memories as time shifted
forward a few more years. Panicking, Raphael turned and started to run
down the stairs hoping that the door out would jolt him out of his
memories. Kell stood behind him, however, blocking the way. Kell's face
was filled with anger. His muscles were taut and his hands were clenched
into fists.
"You're going with her again, aren't you," Kell accused Raph. "It's
always her. She's coming between us and you don't care!"
"That's not true! Kell, what's wrong with you?" Raphael asked,
caught in the turn of events.
"Me? *Me!* It's always me, isn't it!" Kell yelled. "I'm tired of
all of it. I'm sick of her. It's either her or me. You decide," Kell
said.
"Kell, don't do that. Don't make me choose. I can't. You're my
friend ... "
"Yeah, we were really close once," Kell interrupted, "but she's
changed that. She's tearing our friendship apart!"
"It's not like that ... "
"Yes, it is! Now choose!" Kell screamed.
"I won't," Raphael said.
"Choose!" Kell said as he grabbed Raphael's tunic. "Choose now!"
"Let me go, Kell," Raphael said as he tried to break Kell's grip.
Kell wouldn't let go and the two of them struggled on the stairs.
Screaming again, Kell punched Raphael in the mouth. Blood trickled down
Raphael's chin. When Kell saw what he had done, he ran past Raphael up
the stairs into his lab. Raphael sat down on the stairs and slumped
against the wall. Tears ran down his face and mixed with the blood from
his mouth. One hand went to the wooden stair to support him and the
other to wipe the tears from his eyes. The stair seemed to be unusually
rough and when he looked down, the stair had bark covering it.
He slowly pulled his hand from the tree and found that the tears he
shed in his memory were real. Wiping the tears from his face, he saw
that it was late afternoon. Megan was still sitting beside him. Anam was
chasing whatever came across his path and looked to be having a great
time. "This isn't such a bad place to camp," Raphael thought, "even if
it is too early in the day." After taking care of Megan, Raphael joined
Anam in the fun. It was a much needed respite from his memories. The two
played until sunset and then had a small meal for supper.
"I wish Megan could play with us, Anam," Raphael told the wolf pup.
"I don't blame you for the tear in our friendship," he said to Megan as
they settled in for the night. "I don't even blame Kell. I should've
paid more attention to him, I guess."
========================================================================
Knight of the Moon Jewel
Part II
by Wendy Hennequin
Sy, 1014
Marcellon Equiville, clad in the flowing red robes of his office,
climbed the hill slowly. Behind him, the morning sun set Magnus' city
walls aglow. From the northwest, Marcellon spied the Baranurian army,
led by Sir Luthias, Count Connall, pitching their pavilions.
Before him, on the crest of the hill, facing north, was
Mon-Taerleor.
The High Mage took a moment to look at his old friend, this man
with whom he had once trained. The golden hair had turned white as the
snows that muffled Dargon in winter; the once-gentle brown eyes were
shrewd and sharp. Mon-Taerleor did not look old, any more than Marcellon
himself did, but unlike the Baranurian mage, Mon-Taerleor had grown
withering thin. The merry face had turned hawk-like, and the gentle
hands which Marcellon had taught healing now looked more like claws.
And from Mon-Taerleor came such a shuddering aura of wickedness
that the High Mage himself felt instinctively like withdrawing.
Marcellon sensed the aura, strong and solid even at this distance, and
his hair stood on edge. He had only felt such evil in one other man, and
just as the evil had frightened him in Styles, so it did in
Mon-Taerleor. Immediately, Marcellon raised all his mental shields and
prepared the magic ones silently.
Still, the High Mage remained composed and impassive. Tucking his
hands within the flowing sleeves of his robes, Marcellon greeted the
Beinisonian High Mage: "It's been a long time, Alexander."
Mon-Taerleor inspected his old companion obviously. "You have not
changed."
The fact that Mon-Taerleor spoke as if they were merely old friends
meeting almost amused Marcellon. "You have."
Mon-Taerleor ignored the remark and its meaning. "Your wife, how is
she?"
Marcellon supressed his irritation; he was certain that
Mon-Taerleor knew full well how Eliza was. "She died six years ago of
the Red Plague. And your wife, Alexander?"
The Beinisonian High Mage cackled. "I killed her." Mon-Taerleor
appeared astonished at Marcellon's impassive look. "You need not be
shocked. It was accidental."
Marcellon doubted it, and to check, he reached out with his mind to
touch Mon-Taerleor's. As the High Mage suspected, there was a thick wall
around Mon-Taerleor's mind, a magic wall, not a psychic one. Marcellon
touched it briefly, assessing it; yes, he could breach it if need be,
but it would require energy and effort -- and risk.
"You see," Mon-Taerleor was saying, "I have not changed, but grown
in power."
"You have grown in power," Marcellon agreed. Twenty years ago,
Marcellon had been able to bust Mon-Taerleor's weak, magic, mental walls
with a single, almost casual thought. "You have changed, Alexander."
Mon-Taerleor laughed. "How is that? I have called you here to make
peace."
"You have called me here to kill me," Marcellon replied, and his
old friend shut his mouth. A smile brushed across Marcellon's lips. Even
through the thick wall, Marcellon read Mon-Taerleor's strongest emotion
as easily as a neat scribe's book. "I felt it on your letter."
"And you came," Mon-Taerleor scoffed contemptuously, and he
laughed. "You fool."
"I am not as much a fool as you think," Marcellon replied cooly. "I
am not unprepared. I know what you are and what you have become, and I
am ready to face that."
The brown eyes of his opponent narrowed angrily. "And tell me,
Marcellon, what am I? What have I become?"
The Baranurian High Mage stared at Mon-Taerleor with composure.
"Twenty years ago, we vowed to use our power for good, and never to
abuse it, for we did not want to become as Styles was." Marcellon shook
his head, and for a moment, he almost felt sad. "You have become
Styles."
"Have I?" A smile slithered onto Mon-Taerleor's lips.
Anger welled in Marcellon's heart when he remembered all the evil
things that made Mon-Taerleor like Styles. "You have abused your power
and your abilities, Alexander. You have used your power for evil, not
good, and for harm, not healing."
"I told you that my wife's death was an accident," Mon-Taerleor
insisted tightly.
"Indeed?" Marcellon replied icily. With angry precision, the High
Mage counted off what he knew of Mon-Taerleor's evil. "Was your murder
of Styles accidental? The execution of the Duke of the Sun for treason
he didn't commit? The earthquake which destroyed the city of Jaliri
during the rebellion? What about the outbreak of the Red Plague in
Cabildo and Carrerra that killed six thousand four years ago? The
raising of the demon Ha'ra'kor, and the experiment that razed the city
of Salavencia?" Marcellon's voice rose with anger and pain as he added
the latest crimes. "Was your replica of Luthias Connall's head
accidental? Was his torture? His addiction to magicked ardon?"
Mon-Taerleor's eyes narrowed angrily; Marcellon felt his
displeasure. I know my enemy, the High Mage thought, but he does not
know me. I knew he was evil, but he thought me a fool.
I am no fool.
After a long moment, Mon-Taerleor laughed maliciously. "And to
think they made him Knight Captain!"
This time, Marcellon smiled completely. "Why not? I cured him."
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Marcellon allowed himself this
small bit of satisfaction. Let him absorb that!
The High Mage felt the surprise rock his enemy, but Mon-Taerleor
regained equilibrium quickly. "Tell me," he whispered, his eyes
predatory.
"I will not give you that power." Mon-Taerleor bared his teeth and
advanced, as if he could take the information by force. Marcellon held
up a staying hand, ready to call forth a magical shield if necessary. "I
know what you would do with it. As I said, Alexander, you have changed."
"And you have not," the Beinisonian admitted scornfully. "You were
fool enough to come. You knew I called you here to kill you, and yet you
still came."
The High Mage smiled again, but the smile was hard and cold. "And
what makes you think you will succeed? Try as you have, you have not
destroyed Luthias Connall, and he has no magic about him."
Again, the scornful laugh sounded clearly in the dawn. "I just have
not used the right weapon, my friend. It took me quite a while to find
it, but I have, and I assure you that by noon this day, you will have
lost your Knight Captain of the North."
Sir Luthias, Count Connall, Knight Captain of the Northern Marche,
pounded a stake into the stubborn ground. "All right, let's raise it,"
he ordered, and together, he, Derrio, and Ittosai Michiya lifted the
pavilion into shape. Derrio slipped inside to straighten the interior
wooden poles.
"I do not know why you do this, Luthias-sama," Michiya commented,
following Luthias around the tent. "You will sleep in Magnus, will you
not?"
Luthias grimaced. "As much as I hate to, Michiya, I'm sleeping
here. I would be an unjust commander if I didn't stay with the men."
"What about Myrande?"
Connall grinned at his wife's name. "I'm not giving her up,
Michiya."
"I did not think so," the Bichanese agreed, smiling in return. "But
is it -- what is that word? -- chivalric to make a lady sleep in a
tent?"
Sir Luthias shrugged and then laughed loudly and clearly. "Do you
think we could keep her away from me?"
Michiya chuckled. "Then there is another problem. Where am I and
the squire to sleep, if not in your pavilion that we share? I do not
think our presence shall be wanted."
"You can sleep in the town house in Magnus. It'll do you good." The
Knight Captain turned to his friend. "Are you hungry? I could use some
breakfast."
"Yes, I am hungry." Michiya fell in beside his Knight, and they
began to walk away from the tent. "Might I have some time to myself to
spend in Magnus?"
Luthias considered; then he looked at his friend. "What's her
name?"
"Yes, Fionna. I must find her and take her from the city. It is too
dangerous there now for an undefended person."
"I'll second that," Luthias agreed grimly. Well did he know the
size and the power of the Beinison army. "I'll tell you what, Michiya.
If we can manage it, we'll send your Fionna out of the city with Sable."
The Count of Connall frowned. "Although getting her out of the city is
going to be a problem, Beinison notwithstanding."
"Why is that?"
Luthias gave a cock-eyed, cocky smile. "She won't want to leave
me." He frowned again and ran his hands through his lengthening hair.
"I've got to get her out, Michiya. There are going to be massive battles
here, and I won't have her risking herself for me."
"It would be unwise. The children should not be without mother and
father."
Luthias paused at his pack and knelt. As he withdrew the dried beef
and the wine skin, he laughed. "Children. That's right. I keep
forgetting I'm a father." The Count chuckled. "I say it, and still, I
can't believe it."
"I bet Myrande believes it."
"It wasn't very real to me, Michiya," Luthias confessed. "I didn't
know she was going to have babies. Then I left so soon ..." Luthias'
hands dropped, and he looked away. "God, I miss her."
The Bichanese samurai knelt opposite his lord and took the food. "I
do understand, Luthias-sama." The castellan grinned. "But you will see
her today, will you not?"
"I'd better." The Count gave a wicked smile. "Remember what
happened to the last man who kept her away from me." Luthias' smile
collapsed. "What is it, Michiya?"
The samurai was staring into the distance. "Who is that, I wonder,
on the hill? Should we send scouts?"
Immediately alert, Luthias stood, turned, and squinted toward the
sunrise. Connall reached into his pack for a spy glass, a gift from the
High Mage. A pair of figures in blood red robes became somewhat clear.
"It's Marcellon," Luthias concluded from the robes, the hair, and the
height of one of the men. Luthias' stomach knotted. Who was the other?
"I think something is wrong."
"Wrong? Why is he here?"
"I don't know," Luthias answered, "but I think I'll find out."
Luthias marched to the tent and donned his sword and helmet.
"I shall go with you," Michiya decided.
"No, stay here," the Knight Captain commanded. He faced his aide.
"I don't know who -- or what -- he's fighting -- or even if he is
fighting -- but he may need my help. Take care of things, Michiya."
"Luthias-sama --"
"Don't worry," Luthias ordered. "I'll be right back."
Frowning, Connall's aide watched his liege run for the hill outside
Magnus. Such parting words worried him. After a moment's consideration,
Michiya grabbed his own helmet and katana and went to seek his brother.
A cold tremor rippled through Marcellon's heart. "What do you mean?
How will Connall soon die?"
"I have sent agents to procure his pretty wife's death." Marcellon
controlled his face and his fear strictly. "It was easy enough to find
her, thanks to the portrait Luthias Connall gave us. When your Knight
Captain finds his lady love dead --"
"I think Connall is hardier than you know," Marcellon interrupted.
He hoped so. Marcellon wanted to send out a warning to Myrande, to
Luthias, to Sir Edward, but he knew he could not lose his concentration.
One slip, and Mon-Taerleor would no longer be boasting of his power; he
would be gloating of his conquest.
That is why he ignored the movement behind Mon-Taerleor.
Still, the High Mage could think within himself. If ought were
wrong with Lady Sable, Marcellon surely would have heard of it, known of
it, by now. The deed was not done -- or at least, Luthias didn't know
about it; if it had, Luthias' pain would have blown through Marcellon's
defenses and rocked the High Mage already. The King surely would have
sent a messenger if --
And now Marcellon knew Mon-Taerleor's intentions, and the High Mage
nearly laughed. I am no fool, Alexander, but you are.
"I shall do away with that boy," Mon-Taerleor claimed as Marcellon
returned his thoughts to the immediate, present situation, "and with
you. Then Baranur will be easy to destroy, and I will have it!"
"You will have it?" Marcellon questioned, his eyebrow raised in
amusement. "What about your Emperor?"
"That beardless babe? Do you think he has any wisdom or power?"
Mon-Taerleor grunted. "No, Marcellon, you know better."
"He has managed to lead the Empire for a year," Marcellon reminded
him. The High Mage strenthened his shield and ignored the helmeted man
behind Mon-Taerleor. Hopefully, the idiot would have enough sense to
leave the mages to their own combat. This soon would be no battlefield
for warriors. "Do not underestimate the young, Alexander. Our Luthias
Connall is not that much older than your Emperor, and he has defeated
your army."
"He will soon die," Mon-Taerleor insisted. "I have seen to it. His
soul will expire as soon as his wife's body is brought."
"Connall is not dead yet," Marcellon repeated, "and neither am I."
"You will be!" And Mon-Taerleor raised his arms and began chanting.
Marcellon quickly uttered the words that added magical shields to
his mental ones. His spell blotted out Mon-Taerleor's words; Marcellon
hoped he had chosen the right defenses. He would have no further time to
waste on them.
Mon-Taerleor uttered a final, malicious word, and a stream of
lightning coalesced on his hands. Marcellon ignored the distraction and,
ignoring the danger as well, immediately pushed through Mon-Taerleor's
mental shields with his own.
Unfortunately, the disturbance failed to disrupt Mon-Taerleor's
spell. The magical lightning left Mon-Taerleor's hands, rocked
Marcellon's magic shell, and ricocheted across the Magnus plain. Two
pavilions in Luthias Connall's armies exploded, and several others
enflamed. The voice of the army rose in terror and urgency.
Mon-Taerleor's laugh rang triumphantly across the field.
Marcellon closed his eyes, and Mon-Taerleor's laugh turned to a
furious roar. Marcellon smiled at his success; five spells had, with a
single thought, been wiped from Mon-Taerleor's memory.
"Have you learned no new tricks?" Mon-Taerleor taunted.
"Why should I waste the time, when the old ones work so well?"
Marcellon returned calmly.
The Beinisonian High Mage screamed a word in frustration, and a
sword of flame materialized in his upraised hand. Crying words of
destruction, he hurled it at the High Mage.
Marcellon wasted no time in thinking. He reached out, caught the
flame-sword, and flung it back at Mon-Taerleor. The Beinisonian's arms
crossed quickly before his face; the flame sword bounced against an
invisible barrier and landed, point first, on the dry ground. The grass
began to smoulder.
Mon-Taerleor began to chant ominously; Marcellon recognized the
spell and blanched. As the ground began to shake beneath him, Marcellon
concentrated until his hands held moon-white power. Shouting, Marcellon
flung it toward Mon-Taerleor as he spoke the final word of the summons.
The white force impacted just as the demon began to materialize.
Mon-Taeleor and the demon emitted identical protests. Marcellon took the
opportunity to push through Mon-Taerleor's walls again. The Beinison
cursed in rage when he lost three more spells, and Marcellon reached for
more.
Then Mon-Taerleor spoke again; Marcellon didn't know the word, but
he felt the danger -- he had to close his mind's shields again --
The world went white. All Marcellon's careful shields -- extended
to invade Mon-Taerleor's mind -- collapsed like card houses. With no
warning, his consciouness shattered.
Mon-Taerleor laughed.
The blinding pieces of Marcellon's mind sped around him like a
mocking blizzard. But they were all there -- all the pieces were there.
Dizzy and desperate, the High Mage staggered and fought against the
whirling universe. The pieces of his mind, memory, concentration,
spells, psychic power, danced in the dark vacuum on the edge of
Marcellon's consciouness. Shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath,
Marcellon lunged for a spell, one that would silence Mon-Taerleor -- for
a little while.
Marcellon snatched the spell desperately and clutched close to his
mind as the rest of his thoughts spun around him. Staggering still,
Marcellon began to sputter the words. Finding strength in the
concentration, the High Mage opened his eyes to a blurry world.
Mon-Taerleor growled, but chanted again. His hands turned a sick,
whitish pink.
Suddenly, the Beinisonian spun. Marcellon saw a silver gleam
protrude from Mon-Taerleor's back and jerk toward the collar bone. The
High Mage heard Mon-Taerleor's final curse -- a magic word -- then the
scream of pain.
And then -- the pain! The horrible -- excrutiating -- blinding
pain!
Frightened, Marcellon stumbled forward, falling onto the burning
grass. Clumsy, the High Mage struggled to regain his feet and crawled on
the flames when he failed. The earth swayed beneath him; his mind
whirled in splinters around him still. And the utter agony -- not
Marcellon's agony -- filled his shattered mind as the tormented scream
filled his ears. He could barely think, but Marcellon knew he had to
stop it. Struggling against the shattered pieces of his mind and the
other man's agony, Marcellon continued forward.
The small hill seemed as long as a mountain range, as wide as the
unsteady Valenfaer Ocean, but Marcellon crossed it to the sounds of
whirling thoughts and tortured men. His eyesight still bleary, Marcellon
collided with something solid -- something dead.
Mon-Taerleor, with a sword in his chest.
The scream continued, thunderous and agonized. Fighting his ripped
mind and the pain that was not his own, Marcellon looked for the source.
In a fetal curl at the feet of the man he slew was Luthias Connall,
screaming. "My God!" the High Mage whispered, half-crawling and
half-falling toward the younger man.
Marcellon had to help Luthias -- he knew he had to help him -- but
his mind was being tossed in a hurricane wind and things flew by so
fast, so fast, and the pain, the pain, *the pain!* He could not think.
He must think. Frustrated, Marcellon found enough wits to curse his
tattered mind and the man who had rent it.
With nothing else to use, Marcellon scanned Luthias' body with
undependable and blurry eyes. Connall was clean -- no blood, no wounds
-- just the scream, the horrible scream, and nothing causing the pain --
Marcellon frantically searched the fleeing pieces of his mind for
something -- anything -- to stop Luthias' pain. There was no source --
good God, anything could be wrong with him! -- and Marcellon snatched
one flying spell and, concentrating with a difficulty he had not
experienced in thirty years, Marcellon spoke.
Suddenly, Luthias was completely still.
The pain vanished as if it had never existed, but the complete fear
which gripped Marcellon only contributed to the wildness of his mind. My
God, Marcellon thought, staring with horror at the inert body, I have
killed him. I have killed him! *I have killed him!*
Terrified, Marcellon staggered to his feet, and only fell again
when he stumbled over the corpse behind him. Head reeling not only from
the spell but from the fall, Marcellon rolled sluggishly in his old
friend's blood and tried to regain his feet, his mind.
But Marcellon's memories whirled incoherently around him still,
with spells and fear to drive them. Oh, God, he had killed Luthias
Connall!
Where is Luthias-sama? Marcellon thought, and the thought was not
his. Neither was the fear of the fire, though the grass sputtered
beneath him. The many pictures he could see were not his own memories or
his own thoughts. Thoughts were crowding his mind, thoughts not his own,
but more coherent than his own mind which screamed with fury and
Mon-Taerleor's laughter.
The world rocked beneath Marcellon, and he fell, vomiting, until
the world went black.
========================================================================
Intentions
Part I
by Dan Granata
<dgranata@glasscity.net>
Dargon, Yule 1015
I hopped up onto a rock along the road and squinted up at the sun.
Someone once told me you could tell the time by the position of the sun.
Of course, I had no idea how to do this, but I tried anyway. I could
tell it was near midday, but whether it was before or after was beyond
me. The time I had spent on the road offered me no reference, as these
days had all run together like a dusty stew. A horrible analogy, I know,
but what could you expect from an amateur storyteller with no formal
training? Make that an amateur storyteller, performer, poet, dancer,
flipper and countless other things with no formal training. I sighed and
set down my pack. I looked at it for a moment, wondering how I ever fit
my entire life into that worn and patched-up bag. As I undid the straps
I tried to remember where in the Kingdoms I had acquired this sack. Not
a gift, since no one I have ever known could locate me. It couldn't have
survived all of ten years ... I stopped. *Ten years*. I couldn't believe
I had been wandering and doing this gods-be-damned show for ten years.
Why didn't I listen to my mother ...
I shook my head. No, I loved doing the show, and I knew it. Lately
however, I'd found it hard to keep my spirits up, as well as my
strength.
You see, my partner, Nessis, decided to terminate our partnership
nearly two weeks ago, just prior to my departure for Dargon. Actually,
"ran off" would probably be a better phrase. Nessis was a boss of sorts,
although he constantly insisted that we were equal. He performed a
little so I could rest, and took care of publicity and managed our
funds, which always seemed to be smaller than what I had collected from
the performances. In fact, that was what I confronted Nessis about the
night before he left. I told him I remembered specifically that there
had been more than twenty copper in the plate when I had closed the
show, and yet he still told me I hadn't made enough for a meal that
night. "Balor," he said. "Balor, I love ya like ya was me own son. I
would never lie ta ya. Trust me." I told him I did. Maybe it was his
sentiment that made me overlook the smell of roasted meat on his breath.
Lost in the past, I didn't notice when the pack finally opened. To
my surprise the bottom of it fell out, scattering my belongings out onto
the dust. I paused a moment, a little stunned, but I noticed that the
wind was gathering speed. I grabbed a few costumes and noticed, to my
dismay, that my signs were skipping down the road like a ... well -- I
don't know. The stiff parchment offered no ballast, and the wind tossed
them about; scattering them everywhere. I ran as fast as my legs could
carry me, grabbing the signs I passed and trying to keep up with the
ones still ahead.
When I had gathered them all up, I carried them back to the rock
and the rest of my things. I laid the signs on the ground and stacked a
few costumes on top of them, to make sure I wouldn't have to hunt them
down again.
I picked up my pack and surveyed the damage. The bottom had simply
ripped from its lining. A quick fix was all that was required. Grabbing
a few old costumes, I made the patches I would need. I hated to do it,
as I couldn't replace them, having no money. But what's the use of
having a load of costumes with nothing to carry them in? I dropped to my
hands and knees to find my needle. Looking for a needle on a dirt road
was harder than it seems. 'Needle on a dirt road'
... say, that's one I should write down.
I found what I was looking for, patched up my pack, and started to
stuff my meager belongings back in. The costumes went first, and seeing
each one reminded me of a different time in my life, whether I wanted to
or not. The frilled red one brought back memories of being thrown out of
the finest palaces and castles in Baranur. And the wolves' fur coat made
me recall the cold nights I had spent sleeping in doorways. I picked up
a leather jerkin, and as I did I could feel my blood run cold. I stuffed
it into the sack, my hand getting caught on one of the many hidden
pockets it held. I tried not to think too much on the memories that this
costume had; how I was forced to make it and use it just so I could eat.
I wanted to toss away that jerkin right then and there, but I knew that
would be foolish. I had to eat, and if -- I hated to even think it --
stealing was the only way, so be it.
I finished packing and bitterly continued down the road. Why, *why*
did my life have to be like this ...
The sun had nearly reached its peak when I entered Dargon. The
number of people there raised my hopes of actually eating that night. My
musings were cut short when I was shoved forward by the incoming tide of
people through the gates. "Best be getting started," I thought, and
moved into a doorway. In that niche I opened my pack, minding the newly
repaired bottom, and withdrew the ten signs that advertised my show. I
stared at them for a moment, scrutinizing them, but I found it was hard
to scrutinize your own work. I had had to redo the signs after Nessis
ran off, and none too well, since he took all of our funds and supplies.
Still, I liked them.
Closing and securing my pack again, and clutching the signs close
to my chest, I rushed out into the crowd. "So many people," my mind
repeated, "but how many of them will pay?" Best not to dwell on that, I
had found out a long time ago. That was back when I was younger and
would throw myself into my performances, receiving nothing for my work.
I was wading through the crowd, looking for places to post my
signs, when I realized that I had no idea what to look for. Actually, I
did. It was fairly simple, really. Put them where everyone will see
them. But the problem was, I couldn't find anyplace where I wanted to
leave them, for fear they would be vandalized or stolen. They were all I
had; They were my work. Eventually, I convinced myself that I had to get
over that maternal feeling for my signs. Something I just realized,
though, about being alone: you have to be your own antagonist.
Later that evening I posted my last sign on the side of a building.
Stepping back, I had to admire my own work. It read: 'Balor Hardwin's
One Man Amazement' followed by pictures of dancing and flipping figures.
Lots of color, to attract the eye. I hated the title, but you need a
gimmick to get the big crowds, right? At least that's what Nessis had
told me.
I stepped back a few more paces, trying to see if the light fell
right upon the sign. Something caught my foot, and I stumbled to the
street. My fall was cushioned and I just sat there in my newfound seat,
admiring my work once again. It really was a great piece of work.
Suddenly, two things happened, the first right on the tail of the
second. First, I caught the stench of what I was sitting in. Then, I
felt something brush against me. One or both of these things prompted me
to leap up, this action causing bits of garbage and a small, dark,
squeaking object to fly through the air.
I reminded myself where I was, and surveyed the stain left on my
clothing. Despite the reek and the circular, brown colored mark on my
posterior, I was none the worse for the experience. My eye caught
movement from the heap that I had been sitting in, so I looked directly
at it.
Two rats, almost identical to one another, (not that I know much
about rats, mind you,) were running along the heap. One was on top of
the pile, obviously shadowing the other. The Top Rat suddenly pounced on
the other, killing it quickly, and began feasting. I felt sick.
As I turned away, the episode reminded me that I might have to
resort to similar measures if I didn't perform that night. That thought
made me sick again, this time giving way for my meager lunch to take a
second bow. Giving one last glance back at the rat, who was now covered
in blood and seemed to be very much enjoying itself, I snatched up my
pack and walked off to select a site for my show.
That evening's performance was truly a memorable one. I had
selected my "stage", a busy market-area, and begun my show. My hopes
were being realized as a crowd slowly formed. As my performance
progressed, I realized how hard it was to try to keep up high energy for
long periods of time. Maybe having Nessis wasn't all bad. I thought it
would be just as easy to do the same show as always, except I would do
both of the parts. I found out how wrong I was. Still, the feeling of
being the center of attention was exciting. In fact, the exhilaration
made me want to do my show-stopper, a high leap into the air followed by
two half turns and a near fatal fall, right then and there. No, I
corrected myself, save it for the bigger crowds.
Instead, I did a few backflips and stopped near my pack. Quickly, I
flipped through my things and withdrew my panpipe. I began playing a
simple travelers song, and added a few tumbles for the effect. Then,
when I was right at the height of the song, I was smacked in the head by
something small and hard. Needless to say, my song ended there. I
whirled around, just then beginning to notice the snickers from the
crowd. Out of the corner of my eye I caught swift movement. Not stopping
to think, I tumbled to the ground, hearing something fly over my head. I
winced as the thud and cry that followed told me that the projectile had
found a new target. Obviously that was what caused the fight that
ensued. Swiftly gathering my things and retreating through the milieu, I
wondered who had cast the first stone ...
After the failure of my show, I tried to sleep in the stalls of one
of the inns in town, in order to forget my hunger and embarrassment.
M'Kivar, help me, I thought. Without Nessis I was lost, running around
like a shoruck with its head cut off. Gradually, my hunger replaced all
other thoughts, and I reluctantly grabbed my pack and sifted through it.
Finally I found the leather jerkin, and for a fleeting moment I wondered
how people who called thievery their "profession" lived with themselves.
I pulled on that cursed garment and readied myself for what I had to do.
By M'Kivar, I hated to do it, but I guess a person just has certain
natural tendencies, like hunger, and must obey them. Shoving my
belongings under some straw, I slipped silently out of the stables.
It's a strange thing, when you're an "aquirer". You have to look at
people not as people, but as things that must be rated and gauged,
tested and preyed upon. You may wonder where I learned this from. My
only teacher has been necessity. Well, actually, necessity and two
guard-house terms for theft. I hated it. I was good at it, but I hated
it.
So there I was, leaning back against a wall, and feeling like a
vulture. I stood there, trying to blend as best I could while still
allowing my eyes to roam. Like I said before, when you have to steal,
you learn to notice the good targets, and I found mine. A richly clad,
noble looking man was wandering through the streets, his purse in full
view. My last thoughts of restraint faded as the image of food -- real
food -- took their place.
So I closed in, my head was up but my eyes were always on that
purse. Twice I was bumped and pushed aside by a passer-by, but I still
had my eyes on my target. Side-stepping a rather large woman, I found
myself behind the noble. I felt my fingers tingle. It was an odd
sensation, one that I never really got used to. I just counted it as
anticipation.
My fingers, which had been trained to toss knives and any number of
other things with great precision, barely twitched as they silently
edged toward the stuffed purse. Time slowed to the speed at which the
grass grows, and my face flushed from a mix of excitement and fear.
First one finger touched it, then two, then the rest. Anxiety crept in,
and I fought to control it. Then everything came crashing down around
me.
I heard it initially as a far off cry, echoing outside of my head.
Then, as I became aware of it, it grew louder and louder, until it was
everything I could hear or think. It was like those dreams you have as a
child, when the benda-wolf is chasing you, and you suddenly realize you
can't escape. Terror gripped me as I realized what was happening.
Someone was calling my name.
Things began to run through my head. Who was it? Did they really
know me? Maybe it wasn't me, just someone else. Did someone see what I
was doing?
Suddenly I jerked back to reality, and noticed, all too late, that
my hand was still on the man's pouch. I tried to do something, but my
body was numb. The man continued forward as I stopped. I had thought at
first that maybe he wouldn't notice, that maybe his pouch would fall off
and I would be fine. That idea came to a crashing halt as I realized my
grip had tightened on the purse and the man was pulled to a stop. He
looked to his belt and whirled around, sending me straight onto the
street. The man's eyes opened wide as he raised his booted foot,
preparing to crush me. Instinct took over and I rolled away. Pushing and
stumbling through the crowd I ran as fast as I could towards the nearest
alley, the cries for the town guard fading behind me.
As I ran through the alleys, I found myself thinking about what
would happen if I were to be caught. These thoughts were accompanied by
a feeling that my mind wasn't part of my body. No, not in a spiritual
sense, like a near-death experience, just a feeling that my body and my
mind each didn't know what the other was doing. I really couldn't
explain it. But then, I didn't have much time to think, because I was
interrupted by an irregularity in the ground beneath my feet.
Like I said, my body and mind weren't in mutual contact at the
time, so it wasn't until I was flying through the air that I realized
something was wrong. To tell the truth, I really don't remember
tripping, either.
Either way, I ended up in mid-air, but that, too, ended with a
painful thud that was the product of my abrupt and intimate meeting with
a wall. For a second, I couldn't think or feel anything, save for the
pain that coursed through every region of my body. I might have lost
consciousness at that point, but I can't really recall that as well. The
next thing I *do* remember is the sound of footsteps advancing quickly
in my direction.
I resigned myself to whatever consequences that might befall me,
partially due to the fact that I could no longer move. The footsteps
came closer and closer, until they slowed and finally stopped directly
next to me. I started to pray, and ended up wondering why people become
so religious when they're in trouble.
"By the gods!" a voice said, "Are you all right?"
I tried to answer but the only thing that came from me was a low,
rumbling moan. I released my eyes from their clenched state and thought
for a fleeting moment that I had done severe damage to my head. It took
me a few seconds more to realize that I had landed upside down.
I shifted myself as best I could and flipped over with help from my
newfound benefactor. There was no little pain involved in the process,
believe me. My pleas to the gods for a quick death went unanswered.
When the pain reduced itself to a numbness and dull stinging, I
looked up at my mysterious savior, the obvious questions in my mind.
"Thanks. For the help, I mean," I said. I winced as I thought about
my words. I always had performed and written far better than I spoke.
"Who *are* you?" Stupid, Balor, stupid! I decided it best to limit my
monologue to that. As I mentioned, my mouth tends to get me in quite a
bit of trouble, and loses me more friends than I care to mention. I
thought of Nessis, but he wasn't a friend, was he?
"'Who am I'? You really don't recognize me?" The man asked.
"Not with that damned hood pulled over your face, I don't."
M'Kivar! I was beginning to wish I was mute.
The "stranger" withdrew his hood, revealing a face I hadn't seen in
years, nor ever expected to see again.
"Dalis!" I exclaimed.
The smile that found its way across the man's face told me I was
correct. Dalis Benn, by M'Kivar! My childhood friend reached his hand
out to me, as a gesture of greeting. I grabbed it and used him to pull
myself up, clutching his shoulder and stumbling over words to describe
how I felt. He had changed, which can only be expected, but he somehow
seemed the same. Same hair color, same eyes, same quiet voice, same ...
"Whoa! Balor!" Dalis said, stopping my torrent of mixed greetings
and questions. "A moment ago you were running like the demon of
Gil-Pe'en was after you. Why?"
"Huh?" I said, this time not pausing to reprimand myself on bad
grammar. I remembered suddenly why I *was* running.
"Oh, damn all! Come on, Dalis! I'll explain later. Right now we
have to go!" I started off toward one end of the alley.
"Balor, wait! This way! I have a room at an inn near here."
So, just like that, I was reunited with a long-lost friend and was
changing seasons, so to speak. Yes, another bad analogy, and I
apologize, but it is appropriate. My life, until this point, had been
what some, in fact most, would call mediocre. But that one day started
something bigger than I would have expected; so big that now I long for
mediocre.
========================================================================
From dargon@SHORE.NET Sun Apr 7 16:34:38 1996
Received: from listserv.brown.edu (listserv.brown.edu [128.148.128.155]) by locust.cic.net (8.7.4/8.7.3) with SMTP id QAA03836 for <rita@locust.CIC.NET>; Sun, 7 Apr 1996 16:34:34 -0400 (EDT)
Received: from stanley.cis.Brown.EDU (stanley.cis.brown.edu [128.148.128.155]) by listserv.brown.edu (8.6.10/8.6.10) with SMTP id QAA06630 for <rita@FIR.CIC.NET>; Sun, 7 Apr 1996 16:35:18 -0400
Message-Id: <199604072035.QAA06630@listserv.brown.edu>
From: DargonZine Staff <dargon@SHORE.NET>
Subject: DargonZine Volume 9, Number 2 (long)
Organization: the Dargon Project
Date: Sun, 07 Apr 1996 15:16:00 -0500
To: archive site <rita@locust.CIC.NET>
Status: O
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
-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 3
DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE ||
\\
\
========================================================================
DargonZine Distributed: 04/07/1996
Volume 9, Number 3 Circulation: 588
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Intentions 2 Dan Granata Yule 1015
Shadowstone 2 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Naia 12, 1014
Friendships Bloody Tear 2 Mark A. Murray Yuli 1015
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> 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 9-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright April, 1996 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>.
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
<ornoth@shore.net>
If you've visited the DargonZine Web page yet, you've experienced
our design aesthetic firsthand. While the Web gives us the ability to
really go nuts with our graphic presentation, we've gone with a very
basic parchment design with sparse graphics.
We've done this for a few reasons. One of our principles was to
make the site both usable and appealling, even over a 14.4 Kb modem
line. We've accomplished this by using images sparsely, using them
repeatedly (to take advantage of local caching), and designing our
graphics to take up minimal storage space. Another principle is
simplicity -- our use of black text on a parchment background maximizes
readibility, without sacrificing the medieval "feel" of the
presentation. We'll leave the funky, hard-to-read, graphically intense
design to others.
Which brings me to our most important principle. The Dargon Project
is all about text, and those of us who write for the magazine are very
focused on its textual contents. The fact that the site is visually
appealling is due in great part to one or two of our writers (most
notably, Carlo Samson and myself) contributing even more of their free
time. But although spending hours developing slick graphics for the Web
site may be fun, it's also a distraction from our real job: writing
stories.
And so we're putting the word out that we need graphic artists who
are willing to volunteer their work to be used on the Web site. Typical
work would include illustrations for stories and the rest of the site
(browse around to see examples of what we've done so far). If you are
interested, or know someone who might be, please drop me email at
<dargon@shore.net>.
Since day one, back in late 1984, this magazine has survived and
prospered because of the contributions of its readers. It'd be really
great to have someone step up and help us make the magazine that much
better than it is today.
This issue could well be subtitled "DargonZine 9-2, Part 2", since
all the stories are second chapters to storylines which were begun in
our last issue. So I'd encourage you to go back and read DargonZine 9-2,
if you haven't already. Here's a quick reminder...
In Dan Granata's "Intentions", Balor the entertainer arrived in
Dargon and was reunited with his childhood friend, Dalis.
Dafydd's "Shadowstone" series brought an unexplained fateful
mission to a thief named Chandras, leaving him trailing the victors in a
battle between his brigand friends and an unknown group of horsemen.
And we continue to learn more about the main characters in Mark
Murray's series: Raphael, a jaded wanderer, and Megan, his seemingly
catatonic charge.
As ever, feedback is welcome, keep spreading the word, and thanks
for your continued interest!
========================================================================
Intentions
Part II
by Dan Granata
<dgranata@glasscity.net>
Dargon, Yule 1015
The sun had long since set on the strangest day of my life. Well,
the strangest day of my life *so far*, I corrected myself. I was
beginning to realize that things change very quickly sometimes, and this
was one of those times. I am beginning to sound redundant even to
myself, but these things happen when you're lying on a bed late at
night, with nothing to do but think.
I sat up, the rustling of the covers sounding like thunder in the
silence. That is another one of the signs of boredom, when you notice
meaningless occurrences. I guessed that my boredom was a direct result
of the excitement earlier that day. I had entered Dargon, embarrassed
myself several times, tried to steal a noble's purse and nearly got
myself arrested, only to be reunited with a childhood friend.
And now I am sitting on a bed in an inn that I couldn't even recall
the name of, tossing and turning while my dear friend Dalis sleeps like
a child. I shrugged my shoulders and set my elbows on my knees. With a
sigh, I put my head in my hands. Trying to make sense of things only
made my head hurt.
Standing up, which is not an easy task for a fatigued person, I
walked over to the window. Looking out, I couldn't keep myself from
laughing. "An alley," I thought. Perfect scenery.
Strength returning to my weary body, I tried to figure out what I
wanted to do. So I stood in the middle of the room for a moment,
weighing sleep against insomnia. Logic left and insomnia won. I shuffled
over to the small basin of water that was in a corner of the room.
Dipping my hands in, I splashed the lukewarm liquid onto my
sleep-deprived face. Staring into the wall, I thought: "Balor, Balor.
How did you get here? What went wrong?"
I decided that I'd rearrange my things. It's a strange habit that I
have, when I'm bored I sort my belongings.
My pack opened easily and I laid everything I owned out onto the
bed. As I did so, I couldn't help but wonder what had become of my
pursuers. They had followed me closely for quite some time, then
suddenly they were gone. Was that how the guard operated in Dargon?
"Strange," I thought again. I shrugged off the ideas and went about my
chore.
What had to be several bells later, I woke. This startled me
because I hadn't remember falling asleep. I started to pull myself up,
and it was then that I noticed the weight on my chest. Looking down, I
saw the source. A large, leather bound book was lying on my chest. Still
half asleep, I was puzzled as to where the book came from. Suddenly, I
remembered. Before I fell asleep, I had found the large book in my pack.
I thought it strange because it hadn't been there the last time I
checked, which was only that morning. Maybe someone slipped it in during
my performance, I thought, or maybe it was Dalis's.
I picked up the book and studied its cover. I tried to draw upon my
experience with the formal texts, no matter how small. No, I'm literate;
it's just that books are hard to come by. Thinking of that fact made me
wonder more about how this volume just appeared in my pack. I examined
it more closely. It appeared to be well-bound, and a title was on the
outer cover. "Personas Remedian". I sat back, trying to remember my
ancient texts. My memory seemed to be hazy here, although the fact that
I had very little training in the language didn't help, either.
"Personas", I remembered, had to do with "self or "personal". "Remedian"
didn't stir the stew, so to speak.
I opened the book to the first page. I sighed when I noticed it was
completely in ancient form. Translation restricted my reading
considerably. I began.
"Personal worth, above all else, should be recognized by an
individual who wishes to do well. To achieve ... "
I had to stop. After that the words ceased to make sense. Well, I
thought, I found the title. I wondered again who gave me the book.
A stirring from the direction of Dalis's bed brought me out of my
thoughts. It seemed that my friend was waking. I closed the book and
tossed it onto the bed, next to me, giving it no more thought.
That morning Dalis and I decided, although I should have been the
wiser, to skip breakfast. "The guard might still be about," he had
rationalized. My head agreed but my stomach hated him.
To take my mind off food, we resolved to continue the conversation
that we had begun last night, a conversation that was cut short by
fatigue; to catch up on each others' lives. A lot can happen in ten
years.
"So you've been traveling all this time?" Dalis said, marveling at
my stamina, or possibly my stupidity.
"For all of ten years. I have to admit though, it isn't as easy as
I thought it would be," I said shaking my head slowly, remembering.
"You thought it would be *easy*!" Dalis exclaimed. "What were you
thinking?"
"I was young and stupid. You knew me then; you remember how I was.
A fool's fool."
Dalis just laughed. I couldn't help but see the humor in it too. I
could recall the time when Dalis and I were fishing, and I fell in the
Coldwell trying to leap it. I had thought *that* would be easy too. It's
strange how things seem more impossible the older you get. I longed for
those younger days ...
"Dalis, let's go fishing," I said, leaping from my seat.
"What?"
I started over toward him. "Fishing, just like we used to. We could
set up a camp and make a day of it. Just like we used to. What do you
think?" I could barely contain myself.
"I suppose we could, but not now. Now, duty calls."
I didn't understand what he meant, and I told him. He silently
revealed his left hand. On it was a ring.
My first thought was that my friend had gone and got himself
married. Duty, my right foot. But that idea was banished in seconds when
I examined the ring more closely. On it were several symbols. A book, a
quill pen, the words Mae Gwybodaeth Gallu, meaning "Knowledge is Power".
I couldn't believe it.
"You're a member of the Guild!"
Dalis merely smiled and nodded. I couldn't contain my joy. I
started to spout off every congratulatory phrase I could think of. But
deep inside, I couldn't help but feel that twinge of regret and envy. I
should be a member of the Guild, too. But then I stopped myself. No, I
didn't have the patience, the determination to spend years in study to
become a member of the College of Bards. I knew that when I left. The
pauper and the merchant.
"So what's your 'duty'?" I asked, allowing no hint of my secret
thoughts leaking into my voice.
"I'm here doing research on a particular ancient text that we have
just discovered. It was found in the area and the Guild likes to know a
history of the works it holds. I have a meeting with a local named
Corambis Desaavu. It's been said he knows quite a bit."
I tried to act as if I cared, out of politeness and courtesy,
adding over-exaggerated "Is that so!" and wide-eyed stares of surprise.
However, my patience wore thin rather quickly, and I managed, only under
great restraint, to stifle a few yawns. Finally, with the risk of
unconsciousness seemingly looming about, I decided to change the
subject. "Dalis, do you ever have fun?" I asked, a twinge of sarcasm
entering my voice.
"Excuse me?"
"Do you ever do anything besides research? I bet you don't. You
didn't when we were kids, either. I had to force you to go fishing,
although you admitted you liked it. I'll bet you're still shy, too. When
is the last time you saw a girl? Socially, I mean."
Dalis was silent. I knew it. Then an idea hit me. I picked up the
book that lay next to me.
"Here, read this," I handed the book to him. "I don't need it, and
you seem interested enough in ancient texts. Besides, I can't read it."
I stopped and shot him a glance. "Who knows, it may even do you some
good."
He read the title, looked at me, and smiled. "Maybe," he said, and
he started to laugh.
The rest of that day I spent sleeping, because there wasn't much to
do. Dalis had told me that he would be back within a bell or so, so I
thought I could make up for the rest I missed the night before.
Dalis didn't return until well after dusk. He seemed very excited,
and most of that evening I spent in forced anxiety, listening to him as
he rattled off some odd facts about history. While I admit history does
interest me somewhat, I believe Dalis passed my boundary. M'Kivar, I
thought, I hope that book does something for his personality. I would
better enjoy a hearthstone!
It seemed like days had passed; finally Dalis decided to turn in
for the night, I eagerly agreed.
The next few days were spent similarly, I would waste the day in
our room while Dalis would go out chasing after some bit of history. At
first I took the opportunity to practice my act. This stopped when the
proprietor of the inn complained, rather loudly, too.
I really began to wonder about Dalis. How could he exist solely on
research?
Finally one day, Dalis was home a little before dusk. We decided
that we would spend the evening in the tavern below, quite convinced
that it was safe.
"How's the research coming?" I asked after we ordered our meals.
The moment I said it I regretted it, and steeled myself for another
history lecture. To my surprise, Dalis wasn't even listening. He was
staring off somewhere behind me, in the direction of the bar.
I followed his gaze, and what I saw surprised me. It did seem that
my good friend had an interest in one of the barmaids!
"Talk to her," I said, trying to coax him out of his shell.
"What?" he said, obviously not hearing me fully.
"Talk to her."
"I couldn't."
"You mean you won't," I said as I threw a piece of bread at him.
"Well," he started, staring at her with a bit of longing. I felt
sorry for him at that moment.
The rest of the meal lacked for conversation, as I was starved and
Dalis was infatuated. Afterward, as we adjourned to our room, I noticed
my friend was looking depressed, or at least ill. I asked him about it.
"Oh, I'm fine," he said. He always was a horrible liar.
I asked him again, and this time he confided to me that it was the
barmaid from the tavern. I couldn't help but smile.
"I *told* you to talk to her, but *you* wouldn't listen!"
"I know, I know," he said, shaking his head. He looked as if he was
going to say something, then thought better of it. He simply rolled over
onto his side.
I watched him for a few more moments, then I laid down as well. As
my mind drifted, (I was drowsy from so much food), I swore I heard
rustling pages. I smiled a bit to myself. Now, he'll get somewhere ...
The next morning I saw quite a change in my old friend. Aside from
the bloodshot eyes and withdrawn face that displayed a lack of sleep, I
saw what could only be described as determination. That's what it was,
because the first words out of his mouth were: "Balor, let's go get
breakfast!"
Now, don't get me wrong; Dalis wasn't in the mood for eating. His
mind was on other things -- people, actually. I convinced him to at
least make himself more presentable -- splash some water on his face,
change clothes, anything so as not to embarrass himself. He reluctantly
agreed.
Down in the tavern I saw my old friend as I had never seen him
before. He strode straight up to the barmaid, who's name I later found
out was Kessia. She seemed surprised at his boldness at first, then
relaxed. Of course, I was viewing this all from across the room at my
table.
Their conversation soon escalated to the point were they sat down
at a nearby table. I was surprised at myself for not feeling even a
twinge of jealousy -- Kessia was rather fetching. I credited it to
elation for Dalis's newfound confidence.
All that morning and a good part of that afternoon was spent in
that tavern, Dalis talking to Kessia while I ate like a wharfman. It
wasn't until about the seventh bell that the barmaid was called back to
work and the conversation ended. A good thing, too; I was beginning to
swell with indigestion.
"Well," I said to Dalis as we headed back up to our room, "what
caused this sudden burst of confidence?"
"It was that book, Balor! I picked it up last night, in order to
get my mind off Kessia -- that's her name, by the way -- and I started
reading. It really made sense to me. I think you may have changed my
life!" The last he said with a smile. I couldn't help but share his
enthusiasm.
"So," I said, "now that you have all this confidence, I suppose you
wouldn't mind taking off a little research time to go fishing, would
you?"
"No, I wouldn't mind."
"*Finally*," I thought. Then he added: "Not today, though, all
right? I'm going with Kessia for dinner tonight."
"You're seeing her again?!" I reeled. This was amazing! Dalis
barely ever talked to his mother when I saw him last, let alone seeing a
girl steadily. I stopped myself, realizing that I was a little ahead of
things.
"Well, of course! Go! It'll be good for you!" I remarked, smacking
Dalis on the back.
"Thanks again, Balor," he said, and bounded up the staircase to
prepare for his outing, still bells away. I started to follow, but then
I realized that Dalis would probably want to be alone.
"Back to the tavern," I sighed, as I walked back down the stairs.
The whole rest of the day I was trying to suppress nagging thoughts
about Dalis's sudden change.
I took up cleaning the room as a hobby to pass the time over my
next few days of solitude. Dalis was now spending most of his time with
Kessia and some new friends, whom he never wanted to introduce me to. I
dismissed that thought. I had been dismissing thoughts quite a bit the
last few days, regarding Dalis's behavior.
You might wonder why I was still cooped up in that room. That is on
the account of Dalis overhearing something on one of his increasingly
frequent outings.
"I swear to you, Balor, I heard the guards talking. They said 'So,
we start the sweep tomorrow?' and the other one said 'Yeah, we'll find
that thief.' So you see, Balor, I'm just protecting you. It's not safe."
You might think I'm a moron for believing him, but I figure if
Dalis wants me here so badly, he must have good cause, right? He's never
lied to me before. And yet ...
My thoughts were cut short by a sound in the alley below. I was
moving to investigate when suddenly something flew through the window,
the sheer surprise knocking me to the ground. The sound of my body
hitting the ground mixed with the sound of something else embedding
itself elsewhere.
As I lay there, I heard the scuffling in the alley, again. This
time it moved away. I lay on the floor for a few moments more, trying to
discern exactly what had just happened.
Thoughts secured, I picked myself up. I looked around for the
projectile that had invaded my room. It didn't take me long to find the
arrow that jutted out of the ceiling. I pushed a chair over, climbed on
top of it, and removed the arrow, which was no little task. It only took
me another moment to notice the note tied onto the shaft. I undid the
note, thinking all the while who would go to all this trouble just to
send me a message. Maybe, I thought, it wasn't for me. Visions of death
threats, written in blood, demanding payments from Dalis entered my
mind. These were dispelled when I read the note, written in the artistic
hand of a scribe:
Balor,
I know this is a strange way to inform you, but I am pressed
for time. I have a free moment, meet me down at our old spot.
Dalis
The note caused a cascade of pleasant memories. Sunny days spent on
the banks of the Coldwell, laughing, swimming, and skipping stones. I
couldn't help but smile. Memories of our "border wars" with other
children in the neighborhood for "rights" to the spot. It was even the
spot where I had first told Dalis that I was leaving. He tried to be
supportive, but I could see that he was upset ...
I packed up a few things and left for the spot that Dalis and I had
frequented as children. I still found myself having to disperse
apprehensions about my old friend. I just couldn't help but wonder where
he got the arrow.
It seemed like no time at all had passed when I arrived at the
banks of the Coldwell, although the sun was nearly down. The fact that
it was an awkward time for fishing didn't enter my mind. I should have
known then. My mind was clouded when I ran over the hill and saw a sight
I hadn't seen in years, the second in nearly a week. There was Dalis,
busy putting the finalized touches to a makeshift camp, a camp exactly
like the ones we built ten years ago. I don't mind saying I was near
tears.
Dalis noticed me and waved. I waved back and ran down to meet him.
"It looks great," I said when I reached him.
"I know," he said with a smile, and we both set to work, preparing
fishing poles and bait.
We fished for what seemed like forever, but in reality was about a
bell. It was then that Dalis told me.
"Balor, I think I'm in trouble."
I asked what he meant; what kind of trouble?
Then came the shock. Dalis had been with Kessia when they got into
an argument over "nothing" so Dalis had said. The argument got worse and
Kessia threw something at Dalis "like a mad woman." Dalis had "defended
himself" when Kessia "threw herself at him" and the barmaid was injured.
"It all happened so fast," Dalis whined. "Suddenly my knife was out
and Kessia ..."
I was appalled. How could this have happened? Nothing made sense to
me, and then everything was perfectly clear. I told Dalis he had to turn
himself in.
"Are you insane? Are you *mad*?" he screamed. "Do you know what
they do to murderers?"
"Murder?!!" I screamed back. "You said she was injured!"
"Injured, dead, what's the difference? C'mon, Balor, I need your
help!"
"What's the difference? *What's the difference!?*" I screamed, "One
is hurt, the other is *dead*, Dalis! I can't help you then, *friend*.
Since when did you start carrying a knife anyway? And what threat could
that girl have posed to you that you felt you had to run her through?!"
He remained silent. M'Kivar! "Answer me!" I heard my voice echo off the
water.
"By the gods, Balor! I come here for your help, thinking you'd be a
friend. Now you've already got me put away!"
With that, he stormed off.
My mind reeled. I couldn't believe this at all. My life had been
relatively normal until I returned to Dargon, and suddenly my oldest
friend was a murderer. I couldn't help myself. I sank to the ground and
cried. Partially from exhaustion, the rest from agony and confusion.
I woke the next morning to a crackling fire and the smell of
roasting fish. I knew without having to look. Dalis was back.
I got up and went over to a corner of the camp to relieve myself.
When I went back the fish was done, so I ate some, all while keeping
silent.
"I'm turning myself in, Balor," he said simply.
I couldn't believe it. This was more like the old Dalis. I supposed
that he was still the same man inside.
"That's great. You know, when it comes time, I'll vouch for you,
Dalis," I told him sincerely. I still don't know why.
"I knew you would," he said. "Right now we have to get going. I
don't want them looking for me for longer than they have to. It will
only make me look worse. Here's what I need you to do. I'm going to go
ahead to the guardhouse and turn myself in. You clean up here and then
go collect my things from the inn. Will you do that?"
I said "of course," and began right away. Dalis left in the
direction of Dargon City.
I paced back and forth across the room, anxiety causing me to
shudder every so often. Why had Dalis told me to wait? Wouldn't he need
me there to testify on his behalf? And should things go wrong, wouldn't
he need his things? Why not beat the flood and bring them to him now?
I was so preoccupied that I barely noticed when Dalis returned. At
first I was overjoyed to see him, the curiousness of the situation not
striking me until moments later.
"Dalis," I started, "why are you here?" Reasons for his presence
began to form in my mind, and I felt anger swell up. "I thought you were
going to the guardhouse. If you are lying to me -- " I was cut short by
my friend's shaking head.
"Balor, Balor ... You have to trust me more." He smiled. It was a
very disarming smile. "I went to the guardhouse. They allowed me to come
back to collect my things. Everything's fine."
Relief washed over me. "Oh good, " I sighed, walking slowly to the
window, for a breath of fresh air. "I'm glad ... " Then it struck me
like the wrath of the gods. "Dalis, why would the guards let you return
alo -- " I stopped short as my gaze rested on an approaching contingent
of guards. I had hoped for a moment that they would pass us by, that
perhaps they were only on a night patrol. This hope buckled as the man
who appeared to be the leader pointed at the inn and started to issue
orders.
"Oh no," I thought, "Dalis, why?" I whirled around to face my
friend, who seemed remarkably calm.
"Dalis, what's going on? Why didn't you turn yourself in? You swore
to me ... M'Kivar! What are you doing?" I watched, stunned, as Dalis
Benn, my closest friend, calmly walked to a chair, and sat down.
I looked fleetingly out the window again, seeing the guardsmen
talking to the innkeeper. I slowly began to understand what was
happening. I looked to Dalis, and his face confirmed my fears.
"Dalis, I don't ... Why?
"Come now, Balor. Don't be an imbecile! You must have known that I
wouldn't really turn myself in? You *must* have!" His smiling face
seemed to turn sinister, though his expression never changed. The he
laughed. The wind rushed out of me, and I suddenly felt very sick. No,
no, no, no, my mind repeated it. This couldn't be happening. I was
verging on hysterics. It was a joke! That was it! Sweat poured over my
face, and I suddenly felt very weak.
"You didn't know! By the gods Balor, you should be glad the guard
is here for you. You never would have survived on your own, as naive as
you are!"
His words drowned out in a swirl of sound. My reality seemed to
fall apart before my eyes. And then, as it often does, everything became
painfully, horribly clear. "How could I have been so stupid," I
whispered to myself, "So blind, to see what Dalis has become; what he