💾 Archived View for gemini.spam.works › mirrors › textfiles › magazines › DARGONZINE › dar5n03 captured on 2022-06-12 at 11:16:50.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
1 /
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 5
-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 3
DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE ||
\\
\
------------------------------------------------------------------------
-- DargonZine Volume 5, Issue 3 10/02/92 Cir 1130 --
------------------------------------------------------------------------
-- Contents --
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pact V Max Khaytsus Yuli 15-17, 1014
To Be Continued Michelle Brothers
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Pact
Part 5
by Max Khaytsus
(b.c.k.a. <khaytsus@cs.colorado.edu>)
Many hours passed before Aimee gathered herself and forced
herself to look for a way out. Her father always taught her that she
should never be afraid and running to hide in the darkness was the
wrong thing to do. Of course neither did she want to let anyone here
know she had seen them and Captain Koren and that she knew that they
killed him.
At first she ran back up the stairs to the heavy oak door and
tried to get out, but the door was locked and banging on it did not
help. Aimee then went back to the base of the second set of stairs, to
hide in the maze of rooms and corridors, not far from the guards. She
was afraid of them, but she was more afraid of the dark, far reaching
tunnels. At least she would not get lost if she hid near the guards.
Aimee wandered up and down the passages, looking into rooms, but
never letting the lit corridor fall out of her sight. She heard the
physician leave and cowered in the corner of a side corridor, afraid
to breathe, while a pair of guards replaced the dying torches along
the corridor. After they had all left, she again checked the corridor
and her stash of stolen food, to make sure nothing had happened to it,
but she was still afraid of going to look in the room where the guards
watched Captain Koren's body.
She was very tired now and, taking her food, Aimee retreated to
one of the rooms in a dark corridor and fell asleep in a corner,
wishing she had a blanket or a sheet to wrap herself in on the cold
stone floor.
Kalen closed the door to Captain Koren's office and took a seat
in the chair before the desk. Across from him sat Ilona Milnor,
surrounded by piles of paper.
"It's my shift," he said when she looked up.
She nodded. "We need to talk."
They had not seen each other for almost a full day now, ever
since the last shift change between them. There was a lot of work to
be done, perhaps too much. In the last day alone there were two
murders, one of a man suspected of being an employee of Liriss and
another of a now dead merchant who ventured out a day before the rest
of his caravan was due to leave. His two horses, wagon, goods and even
clothes had disappeared and his body was simply left to lie in the
road, not a quarter league from the guard gate.
There was also the usual rash of fights and thefts and a priest
who showed up early in the morning, saying he had found a dead rat
floating in his pool of golden water. Above all, Aimee Taishent was
still missing and after so much time, foul play was suspected. The
guards, who were already on extra long shifts, were forced to spend
more time looking for the girl. Jerid himself had not slept at all and
did nothing but continue to question people who had seen her and
dispatching guards to check all possible leads.
Ilona brushed her hair back, looking through the papers on the
desk. "It's been a busy day," she then got up and walked over to
Kalen. "You look like you haven't slept."
"I did," he answered, "a little. Sergeant Griebel and I searched
the outside of the town wall earlier."
"Kalen! That's a couple of leagues!"
"I know," he agreed, "but Jerid will kill himself if we don't
help. I also spoke with Dyann and he has an idea that he said he'll
try tonight."
Ilona sat down in Kalen's lap and put her arms around him. "I
don't think Aimee was kidnapped."
"What?" Kalen tried to look at her, but Ilona did not release the
embrace.
"I saw Liriss last night," she said, "right after I transferred
the shift to Caisy. Liriss asked me to help him. He said he suspects
one of his lieutenants of trying to ruin him, by setting him up. He
claims he never gave the order to kill Koren, nor did he send the note
or the gem."
"Do you believe him?" Kalen asked, again putting his arms around
Ilona.
"I don't know...he was surprised when I mentioned the gem and the
note. I think there might be something here."
"But if that's true, all it means is that he didn't kidnap Aimee.
Someone else could have."
"I just have the gut feeling that she wasn't kidnapped," Ilona
said. "Other things would have happened by now if she had been..."
"Who would be setting Liriss up?" Kalen tried a different
approach to the problem.
"Just about any living being in Dargon. It's not like he's well
liked."
"I'd suspect there's someone on his side," Kalen said. "He can't
be so desperate as to run to us!"
"Well, a woman delivered the message to me," Ilona said. "I guess
she's one of his whores, so Madam Tillipanary is probably still with
him. I would guess Kesrin is also loyal, even though Liriss doesn't
want to believe that."
"You're probably right," Kalen said. "Maybe we can use this to
our advantage."
"How?" Ilona asked. "I'm in good with Liriss. I'd rather not have
to start this over."
"If we could only bring them all down..." Kalen thought out loud.
Ilona hugged him tightly. "What if we help him now...?"
"I knew I saw him here," the maid smiled, picking Karl up from
where he slept in the alcove by the heavy oak door leading down into
the castle dungeons. She brushed off the dust the puppy managed to
pick up off the spotlessly clean floor and handed him to Dyann
Taishent.
"Thank you, my girl," the mage accepted the puppy.
"I sure hope you find your granddaughter, sir," the maid bowed
and left to resume her duties.
Dyann looked Karl, who licked his nose, over and took him to the
kitchen where Corambis and Thuna were preparing for the enchantment.
It was late already, but Aimee had gone missing for well over a day
and Dyann was not going to lose more time while the guards beat all
the bushes around town.
Although it was almost midnight, there were still people in the
kitchen, cleaning up from the previous day, preparing things for the
next.
"Blast it, woman," Corambis snapped. "I know it's late and you
just washed it, but I want that pot!"
"Sage, I warn you," the elderly matron declared, "if I come down
tomorrow and the pot is dirty, I'll have your hide!"
"You will be more than welcome to try," Corambis said, taking the
clay pot from the woman. "Thuna, get me those herbs and some water."
Dyann submerged Karl in a prepared bath while looking at the
exchange and smiled.
"Goodness, what are you doing to that dog?" the cook exclaimed,
having finished with Corambis.
"We shall be cooking him, madam," the sage snapped and held the
clay pot out for Thuna to fill with water.
"You will do no such thing!" the woman declared. She looked
around, then picked up a large roller and looked menacingly at the two
men. "I will not have the two of you cooking dogs in my kitchen!"
"Relax, madam," Dyann said firmly. "The dog will not be harmed.
He is the subject of our enchantment to find my granddaughter." With
those words he wrapped Karl in a towel to dry him off. The puppy
struggled, but soon settled down to the rubbing and scratching he
received and produced a yawn.
"Here are the herbs," Thuna put a bag before Corambis.
"Very good," the sage approved. "Dyann?"
"Thuna, would you hold Karl?" the mage asked and as soon as she
took the dog from him, stepped past the cook to help Corambis with the
preparations. "Be careful not to let him leave the towel," he added as
Thuna adjusted Karl in the bundle.
The two elderly men carefully measured a batch of herbs, mixed
them in a clay pot with some water, then filtered the brew into a
shallow dish and offered it to Karl, who started lapping at the
liquid.
"Am I glad I'm not a dog!" Corambis sniffed the pot with the wet
herbs.
Dyann also took a sniff. "We made it a little strong."
"So much the better," Corambis muttered. "It will make the dog
more sensitive."
The two men waited until Karl finished the brew and stopped
licking the dish. Dyann took out a tunic Aimee had left lying on the
floor of her room and let the puppy sniff it. Karl was already very
familiar with Aimee's scent, but the tunic and the potion were used to
reinforce the smell and make him more sensitive.
Dyann took the dog from Thuna and went into the corridor.
"Wash the equipment," Corambis instructed Thuna and followed his
friend out.
Dyann put Karl on the ground and the two men stood over him,
looking down. "Karl, go find Aimee," Dyann finally said.
The puppy looked up at him and yawned.
"Karl!" Dyann warned. He rubbed the tunic in Karl's face again
and gave him a push. "Go find Aimee!"
Karl stood up, but did not budge.
"He's not a bloodhound," Corambis sighed, "and he's too young to
understand what we want."
"He's stubborn just like Aimee," Dyann said, slapping the dog's
behind. "Get going!"
Karl let out a yelp and took off down the corridor, quickly
outdistancing the two elderly men.
"Well, now you've done it," Corambis sighed. "He'll find her and
lose us."
The two men hurried down the corridor after the puppy. After some
twists and turns they reached the great hall and stood there, looking
puzzled.
"Which way?" the mage muttered to himself.
Corambis pointed in the direction of the exit. "He might have ran
out."
"Or back to the kitchen," Dyann pointed down the great hall,
where it forked.
"Let's check with the guards first," Corambis suggested and the
two men went to the castle entrance to question the men.
The two sleepy soldiers on duty could do little more than shrug.
If there was a puppy that ran out past them, they had not seen it.
"...but the gates are closed," one of the men assured Dyann. "The
dog won't be able to leave the castle."
"Great," the mage worded and the two men went back inside.
"We should have tagged him," Corambis said, "or at least found
some rope to put him on."
Dyann nodded. "Let's check the kitchen and if he's not there,
we'll get some torches and look outside."
"Let's do that," Corambis agreed.
The two men walked up the steps leading out of the great hall
when the maid who had helped Dyann find Karl earlier stopped them.
"Sirs, did that lazy mutt help?"
Dyann shook his head. "That lazy mutt ran off soon after you
found him."
"Oh, sir, I'm sorry," the woman apologized. "I had sincerely
hopped you'd be able to find the girl. The puppy I just saw sleeping
by the dungeon door, just like earlier. He probably just found a cool
spot on the stone, where the draft is."
"Who is it?" Ilona asked over the sound of the rapid knocking on
the door of her apartment.
"Ovink," a male voice coughed. "Lord Liriss wishes to see you."
It was a voice familiar to Ilona -- she had brought him in for
questioning a number of times -- but it was also the middle of the
night. "Do you realize how late it is?" she asked.
"Yes, but I was told not to return alone."
"All right, then. Wait."
Ilona quickly dressed, strapped on her belt and sword and left a
note on her table for Kalen. It read:
`Ovink came for me. I will return by mid-day.'
She folded the note and left it on the desk, right under the ink
bottle.
"All right, let's go," Ilona opened the door.
Instantly two men rushed in, knocking her off balance. They
wrestled her down to the floor and tied her arms behind her. From the
other room Ilona could hear sounds of a struggle and Tara yelling
something at the men.
"Let her go!" Ilona struggled against her attackers, forcing one
man to lose his grip on her. She swung her legs, knocking him off
balance and he crashed down to the floor.
Ovink appeared above Ilona, holding a dagger. "I'd hate to have
to cut you prematurely, Lieutenant," he smiled viciously in warning.
Ovink was well known for his bad temper and sadistic streak, in
contrast to Cissell's cool arrogance and Kesrin's politeness. She
stopped struggling as he brought the knife a little closer to her neck
and his smile deepened.
"Good. Tie her legs." The dagger did not leave Ilona's neck. It
slid slowly up to her jaw and then along it to the back of her head.
The blade left behind a cold trail that Ilona could not identify --
was it blood or just her imagination? The men continued to fumble with
the rope and Ilona did not dare breath so long as Ovink stood over
her.
"That's a good soldier," the brigand chuckled, getting up and
hiding the dagger before Ilona could see if it was stained with blood.
She could still feel the lingering chill on her jaw and neck. A drop
ran down her throat and dripped off to the floor. Sweat or blood? She
could not tell by Ovink's reaction, but guessed that it had to be
sweat. If he drew blood, he would do more than just stand and watch
the men tie her.
"What do you want?" Ilona asked. "Why did Liriss send you?"
"To be honest," Ovink's smile grew wider, "Liriss didn't send me.
You see, Liriss needs your help. On the other hand, many of us want to
see him hang...and you're a good device to get the wind blowing."
Two more men brought out Tara, tied and wide eyed.
"Let her go, Ovink," Ilona insisted. "She's just a girl."
"Don't worry about her," the cutthroat fingered his dagger. "She
won't be joining you. She's young enough to get a good price on the
market. Perhaps even in Beinison, as soon as they win the war."
Ilona kicked her tied legs at him, but did not have the reach to
hit.
"Take her to the blocks," Ovink ordered. "And take the girl to
the pits."
One of the men stuffed a rag into Ilona's mouth, managing to
avoid getting bit. A bag was placed over her head and she was wrapped
in a blanket.
There was little Ilona could do in the way of struggling against
two full grown men while tied and blind and for the time being had to
accept her fate of being loaded onto a wagon. She was glad that she
left the note for Kalen and that she directed it at Ovink, not Liriss.
If need be, it would save a lot of time and perhaps her life.
She hoped she would live through Ovink's plans, anyway.
"Where's Aimee?" Dyann demanded of Karl. The puppy lay stretched
out on the floor by the heavy oak door leading to the old castle
dungeon, his black eyes looking up at the mage.
"I know you know what I want!"
Karl buried his face under his paw.
"Oh, for Sevelin's sake!" Dyann stood up. "This will never work!"
"We'll find her," Corambis assured Dyann. "We just have to use
better methods."
"What better methods?" the mage grumbled. "This was the best
one!"
"Well," Corambis thought, "you know, I did a casting yesterday
while waiting for Madam Labin to come for her second casting and the
future showed no change. I did the same casting on Clifton and again
on Koren. I had Clifton on fire and Koren on water. And that's wrong!"
"That could be interpreted either way," Dyann said. "It's easy
going for Koren -- he's dead now -- and Clifton's in the middle of a
war."
"But that's now, not down the road!" Corambis protested.
"For all we know the war will last years," Dyann retorted.
"That's not a problem with castings."
"But that's wrong," Corambis stressed. "You know how the table
works."
"It has a mind of its own, you said so yourself."
"Through three castings?"
"Well..." Dyann scratched his head. "It could be a minor mana
shift."
"In Dargon? Goodness, no," Corambis said. "There hasn't been one
for ages, not since the Fretheod ruled!"
"Then we're probably due for one."
"That and Stevene's return," the sage grumbled. "I tell you
there's nothing wrong with the casting. What's wrong is that
something's going on that we don't know about."
"Perhaps," Dyann agreed, "but what worries me now is that the
potion didn't work. We made it together. It wasn't wrong."
"Well, we had a clay pot," Corambis said. "If it was made of red
clay..."
"It wasn't," Dyann interrupted. "You yourself looked. It was
brown as mud."
"What then? What are we missing?"
"We're becoming senile, my friend," Dyann laughed.
"Indeed," Corambis said.
Dyann shook his head, "and when looking for Aimee of all people!"
"Come," Corambis pulled his friend away from the puppy. "Let's
try something else. Let's try some real magic."
Tara fought the ropes that bound her hands. If she could only
free them, she could untie her feet and run. The window of this room
was on the second floor, but it overlooked the docks and that meant
that she could be helped by the sailors. She hoped she could be
helped, anyway. The rope that bound her delicate hands was coarse and
thick, good for holding a large man or an animal, but not enough to
hold someone as small as she. At the same time, the rope was extremely
tough, scratching her hands and making it hard for her to work herself
free.
She had no idea what she would do if she could get away from the
men that kidnapped her. Run to Rish? Tara knew she could only trust
him in this war between the mob and the town guard, but could she
really safely stay in the castle? Obviously the mob's infiltration of
the guard was great and one would have to believe that the inverse was
true as well, but who could be trusted? More importantly, why had the
mob turned on one of their own?
When being transported, bound and gagged, Tara heard one of the
men say that Ilona was no longer something that Liriss could afford to
be gentle with and that she was a weight he should no longer have to
carry, whatever that meant. It sounded like she did something he did
not like and would now have to pay for it. Tara always liked Ilona,
since that day she met her when she had finally found her uncle. It
was she who would go shopping with Tara and talk to her about things
Uncle Glenn tried to avoid. What did Ilona do to make Liriss so upset?
Whatever it was, it had to be the right thing. She always said how
much she wanted to rid Dargon of crime. Tara struggled with the rope
more furiously than before. If Ilona were to die before she could go
for help, it would be her fault. She did not want to see anything
happen to the Lieutenant, no matter what she had done.
Tara ground her teeth into the leather gag securely tied in her
mouth as one coarse loop of rope slipped off her hand. `One more,' she
thought, `one more loop and I'm free.'
It was obvious to Tara why she was taken. She was a witness to
Ilona's kidnapping, but having had a chance to sort things out in her
head, Tara could not believe that Ilona had sold out to Liriss. Why
then did she plead for Tara's release and did not once ask to be
released herself? What good would it do her if Tara could identify her
as a member of the mob? Perhaps Rish was right when he said not to
trust anybody, but Tara could not bring herself to believe that such a
good friend was responsible for the death of her uncle.
With one last effort, Tara pulled her right hand out of the ropes
and having brushed the lose coils off her left arm, proceeded to untie
her legs. She still did not know where she would go. All she knew was
that Rish was suspicious of everyone and that Ilona knew more than she
let on, but there were others in town who might be able to help.
Lieutenants Darklen and Taishent could be helpful, as could her
uncle's neighbors, Doctor Savitt or Madam Labin. They were of noble
birth and could not possibly be involved in any sort of crime.
The rope on her legs was off and Tara was quick to remove the
gag. It skipped across the room and hit the opposite wall with a wet
squishing noise.
The dirty window, covered with soot and tar on the edges where it
was sealed against the elements, was very small, but not too small for
Tara. She looked out through the torn waxed paper for the sailors she
had seen before, when first brought into the room. She carefully tore
away more of the paper covering the window and looked down. All that
was in her line of sight was a sleeping drunk, up against the wall of
the building. Tara hesitated, then tore the remaining paper off and
started climbing through the window. Just then she heard the sound of
a key being inserted into the lock.
Leaning back in his chair, Kesrin set his jaw, listening to Ovink
tell his story. He was contemplating his new plan, made when Liriss
received the intercepted note from the chronicler to the Captain of
the Ducal forces. Kesrin's ascent to the top had started, but it would
have to be a slow process, one step at a time. Ovink was going to be
today's step.
"...so I thought we'd keep the girl for the next time Lord Isom
is in town... If you don't mind, of course, my Lord," Ovink finished
his report.
"That will be fine," Kesrin approved. "Liriss will be happy with
the extra profit."
Ovink smiled. "Yes, Sir. I'll bet he will." Ovink appeared so
happy with his success, that Kesrin had no doubt the man would not see
the wool being pulled over his eyes.
"You did the right thing by bringing the girl. I had hopped we
could take the Lieutenant alone, but it's just as well. Her death will
give us an entrance and we can put the girl to good use as well. Just
be sure to have her out of here tomorrow. By tomorrow night this place
will be filled with guardsmen."
Ovink's smile changed to a laugh. "I like your idea."
Kesrin chuckled as well. He told Ovink that a dead member of the
town guard, and especially a high ranking member, would be a strong
incentive for the authorities to take action -- her home was already
filled with clues that would lead the guard to Liriss -- things like
the gem and the note. What he neglected to mention was that Ovink
would not have the time to leave town. "Everything is set now.
Tomorrow take the girl and your men and take a trip to Tench to sell
her. I shall abandon Liriss for a few days myself and soon we will all
be a step closer to the top."
"With your leave, Sir," Ovink stood up, "I will begin the
preparations."
"Just be sure to leave by way of the pier first thing tomorrow,"
Kesrin reminded him. "I don't want the guard to stop you if you go
through the main gate."
Ilona stirred as cold water licked at her side. She had been well
aware of her unfavorable position, chained to a large rock sticking
out of the water under a pier, with a gag in her mouth. She tried
struggling against the chains, but they were far too strong for her to
escape. At first she believed she was only being held here, but the
incoming tide made her acutely aware of the danger of drowning.
Now, as the water level slowly rose, a lot of things started to
make sense. All those unexplained drownings, sometimes one or two
every night, made sense. People whom everyone knew could swim well
being fished out of the ocean early in the morning as sailors loaded
and unloaded their ships along the docks. At times the dead men and
women had unexplained bruises on their wrists and ankles. Now those
could be explained as well.
Ilona wondered if she would live long enough to tell others about
this method of execution, or if she would die when the tide came in.
She tried working on the gag, hoping that she would be able to call
out for help, but she had little hope of that working. The gag was
tied tightly around her head and refused to budge. Besides, she was
probably right beneath Liriss' personal pier. No one would come, even
if they heard.
Perhaps if Liriss came down, Ilona mused, but she knew it was a
slim chance. He had no reason to be here. When he killed people, he
more than likely sent others to do it for him. No one at all would
find her tonight and by tomorrow it would be far too late.
As the door to the room she was in opened, Tara exerted the last
bit of effort, knowing full well that once she is out through the
window, her only path would be an uncontrolled downward plunge.
"Stop!" she heard a male voice shout. She increased her efforts.
A second later she was falling to the ground, not far from the
sleeping drunk she saw previously. She wished it had been the drunk
she had fallen on -- that way the landing would have been much softer.
"You! Stop her!" Tara heard the same voice from above her and
looked around. Except for the drunk, she was alone in the street.
"Get up!"
She looked at the man yelling down at the drunk. "Shut up and do
it yourself, you bastard!" She slowly got up off the ground, holding
on to her skinned arm. Blood dripped to the ground. To her surprise,
the brigand started climbing out the window.
Tara slowly backed away, watching him, then picked up a rock and
threw it at the man. It hit the wall, but was close enough to make him
take notice and give what he was doing a second thought.
Tara turned and bolted.
As Ovink left, Kesrin took out his dagger and balanced it on his
desk, the tip of the blade cutting into the fine wood grain. Soon he
would not need this desk anyway -- his fist came down hard on the
hilt, making the blade sink into the wood -- he would soon be using
Liriss' office. Kesrin stood up and walked over to the window. The
view. It would also change. Instead of seeing the docks and the dirty
sailors burning tar and frying fish, he would look out at the market
place. One step at a time. Today Ovink, tomorrow Liriss. In a month he
would be no less than the undisputed lord of the city. Lord of all
that his window would let him see and finally, after so many years,
his heart could finally rest for having kept the promise he made years
ago.
"Stop!" he suddenly heard Ovink's voice come through the window,
followed by a dull thud of something falling onto the boardwalk
outside.
Kesrin stepped closer to the window and looked down. A teenage
girl lay on the ground by the wall of the building, not far from a
sleeping bum. She clutched her arm as if she had hurt it in a fall.
"You! Stop her!" Ovink appeared in a window of the second floor.
"Get up!"
Kesrin chuckled sadly. This was a man Liriss trusted to do his
work?
"Shut up and do it yourself, you bastard!" the girl yelled back,
getting up to her feet. Kesrin suspected she was Captain Koren's
niece. She looked around, picked up a rock and threw it at the wall of
the building, then, with another moment of hesitation, turned and ran
down the boardwalk. Another moment passed and a crashing sound
signified Ovink falling out the window. The man quickly got up and,
limping, ran after the girl.
With a soft chuckle Kesrin turned from the window and walked out
of the room. The plan was slowly coming together. Now the last step
needed to be set into motion.
Ilona desperately fought the chain cuffs that held her arms and
legs to the stone block now submerged in the water. In the course of
the last hour the level of the ocean had risen high enough to cover
the rock completely and the water continued to rise. She knew it would
cover her soon as well. The shackles on her refused to come off as
they had for countless other people who must have died here in the
last few years. They were too well made and too strong to even think
about tearing them free.
Ilona looked up at the wooden walk of the pier above her, where
occasionally a person or two would walk by. She wanted to yell for
help, but the gag in her mouth would only make her choke on her own
spit. Nothing. There was nothing she could do, but at the same time
she refused to wait to let death come and take her. She had always
fought and this time would be no exception.
Uneven splashing of water alerted Ilona. The noises sounded like
someone walking towards her, disturbing the rhythmic motion of the
waves. She tried to raise her head to look, but a strong wave forced
her back down, making her swallow the salty ocean water.
A shadow paused over her, looking. Waiting. Ilona blinked to
clear the ocean water from her eyes. Kesrin. He looked somber and
tired, as a man ten years his senior.
"You know, it's strange what twists fate puts on our lives," he
sighed. "Just yesterday I wanted you dead, out of my way. I would've
killed you with my own bare hands, if necessary, because you were bad
for my business, but now I have to come to you for help."
Ilona continued to look at him, listening, unable to speak and
well aware of the quickly rising level of the tide. Another wave
passed over her head and lifted Kesrin off his feet.
"Something changed last night," he sighed. "I realized my life
was in danger and I could do little to help myself. What I want..." he
paced to the other side of the rock in the stomach deep water,
"...what I need is for you to help me. In exchange I will let you go
and give you evidence against Liriss. Is that fair?"
Ilona had little choice now. She was willing to promise almost
anything, including this. She nodded.
"Good," Kesrin said. "You already know it was Liriss who ordered
Koren's death. It was Ovink who kidnapped you on his orders. Ovink
will be heading out of town early tomorrow by the East Gate, taking
some men and Koren's niece to sell to slave traders in Tench. If you
capture him, he'll sell his own mother, not just Liriss." With those
words Kesrin took a chain with a key from around his neck and placed
it in Ilona's hand, leaving her to fend for herself.
"Don't forget I did this for you when the day of reckoning
comes."
He disappeared from sight, leaving behind the sound of splashing
water as he waded towards the stairs.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 "Can you see anything ahead?" the merchant called up to the lanky
guard in the lead. His voice fell dead amid the damp moss and still
water. "Do you see the castle? Ragan?"
"No, Burgamy, I can't see the castle yet," Ragan replied with
exaggerated patience. It wouldn't do to aggravate the man who was
paying him, no matter what he thought of the heavy-set fool. "Be
careful," he warned after a minute. "There's a fallen tree in the
path. Goddam swamp."
The sound of dull splashing in the thin veneer of water fell dead
amid the dangling vines and moss. The usual tenants of the marshy area
were silent as the intruders noisily made their way through. Ragan led
his horse around the green and brown obstacle, leather armor creaking
softly over his cursing. Behind him, rich vermillion cloak dragging in
the scummy water, paced Burgamy. He paused briefly and glanced over
his shoulder at his companions.
"Are you all right, Sister Moya?" he asked solicitiously as a
woman, clad in what surely used to be a white robe, appeared out of
the ragged mist. He offered a plump fingered hand to assist her
forward.
"I am well, thank you, Burgamy," replied Moya, avoiding the
merchant's grasp. She paused to allow her mount, also white, to steady
its footing, then continued around the tree.
Burgamy made a disappointed sound deep in his throat and turned
to follow.
"She won't have you, merchant," laughed a voice from behind him.
A rakish figure in gaudy red and blue appeared beside him, a globe of
bright green trailing along like a puppy behind. "You know how those
*devout* Stevenic women are. You won't see her outside of chapel, let
alone out of her robes."
"Silence, juggler. I didn't ask your opinion."
"That's High Mage Tagir to you," admonished the mage cheerfully.
"Coming, oh great Sir Knight?" he called over his shoulder as the
merchant moved off after Moya.
"Coming, High Mage," a voice, followed by a large man clad in a
remarkably shiny breast plate and a green surcoat. He was the only
traveller not leading a horse. He paused beside Tagir. "Move it, boy."
Bringing up the rear was a fourteen or fifteen year old boy,
leading a heavy horse, a pony, and two mules. His worn tunic bore the
same crest that blazoned the shield slung over the knight's back.
"Yes, Sir Ceneham." Gindar, the squire, picked his sodden feet up
a little faster.
The motly party had been tracking around this swamp for days in
search of a lost keep that Burgamy claimed was filled with treasure.
The merchant had hired his companions for half of whatever treasure
was found, to be divided among the five as they chose. Following a few
obscure references in a an old diary he'd found, they made their way
into the marshy tracts upriver of Quiron Keep. Each had their own
reasons for coming, be they honor, adventure, or holy quest. Burgamy
didn't much care why they were there, only that they followed his
orders and abided by their half of the agreement. There hadn't been
any difficulties as yet.
"I've hit solid ground," declared Ragan out of the mist. "And the
fog clears up once you get here."
"About damned time," Burgamy muttered. "Can you see the keep?" He
laboriously climbed the little rise that elevated him a few feet above
the water line to stand beside the thin man. Behind them, the rest of
the party straggled up.
Ragan pointed to a large, shadowy lump in the growing dusk. "That
looks to be it."
Burgamy's hungry eyes devoured every curve in the indicated
direction before turning reluctantly back to his companions. "Since it
will soon be too dark to investigate, we'll camp here for the night."
The squire promptly dropped the reins of the animals he was
leading and stared pulling dry fire wood out of the oiled canvas pack
on one of the mules. Ragan's muttered "First intellegent order he's
given all week," was lost in the general bustle to set up camp before
sunset.
Following traditions set from the first day of their journey, the
squire laid out the fire, and went to tend the horses. The fire was
always lit by Tagir, as the wood was too damp to respond easily to
normal flames. Ragan staked out a perimeter while Burgamy and Sir
Ceneham rested by the dancing fire. Sister Moya had taken care of
providing fresh drinking water, since their own stores ran out a few
days ago.
She carried an iron pot down to the edge of the swamp and
collected as much water as she could. Bringing it back to camp, she
knelt beside the fire, leaning over the pot.
"We have drinking water yet, Sister?" demanded Sir Ceneham a few
minutes later, coming closer and looming over the woman.
"In God's time, Sir Knight," replied Moya placidly, not stopping
her prayers.
"I just wish God would hurry," muttered the man, pacing away,
around the fire and back behind the priestess. Realizing that his
glaring was having no effect, Ceneham went over to harass his squire.
This too was a ritual, and no one bothered to take notice any
more.
The boy took the berating in stoic silence. When you're finished
with this, do that. When you finish with that, polish my armor, and
make sure there's not a single speck of rust on it. Since coming into
the swamp, rust was Ceneham's biggest concern. By the time he'd
finished his list of orders, the water was already being made into
soup.
The ruins were silent. A coat of dampened dust layered everything
and tainted sunlight crept down the holes in the ceiling through the
remains of the second floor. The musty scent of wet stones mingled
with the smell of rotting plants. Torchlight caused the shadows to
dance against the worn stone floor and unsteady walls.
"This way," said Sir Ceneham, voice rolling out from beneath the
heavy torch. The sound of cascading chainmail echoed slightly in the
crumbling hall. He'd decided that since there might be wild creatures
holed up in the keep's remains, that he should be better armored, so
he could better protect the party. He cut an impressive figure in the
full armor; it was the first time he was able to wear the entire suit
on this little expedition without the fear of sinking into the muck
and was enjoying preening in front of the group. No one paid him much
attention.
"Are you certain, Sir Ceneham?" was the return query from behind
the light. Burgamy, with Tagir at his side, moved up next to the
knight.
"Quite certain," was the sharp reply. Because his back was to the
merchant, Burgamy couldn't see the look of contempt on his face. "I've
walked through many hallways in many keeps. This one is no different."
"Unless they changed the floor plans from the last time you were
here," teased Tagir, his magelight making him look faintly sinister.
"If you get lost, call. I'll be happy to help you out."
"Thank you, magician," said Sir Ceneham through clentched teeth.
He had to force himself to be polite to the cocksure mage. Considering
the man could kill him with a single spell or two, it was well worth
the effort.
"Can we get on with this?" Burgamy demanded peevishly. "Where's
the rest of the party?"
"Listening to you argue," said Ragan bitingly. "If there's
anything around, it's sure to know where we are."
"We haven't seen a living creature since we crossed the
drawbridge," scoffed Ceneham. "And that includes the gods cursed
insects."
"Except that squirrel Gindar tossed rocks at," observed Tagir.
"Don't swear, Sir Knight," said Moya softly. She held her robe a
few inches off the keep floor out of habit, despite the fact that the
hem was nearly black with mud. "Taking the Lord's name in vain isn't
necessary."
"I'll decide what's necessary, Sister. Where's my damned squire?"
While Gindar rejoined the party from gathering more rocks, Ragan
and Tagir started investigating deeper down the corridor. They found a
door which Ragan was busily investigating when the rest of the party
joined them.
"There seems to have been a trap set on the lock," he observed
professionally, pulling a bit of metal out of his pouch. "Opening the
door sets the trigger off. Somebody was obviously paranoid about his
privacy. It's a pretty good lock to have lasted all this time."
"Just how old is it?" asked Tagir, curiously peering over his
shoulder.
"How should I know? It's not new, that much I can tell you. Now,
if someone will push the door open, this should keep the mechanism
from triggering."
"Be careful. There might be something dangerous in there,"
whimpered Gindar. Moya put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Cautiously, torch held high, sword drawn in in his other hand,
Ceneham kicked the door open. The worn wood crashed back on its green
brass hinges. Silence rolled in after the echo and torchlight
illuminated the damp, dusty bedroom. Off in a corner a pair of bright
black eyes watched the group enter.
"Well, there's your dangerous monster," laughed Tagir, pointing.
The creature twitched its bushy tail and cocked its head to one side
for a better view.
"A gods be damned squirrel!" swore the knight angrily. He
brandished his sword in the animal's general direction. The squirrel
sat up on its hind legs and stuffed another seed into its mouth.
"Oh, allow me to deal with it," Tagir said gleefully, making a
few slight gestures. "Wouldn't want you to strain yourself on
something so deadly."
A thin jet of fire leapt out from the mage's finger towards the
squirrel. With a surprised noise, the animal jumped and bolted for the
door, past the kneeling Ragan.
The mage laughed again, and beneath his half helm Ceneham smiled
grimly. His squire giggled. Burgamy started to search the room while
Sister Moya looked on disapprovingly.
The merchant was soon joined by Ceneham and his squire in
ransacking the remains of the room. Ever helpful, Tagir lit his light
and centered himself so that he could illuminate every corner. Sister
Moya waited patiently for them to finish. It didn't take long. Four
pieces of tarnished jewelry and a pile of dead moths later they
grouped back together by the white clad woman.
"This was a bit of a disappointment," commented Tagir. "I wonder
why the former occupant wasted so much time on a trap for such paltry
remains." He glanced casually about the room as though trying to
determine something of the former occupant from the wreackage.
"Let's try and find the real treasure," Burgamy said, pocketing
the dirty bits of gold. "We'll divide this later."
"Yes, we will," growled Ceneham darkly as the merchant walked out
past the still kneeling Ragan. "Come on, man," he added, slapping the
mercenary on the shoulder as he went by.
Ragan fell flat when Ceneham touched him.
Moya stifled a surprised scream.
"Oh, yuk," added the squire.
A short, thick bolt protruded from the back of Ragan's neck.
Quickly pulling herself together, Moya stepped up to the body.
"High Mage Tagir, if you please."
Obligingly the magician allowed his light to fall over the wound,
turning the blood a sickly shade of purple. The rest of the party
grouped around the priestess as she probed around the bolt with
skillful fingers.
"There is nothing I can do for him," she pronounced finally. "I
assume that the trap he discovered was set off, as there was no
indication of someone about to shoot him. The wound was poisoned as
soon as he was hit. Even if I could have gotten to him immediately, I
don't think I could have negated the poison."
The party was silent while the nun prayed over the body, then
Burgamy shrugged. "Means a larger share of the treasure for the rest
of you. Let's go."
Moya's head snapped around at the merchant's statement, real
anger in her usually peaceful eyes. The rest of the group walked out
of the room before she could say anything. Rather than be left alone
in the darkness, she completed her prayers and rose to leave.
"Oh, Lord, this is a difficult path You have set for me to
follow. But follow it I shall, and bite my tongue about my companions,
because I need them to complete Your holy task, to Your everlasting
glory. Go in peace Ragan." Making a gesture of blessing and another of
reverence, she followed the ragged company down the hall.
Several hours later they grouped together in the crumbling main
hall. Shafts of afternoon sunlight dribbled through the ceiling that
used to be the second story floor. No sounds beyond that which the
party made themselves could be heard.
Pickings had been lean throughout the first floor. A few pieces
of old fashioned jewelry in questionable condition and a small pile of
coins were all they had found for many hours of searching. The second
floor was in ruins and the likelyhood of finding anything of value
there without a full salvage company was unlikely. Ragged bits of what
might have once been tapestries were piled on the floor and the
furniture, not particularly stable to begin with but salvageable as
antiques, had been all but dismantled by the searchers. Burgamy was
not happy.
"If you're trying to find the main treasury," said Ceneham after
the merchant finished his stream of complaints, "then it's probably
down with the cellars and the dungeons.
"Underground?" squeaked the squire.
"Where else, you twit?" Ceneham cuffed the boy, sending him into
a little heap on the moss covered flagstones. "What's the matter? You
afraid of the dark?"
"No, my lord," Gindar mumbled.
Tagir helped the boy up. He'd shut off his light several hours
ago, pleading fatigue, and now carried a torch just like everyone
else.
"We can give the place a cursory look at least," said Tagir.
"There's enough light for that. We can investigate further if we find
something."
"That sounds like a satisfactory course of action," said Burgamy.
"All right, Sir Knight, lead the way."
Ceneham moved off and everyone fell in behind, the squire taking
up the rear.
The passage that led down to the cellars was in better repair
than the rest of the first floor. Dust covered the stairs, where wind
couldn't reach and largish rocks were scattered around like pebbles,
but the walls were intact and the steps solid. The unsteady torchlight
caused fungi and moss to glow an eerie pink.
As they rounded the final corner into a small antechamber, a pile
of rubble taller than the mage loomed up to block their path.
Apparently part of the roof had given way years ago, choking the
corridor with dust and dropping the impressive pile in the path.
Ceneham looked a little annoyed and the squire turned pale.
"And how do you propose we get past that?" Burgamy demanded,
glaring at the knight and the mage. "This was your idea." Although
ostesibly in charge of the party, the merchant was more than willing
to let someone else make the decisions so he could pass the blame of
failures off later. Ceneham glared back.
"Allow me," said Tagir, stepping forward with a flourish of
cloak. He pushed past the knight and the merchant and made a show of
rolling up his excessively full sleeves. Muttering softly, the mage
made a few obscure gestures and started shifting the rubble aside,
into smaller bundles than the amount should have been able to fit
into.
The rest of the party stepped as much aside as possible to allow
him room to work.
A pair of heavy, jagged boulders became visible as the smaller
loose debris was cleared away. Tagir ended his first spell and took a
deep breath. Moya observed him closely, out of professional curiosity.
"I'll have to shift the rock straight up to get it out of the
way," he declared. "You'll all have to move into the hall on the other
side, so I'll have someplace to put it."
"But how will we get back out?" asked Gindar, white faced.
"There will be room enough to move around the boulders once I
shift them away from one another," said the mage smugly. "Now stand
back, but be ready to run through after I move it." He began to
gesture and mutter again. After a long pause one of the stones
shuddered and began to rise. To get it clear of the intended walkway,
Tagir had to levitate the rock over his own head, which he did with
agonizing slowness.
He nodded significantly to the party as the boulder reached the
designated threshold and watched as they passed, one by one beyond
him. Turning his his attention to the place he wanted to put his rock
in, he prepared to muster more power to do it.
Then his eyes went wide as he spotted something on the stairs.
It smiled at him, winked, then flickered into something else. And
in that brief instant of Tagir's shock, he lost control of the spell.
The rock landed with heavy finality, tiny plumes of dust rising to the
ceiling. The mage's four companions stared in silent horror and shock.
Moya fell slowly to her knees and started offering the prayer for
the dead.
"What do you think went wrong?" whispered Burgamy, staring, a
little glassy eyed at the dusty stone.
"Perhaps it got too heavy," Ceneham said. "He did indicate it
would be difficult." He didn't sound very confident. Both men knew
that keeping the rock in the air was well within Tagir's powers.
"The damned squirrel is back," declared the squire abruptly.
The two men looked to where the boy pointed. Atop the boulder
that had crushed Tagir, the dark brown squirrel stared down at them.
Its tail twitched and it turned, vanishing into the shadows.
Ceneham cuffed his squire again .
"It wasn't important," he said sharply.
"I think it would be a good idea to go back up and camp for the
rest of the day," offered Burgamy hesitantly. To his surprise the
knight nodded in agreement. Ceneham touched the nun's arm with
uncharateristic gentleness to get her attention and repeated the
suggestion.
Sister Moya started, looked up, then stood.
"I think open air would be a good idea," she said quietly. "And I
feel the need for purification."
Strangely, the knight made none of his usual caustic remarks. The
four made their way back up the narrow stairway and into the
over-grown courtyard. By unspoken agreement, no one wanted to shelter
in the great hall. Their horses and pack mules were still tethered by
the remains of the fire.
"If nothing else," commented Burgamy while Moya purified more
water for the evening meal and the squire polished Ceneham's armor,
"you'll get a larger share of the treasure."
Moya actually stopped in the middle of her prayers and turned to
glare at the merchant. "That is the second time that you have said
that," she said angrily. "There are two men dead and all you can think
of is gold?"
"Sister, I don't know why you came along, but the others were
just treasure hunters and adventure addicts," said Burgamy frankly,
looking steadily at Moya's face for the first time during the journey.
"They knew the risks, just like they knew the rewards, so save your
recriminations for the sinners and your pity for the masses. Ragan and
Tagir knew full well what they were getting into and don't deserve
your sympathy."
"And do you feel the same way, Sir Knight?" Moya turned to
Ceneham, trying with only moderate success to hide her horror at the
merchant's coldness.
Ceneham looked up from peering over his squire's shoulder. "I
agree with the merchant, Sister," he said calmly. "They were seasoned
professionals. They knew the potential consequences. Save your worry
and your prayers for the people who can benefit from them."
Moya stared at the two men for a minute more before turning back
to her pot of marsh water. Anger smoldered in her eyes. She hadn't
been prepared for such callousness when she undertook her holy journey
and joined with these companions. Some of Moya's faith faltered as she
listened to the camp sounds and knelt beside the pot.
It took longer then usual to get fresh water that night.
With two of their party members dead, it was necessary for
everyone, including Burgamy and Sister Moya, to take a turn on guard.
Gindar woke the merchant just after moon rise for the second watch. At
the knight's insistence, he carried the squire's short sword for
defense, and Ceneham's shield was leaned against a log so it could be
banged in case of an emergency.
Barely an hour had passed and already Burgamy was bored and
sleepy. Resolutely he started wandering around the perimeter of the
camp with a torch trying to stay awake. He allowed his mind to wander
a little with thoughts of himself, Sister Moya, a few common objects
he kept around his shop in town, and the wonderful things they could
do together.
As he made another circle around the tiny camp a motion by a
boulder caught his distracted attention. Burgamy stopped in
mid-fantasy and mid-turn, gripping the short sword a little tighter in
his sweaty palm.
"Who's there?" he demanded hoarsely. As far as he had seen, none
of his companions had gotten up or even moved since the start of his
watch.
There was a soft rustling of dry tipped marsh grass and a woman
stepped around the shadowed rock.
She was tall and slender, wearing nothing except the mane of
red-brown hair that spilled over her forehead and down her back. Pale
moonlight silvered her limbs from behind and the torches flickering
yellow glow caused shadows to dance on her taut stomach and breasts.
Her eyes were fathomless black in the uncertain light. She smiled at
the merchant, revealing long, even teeth in the yellow torchlight.
"How did you get here?" Burgamy asked, cautiously moving closer.
He wondered if he had dozed off during his watch after all and was
having a better dream than chaste Moya could ever provide.
The woman's smile deepened and she slipped around the rock with a
ripple of heavy hair.
"Hey! Come back here!" Abruptly more confidant, Burgamy followed
the elusive figure back into the first floor ruins.
They found Burgamy's body laying in the middle of the great hall,
stark naked, without a mark on him. His clothing was nowhere to be
found and no reason could be found for him to have come out to the
great hall.
Sister Moya dropped her cloak over the body then blessed the dead
man while the squire triumphantly declared; "I told you I woke him up.
I didn't shirk my duty!"
"Silence, boy," growled Ceneham, adding another bruise to the
morning's set. Gindar accepted the cuff silently, and glared at the
knight after he turned away.
"We'll need to bury him," said Moya finally, gathering up her
skirts and standing.
"We don't have the time," Ceneham told her. "We need to find out
what killed him."
"We can't just leave him here!"
"We don't have a choice, Sister. And you didn't seem to have a
problem with leaving High Mage Tagir or Ragan, so I don't see the
trouble now." Ceneham turned away. "Now come on, if you're coming. I
want to check out that corridor where we lost the mage. The last thing
we need is something trying to kill us before we can finish our
business here." He marched off, calling for his squire to come help
him with his armor.
In the silence of the great hall, Moya again knelt and settled
herself to pray.
"Highest," she whispered softly. "I have erred. I did not do my
duty by my companions and thereby to You in their hour of need. I beg
Your forgiveness. Whatever they were in life, they are Yours now,
either cleansed or damned. Aid me then, in granting a last bit of
decency to their bodies, along with my prayers for their souls."
A soft white glow grew around Moya after a few seconds, then
spread towards the body of Burgamy. It touched it and leapt away,
dividing itself to go to the lower level and Tagir's resting place and
along the wall to where Ragan lay.
For an instant the glow became incandescent, then it faded,
leaving behind only Moya's dingy white cloak. The priestess opened her
eyes and sighed deeply with fatigue. Only rarely did she try spells of
such complexity, for just this reason. She spent a few more minutes in
contemplation and prayer before getting up to join her companions.
The dust had settled in little swirls around the rock that had
killed Tagir and the footprints from yesterday were wiped clean away.
Ceneham strode past without so much as a glance down, but Moya made a
gesture of blessing and warding and the squire went pale again.
They edged past the offset boulders and down another short flight
of stairs to a heavy door. Time, in conjunction with the damp had
warped the wood and turned the brass binding a sickly shade of green.
Cobwebs choked the corners of the frame and the ancient keyhole.
Ceneham made a quick survey of the barrier, then held his torch
back for the squire to take. With several powerful thrusts of his
mailed shoulder, the door bent back on its hinges, then fell to the
cobbled floor with a dull boom, ripping the now useless crossbow trap
out of the wall. Stale, musky air whispered up the corridor.
Gindar jumped at the quick succession of sounds, and Moya winced.
The knight took the torch back and stepped over the ruined planks into
the cellar. Pale torchfire trebled as Moya and the squire joined
Ceneham, reflecting off dank walls covered in something flourescent
and yellow. The mold gathered the light and aided in brightening the
dim chamber.
Chests were stacked along the walls, with tatterd, moldy bolts of
cloth leaning against them. Something long and wide lay in the center
of the room, covered in oiled canvas.
Gindar gasped softly.
"I'd say that we found the treasury," rumbled Ceneham, flipping
open one of the tattered lids. Leather bags, some with holes worn in
them, lay piled inside, and bits of gold and silver glinted through in
the wan light.
"I thought we were looking for what killed Burgamy," said Moya
sharply.
"You thought wrong, sister." Ceneham's voice was harsh. "He's
dead, just like the others. If what came after him comes after us,
I'll kill it. But until then, it's stupid to go looking for trouble."
He turned back to opening the chests. Gindar joined him, raising his
torch high.
Furious, Moya glared at the knight's back, then turned and
marched out of the cellar. He was a lost cause, and she was worldly
enough to realize this, but she didn't have to stay in his company.
Ceneham didn't acknowledge the nun's leave-taking except to note
absently that there was a little less light to see by. He considered
the holy woman to be little more than a nuisince, useful only because
with her on the expedition they would neither starve, nor die of
wounds taken in combat. As a result of the sudden lessening of light
and his slight preoccupation, Ceneham misjudged the composition of the
next thing he picked up. The little box shattered in his hand as he
grasped it like one of the heavy leather bags.
Marsh nuts scattered over the damp floor.
"Ridiculous!" Ceneham stared at his fistful of splinters and
nuts. "Who the hell is stupid enough to keep nuts in boxes! Boy!"
"Sir?" Gindar appeared by his elbow, trying hard to conceal a
smile.
"Leave that torch and go get some more. And that lantern the mage
toted about with him. And make sure that damned nun didn't stray." The
knight dusted his hands off and his feet crunched on shells as he
wandered around the cellar searching idly.
Gindar quickly found two rusty scones to deposit the torches in,
then hurried back up the stairs and into open air. His relief was
indescribable. He didn't like the way the shadows moved in that
cellar. He'd never really liked cellars in general, but this one was
worse than any of the others he'd been in.
He trotted through the remains of the great hall and back out to
the campsite where Moya knelt in prayer. The torch she had been
carrying was stuck in the ground beside her, burning fitfully.
"Run off, indeed," sniffed the squire to himself. "She can't run
off any more than I can." In her case, she didn't have the survival
skills, in his, Ceneham would find him, no matter where he ran to and
make him wish he'd died. "Soon," Gindar thought, grabbing a handful of
unlit torches, then turning to root though the dead mage's packs.
"Soon, I'll know everything he does and I'll be able to do more than
run." But until that mythical time, he would follow and obey to the
best of his ability.
Arms filled with the lit and unlit torches and the battered metal
lantern, Gindar made his reluctant way back down to the cellar.
Moya was started out of her meditative prayer by the squire's
paniced screaming, echoing from the guts of the keep. She started up,
stood uncertainly for a second trying to place the disturbance, then
ran into the great hall.
Gindar nearly ran her down in his haste to escape the crumbling
walls. In his panic, he didn't recognize the hands that reached out to
try and halt his headlong flight. He struggled wildly as Moya pulled
him around and forced his back to a crumbling wall.
"What is it?" she demanded, giving the boy a brisk shake. "What's
happened?"
It took a sharp slap to get anything coherent out of the boy.
"C--C--Ceneham!" he stuttered out finally. "He's dead! Ripped to
pieces!"
"Lord above grant us mercy," breathed Moya. For a second she
wondered what could have been big enough to kill the knight, but
silent enough not to disturb her or the squire. Keeping a firm hand on
Gindar's skinny wrists, she pulled him back down to the cellar,
repeating like a litany that "God will protect us...God *will* protect
us..."
Sir Ceneham was indeed dead, although he was not, as Gindar had
said, ripped to pieces.
His breast plate was rent open, not with the clean cuts of a
sword, but by four jagged gashes, as though some other-planer creature
had tried seeking his heart. Beneath his helm, Ceneham's face was
twisted into a mixture of fear and surprise. His heavy sword lay in a
far corner of the cellar--in two pieces.
The only other thing in the room besides Moya, the squire, the
piles of boxes, and the cloth wrapped bundle was a squirrel busily
stuffing marsh nuts into its mouth. There weren't any signs of a
struggle.
Gindar whimpered from where Moya had left him by the door, then,
with a strangled sob, bolted back up the stairs. Moya jumped after
him, clentching her will against the sickness in her stomach. The
thought uppermost in her mind was that the boy could not survive
alone. And neither could she.
"Wait!" she shouted after the squire. "If we separate were
doomed!"
But Gindar, frightened and sickened beyond hearing, didn't even
slow down. Doggedly Moya followed him through the great hall and past
their camp. She hiked up her robes as he charged blindly off into the
swamp, continuing to call after him to wait.
Branches and vines tangled in her way, and the smell of rotting
leaves was kicked up more strongly for the pairs passing. Strangely,
no animals were disturbed by their charging blindly through the
undergrowth.
Moya lost the squire briefly in the growing mist, and only found
him again after he shouted in surprise. She reoriented herself in the
general direction the sound had emanated from, and ran after.
She came upon him suddenly. Moya stumbled to a halt, then
scrambled back a few steps as her worn boots began sinking into black
mud.
Gindar floundered in a mud pit, his paniced thrashing only
drawing him deeper under the sticky mud. His screaming was all but
incoherent from terror. Moya cast about for something to throw the
boy, calling platitudes all the while, but by the time she turned up
with a branch long enough to reach him, Gindar's head was beneath the
mud's slick surface. A hand grasped briefly, futilely at the knobby
root Moya extended, but despite the nun's impassioned encouragement,
he was never able to catch hold.
The last of Sister Moya's companions sank out of sight, without
so much as a bubble to show where he'd gone under.
For several long minutes the nun stared at the patch of mud that
now looked no more dangerous than any other patch of cleared ground.
Then she dropped the root and went to her knees.
"How could You do this to me, oh Lord," she moaned, rocking back
and forth without even realizing it. "How could You do this to Your
faithful, on Your holy quest? How? Was I unworthy? How? Why? How did I
fail You? How?"
Moya kept repeating this, and variations until it was nearly
dark. Night sounds and something hitting the back of her head finally
roused her to partial reality.
She coughed, voice raw from her prayers and tears, then jerked as
another nut bounced off her arm and landed in the moss beside her.
Bemused, the nun stumbled to her feet. "Must get back to camp..." she
mumbled. "Complete holy service...keep vow...at the keep..." And she
tottered off, deeper into the dusky, glowing swamp.
To Be Continued
by
Michelle Brothers
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 **
****** ****
** ** **
**** ** ** **
**** **** ** ** ** *****
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
** ** ** ** *****
** ** ***
****
**
Quanta is the electronically distributed journal of Science Fiction
and Fantasy. As such, each issue contains fiction by amateur authors
as well as articles, reviews etc... Quanta is published in two
formats, Ascii and PostScript* (for PostScript compatible
laser-printers). Submissions should be sent to quanta@andrew.cmu.edu.
Requests to be added to the distribution list should be sent to one of
the following depending on which version of the magazine you'd like to
receive.
quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.cmu.edu
quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.cmu.edu
or
quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.BITNET
quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.BITNET
Send mail only- no interactive messages or files please. Note that if
you subscribe with a letter sent over BITNET, you will have the
magazine sent to you as a file over BITNET, whereas if you subscribe
with a letter sent over the Internet, the magazine will be sent to you
by mail. Note that all issues are available from the anonymous FTP
server fed.expres.cs.cmu.edu (128.2.209.58). If you can access this
server and would therefore only want to be notified when a new issues
has been released, please specify this in your request.
Quanta now reaches an international audience of over 1000 subscribers.
It is produced bi-monthly by Daniel Appelquist (da1n+@andrew.cmu.edu).
* PostScript is a registered trademark of Adobe Systems Incorporated.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
(C) Copyright October, 1992, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd
<White@DUVM>. All rights revert to the authors. These stories may not
be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the
whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission
of the author involved.