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========================================================================
the Best of DargonZine Distributed: 03/04/1995
Part Two: the Best of DargonZine Circulation: 631
========================================================================
Contents
Dafydd's Amber Glow Dafydd/John White
Steel Souls John Sullivan DargonZine V 1 N 1
What are Little Girls
Made of? Bryan Maloney DargonZine V 4 N 3
To Be Continued Michelle Brothers DargonZine V 5 N 3
========================================================================
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@wonky.jjm.com>.
Back issues are available from ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/DargonZine.
Issues and public discussion are posted to newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
The Best of DargonZine (Part Two of Two) (C) Copyright March, 1995,
the Dargon Project. Editor Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@wonky.jjm.com>.
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, in part or as a whole, for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Dafydd's Amber Glow
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr (aka John White)
<white@duvm.ocs.drexel.edu>
In 1988 FSFNet, the home of the Dargon Project, ceased publication.
Its editor, Orny Liscomb, left school and the net and consequently had
to cease putting the ground-breaking electronic magazine out. But those
of us who were writing for the Project wanted to continue, so we had to
figure out how.
After some deliberation, I decided to take over publication of
Dargon Project output. Though FSFNet published other types of fiction, I
didn't feel I had the expertise to continue to provide that service. But
I knew the Project, and I knew the authors, and I decided that I was
capable of stepping into at least some of the shoes that Orny had
vacated.
However, I never considered myself the kind of editor that Orny was
and is again. So, I changed things. Beyond the physical changes -
changing the name to DargonZine, changing the banner pages, adding dates
to the stories (which I hoped would give a better sense of how they
interrelated) - there were some 'philosophical' changes behind the
scenes. Because I didn't feel up to the task of being the guide to new
writers that Orny was, I decided to turn the story review task over to
the whole body of writers. Instead of one person's views on how a story
should work, we had 5 to 10 people offering their opinions. As it turns
out, this ended up being a wonderful alteration since it not only gave
the writers a multitude of helpful (usually) criticisms about their
writing, but it also encouraged us all to look at stories in new and
different ways.
After 30-something issues produced on a very irregular schedule
(which had little to do with any lack of writer participation), a
miracle occurred - Orny returned to the net. He rejoined the Project (as
if we could have refused him!), and in due time (when he felt ready), I
turned the editorship back to him. Now, maybe I'll have time to finish
those stories I've been considering!
So, on to the stories. The first of the three DargonZine-era
stories selected for this Best Of set is 'Steel Souls' by John Sullivan.
It appeared in the first issue of the new 'zine, and it is a wonderfully
moody story by an author who didn't write nearly enough for us.
'What are Little Girls Made Of?' is a War story by Bryan Maloney,
who is another author recently returned to the Project. This is another
poingant story showing some of the side-effects of war that many just
don't consider.
And the last is 'To Be Continued' from Michelle Brothers that sadly
wasn't as she left the project soon after. This story has some classic
elements and some eerie surprises.
So I hope you enjoy this second of the Best of the Dargon Project
issues of DargonZine. If you've been reading us from the beginning, I
hope these bring back some memories and if you've just found us, then I
hope these inspire you to seek out our back issues and discover what
you've missed. Happy Reading!
========================================================================
Steel Souls
by John Sullivan
From the seawall I watch as the sun flows down to the ocean,
bleeding red into the water. The wind from the sea is cool and vigorous.
It blows my hair in a black cloud around my head and whips the heavy
fabric of my clothing until it snaps like the sails on the ship that
brought me here. I come here whenever I can, and sometimes I work my way
down the rocks to the water's edge to dip my fingers in the sea. It is
my friend, the sea. I am stranded on this alien soil, but I can touch
the sea. And the sea touches Bichu.
The wind turns colder as the evening deepens. The sun has almost
completely set now and the dockmen slowly filter away to homes, to
taverns, to wherever they go. Some look at me as they walk away,
noticing my different clothes, my face. They are peasants, uneducated
and of no status, but they belong here, and they can see that I do not.
They look at me with distaste as they pass and I try to ignore them and
look at the remaining spot of the sun. Sages have told me that when the
sun sets on Dargon, it rises over Bichu. If that is true, then my father
is waking now, and remembering that I am gone. It has been a year since
I left Bichu in disgrace. For a year my family has been shamed, my
father without an heir. I fled from honor, and my life becomes more
intertwined with this place every day. So my father awakes and begins a
second year of sorrow and shame. His shame feeds on my own and feeds it
in turn. How can I ever go home?
The tavern is called Grey Talka's. It is an ugly place, near the
warehouses and the docks, noisy and full of smoke, smelling of vomit and
cheap ale. I sit alone at a table in the corner, my swords beside me for
the people here are not to be trusted. A maid brings me a tankard of ale
and I examine it for a moment, then dump the contents on the floor,
carefully clean it with my sleeve and return it to her. "Another," I
say, "this mug." She says nothing but returns with it to the long table
where the keeper has set up his barrels. In Bichu a hosteler so insulted
would either seek a champion to defend his reputation or close his
tavern. Here, so long as I pay for the slop, I may pour it wherever I
wish.
The barmaid returns with my ale and collects her copper, saying
nothing. The ale is bitter and poor. I drink it in large gulps, shaking
my head to fight it, and order another. Time passes.
"Mo iti do itte!"
The barmaid does not come, and the men at the other tables glance
at me, their eyes nervous behind their dullness. I realize that I have
spoken in Bichanese. "Bring me another!" I lean forward, resting my
elbows on the table; my head is heavy so I rest it in my hands. I'm
weary of this land, its coarseness and barbarism. Decent men are so rare
here that when they discover one they murder him from a place of
concealment with crossbows. Their honor is blood in the table linens.
The barmaid must be frightened of me, for the keeper himself brings
my ale. He doesn't set it down, but demands three coppers instead of
one, hoping I will leave. Several men have gathered in a nervous group
near the kegs, waiting. His ale isn't worth three coppers, but neither
is it worth one, and I have no intention of being intimidated by these
peasants. I take a Bichanese crown from my pouch and let it glitter on
the table.
"You'll bring me as much as I ask for and leave me alone, won't
you?"
He looks at the flash of gold for a moment, then snaps it up and
sets down the tankard with a muttered "Of course, milord." He goes back
to his kegs and argues quietly with the others.
After that word circulates that I'm not the street character they
took me for; I have money. A few even consider taking me. I see them
sizing me up, trying to appear dangerous. Meeting their gaze is enough
to send them slinking back to their tables like rats.
Crude beasts in a land of animals! I stand on the seawall to be
upwind of them.
When I can stand the tavern smell no longer I flee into the
darkness of the streets, but the streets stink as well. The entire
filthy city stinks, like the unwashed people, their disgusting rotted
meat, their uncivilized habits. Even the ones who attempt to be civil
cannot overlook their delusions of superiority. "We'll teach you to
dance in our fashion, Lord Ichiya," with the slightest nuance of mockery
on the honorific. "I've learned your language from reading your poets,"
he says, speaking like an addled child, disappointed when I do not fall
at his feet in gratitude. I hate Dargon.
I've admitted it and the hatred flows through that crack and washes
over me like a flood. Even drunkenness here is low. Instead of freeing
the spirit, it drags me down into the filth in the gutters. I walk
rapidly through streets unfamiliar in the night, trying to find some
clean place but there is none here, not in the street, or in the
dishonor of the people. "Bastard dogs!" I shout at the dark, crumbling
buildings in Bichanese, then "Zyatai an!" lapsing into Bichoi, the lower
class dialect of peasants and beggars. Perhaps they will understand
this.
"Koshaddan! Tokodoshi esuna ko!" The hoarse cry echoes in the
abandoned street and I laugh. I can imagine my mother hearing me,
learning that I know such language. I can see the look on her face, as
if I had greeted guests by pissing in their teacups.
It has been a year since I saw my mother and thieves prowl these
streets. I had scarcely left the ship when they began hurling themselves
at me clumsily from the dark. With Roissart and Luthias they came and
countless other times, as if this land itself feels my alienness and
reacts with all the violence it spawns. But I can resist Dargon for
there is violence within me as well.
Around me, in the darkest corners of the alleys, furtive shapes
move when they think I don't notice. No one moves through these reaches
of the city unobserved at night. But these see my swords and move with
caution. I realize that I have ceased my shouting and the fire moves in
my blood with more than the ale. I sense their brutality, ebbing and
flowing like the tides and I find some part of me that needs it.
I begin to call to the inky shapes like a lover. I sing old
Bichanese drinking songs, anything at all. I weave in my steps as the
drunkenness crests within me. For a block they shadow me, and more. "Why
are you waiting?" I cry in Bichoi, "I am foolish with drink and my purse
is heavy." Come to me now, now.
They come, two figures, weaving toward me, running from behind me,
one at each quarter. They hold their swords reversed, their bodies
curled around them. From that grip they will slash upward from their
left then thrust down. I step, step, one more then one leg wavers under
my weight and I stagger. Then, as my katana feels the fire as well and
leaps into my hand with a metallic singing, time expands into the
montage of battle. There is the sharp cry of the duellist and the right
foot planted behind for the spin. The tip of a sword nicks my clothing
as I spin away from it and I can feel my blade moving like a part of
myself. The clatter of a parry and I continue my spin. Even drunk I can
take these fools apart.
I luxuriate in the force of my body's motion, the kinesthetics of
the sword. A dark form before me as I complete the turn and my left hand
completes its following arc and slaps against the lower menuki, fingers
wrapping around the base of the hilt. The hand shifts the balance of the
sword and I hold my breath, feeling the descent. And then the bite of
the steel. The ecstasy of it! The bite, oh, the bite.
Dim light brings the morning and the wind is chilling. I am on the
floor of my rooms, drenched in sweat. I have committed murder. The
watchmen who came soon after, drawn by the commotion, saw dead thieves
and an acquaintance of Lord Dargon, and did not hold me. But I know the
truth. There is no honor in inviting attack from an inferior fighter to
justify a killing. There is only shame, cowardice, weakness.
It's strange how little a moment of shame leaves of life. Once
there was family, honor. Now there are only disjoint snippings from
time, not unlike the way of a battle. The trunk with my belongings,
opened less frequently every day. The remaining length of unused rice
paper tucked under one arm, flashes of street life around me as I walk
toward the harbor. Fishsellers, marketwomen, apprenticed boys running on
the errands of their masters as if nothing has happened. Near the docks
I discover a bowl of fish stew in my hand, the stewmonger expecting
payment. I give him my purse.
Then there is only myself, the sun rising behind me, the wind, the
seawall and the nervous tossing of the sea. There is only one way to
remove a stain such as this. I wonder if my parents across the ocean
will feel the sting of the blade.
I kneel on the seawall, the end of the ricepaper beneath my knees
to keep it from blowing away in the wind. My katana weights the other
end. I watch my hands wrap a length of cloth cut from my sleeve around
the blade of the shorter wakizashi, once, twice, three and then four
times. Then I hold the blade, one hand ginger on the cloth wrapping, the
other butted against the hilt. When I was born my father expected only
that I would carry the name of our family a step or two forward and not
do it dishonor. I have done nothing else. I have fled from a challenge
to the family name to this forsaken place, and I cannot even uphold the
basic tenets of honor here, in a place without honor. Oh father, how I
have shamed you, how I've shamed myself!
There is only one way to undo the violence I have done to the
reputation of clan Ichiya. Enough stalling, enough wallowing in the
magnitude of my shame. A flash of courage to cleanse it. A stillness
comes over me. Honor welcomes the intention to restore it and helps
quiet the fear. The sounds of the town around me fade away and I breathe
shallowly, in time with the rhythmic beat of the surf against the
seawall. With the next wave, the surge of strength through my arms, and
then peace. It comes. The water climbs, foaming white, the pitch of it
rising, and then it crashes with a tremendous booming sound against the
seawall. The muscles of my arms tense and move.
And in the next instant I fall sideways, knocked over by some
impact. There is pain, and grating of flesh against stone. For the
briefest moment I am confused, like one just waking from a vivid dream.
Then I see a body, on hands and knees over my legs, having dived into me
from the right. Rage floods through me instantly, as if it has always
been there. The ignorant brutes can't even keep from interfering in my
most private moments! I kick his chest with both legs, knocking him away
so that he rolls back until he is a pace away from me and seated in a
clumsy sprawl. As quickly I roll forward to my knees and move after him.
The wakizashi's wrapping begins to unwind and trail behind the blade
like the tail of a comet as I raise it sideways, holding it over my head
for the quick slash downward. As I loom over the man he moves forward,
pride and ferocity in his bearing. He snaps his head back to expose the
vital areas of the throat and barks "Ko choro an!"
"Do what you must."
The ritual words stop me as if paralyzed, frozen in attack posture,
the wakizashi still held overhead. The cloth still hanging from the
blade waves in the wind. I recognize the face of the stewmonger, eyes
locked into my own. He is frightened, but he does not move. There is an
instant to wonder how he comes to know our customs so well. Then he says
the words again, softly this time and, unlike that damned fool of a
chronicler perfectly, with no trace of accent. "Do what you must."
He is right. I have murdered; I cannot expunge their blood with my
own. In death there is escape, but the situation remains behind. It is
only an escape, the apotheosis of self-pity. There is no honor in death
to avoid responsibility. The realization is painful. Something I have
been taught since childhood is a lie, but the stewseller is right! Honor
requires the facing of responsibility, living with it, dealing with it.
I will do what I must. I will go on.
There is a clatter as the wakizashi falls from limp fingers to the
stone. I fall forward, sobbing like a child and he draws me in and holds
me silently. It's a hard thing; nothing has seemed to take on such scope
before. Life had always seemed so brief a thing.
When we rise to our feet there is blood, soaking my clothing,
dripping into the crumpled length of rice paper. The blade of my
wakizashi has slashed my side during the aborted thrust and my fall.
Working quickly and efficiently the stew seller bandages it with the
cloth from the blade. He is a man of many talents, my rescuer. I wonder
why he contents himself selling fish stew on the docks.
From a pocket he takes my coin pouch and returns it to me. "If my
stew is so bad, I shouldn't charge so much for it." A light comment,
denying the seriousness of the incident. He is telling me that the
matter is closed. I bow deeply and he returns the bow, then turns and
walks back toward his cart.
I retrieve my swords and return them to their place. Suddenly
freed, the bloody length of rice paper whips away in the wind. It is
carried over the harbor for perhaps the length of a ship before
fluttering down to float on the surface of the water. My blood soaks
into the water, and the outgoing tide carries it toward distant Bichu.
========================================================================
What are Little Girls Made of?
by Bryan Maloney
<jacobus@sonata.cc.purdue.edu>
Aimee held her breath when she heard more crashing from outside.
Were the Be-innyson soldiers coming again? She wished that she was in
the castle with Daddy and Grandfather. She closed her eyes and wished
harder, so hard that she could feel her fingernails digging into her
hands. She opened her eyes and saw she was still in Grandfather's shop.
Wishing never worked by itself--you had to go and make it work for even
the littlest things.
She'd been here since yesterday, when the Be-innyson soldiers
started throwing rocks at the city walls. She'd been taken to Old Town
with the other children and put near the castle--but she had left
something very important behind. When Grandfather picked her up and put
her in the wagon to Old Town her puppy Karl had jumped out of her arms
and run into Grandfather's home.
Grandfather told her that he'd make sure to bring Karl if he had to
go to Old Town too. Then she'd heard that the Be-innysons had made holes
in the New Town wall and were coming in. She was smart enough to know
that Grandfather would be too busy to find Karl, so she sneaked out--it
was easy enough with so many children around--to find Karl.
When she got to Grandfather's, Karl was there--but Grandfather
wasn't. The puppy was upstairs in Grandfather's rooms. He had tipped
over a jug of Grandfather's awful, bitter drink and was lapping at it.
Aimee had to laugh at the way the puppy staggered and yelped--like
Grandfather did during the Melrin festival. Aimee had gathered the puppy
in her arms and was about to leave when she heard marching, clanking
feet.
She ran to a rope hanging over a table and pulled her feet up,
dangling with one hand while the other held Karl. Slowly, the stairs to
the attic came down, and Aimee climbed them. She sat on a projecting
board she had fastened to the stairs (when Grandfather was away once)
and pushed them closed. Then she pulled the rope up through its hole.
She carefully made her way around the holes in the floor to the attic
window. There she lay down to watch the street.
Soldiers were coming from her left. They marched in straight rows,
making a terrible noise. She could tell that they weren't Dargon's
soldiers. They had square shields and carried an ugly banner with a big
metal bird on top of it. They had to be Be-innysons!
Aimee was nervous, but not really scared. She'd remembered hearing
Grandfather tell Goodman Corambis that the attic had been made by
smuggil-ers to hide in and see down below. (The next day she sneaked
into the attic to see. Grandfather was right--she could see everything
through the holes in the floor. Best of all, Grandfather couldn't see
her. The ceiling was built very high with rough logs and painted to make
the holes look like parts of a pattern.)
Then she saw Thomas Redcap. He had been sleeping in a doorway.
Thomas was always drunk and he smelled bad, so Aimee stayed away from
him. But nobody ever did anything to him because he never hurt anyone.
Two of the soldiers had picked him up and were shaking him awake. Thomas
woke up and the head soldier--did Be-innysons have captains?--said
something to him. Aimee suppressed a laugh--Be-innysons were stupid
people! Everybody knew that Thomas couldn't say his own name just after
he woke up.
Thomas just stared at the soldier. When the soldier started to
yell, Thomas tried to run. The soldier took his sword and stabbed Thomas
in the back. Thomas kept trying to run, but the soldier kept stabbing
him. Finally, Thomas fell down and the soldier stabbed him in the neck.
Aimee started shaking--these were terrible men! They were demons
like Mother Clariss the Priestess had told her about! She watched the
men pick up Thomas and toss him in the gutter. Some of them actually
laughed! Then the captain shouted something Aimee didn't understand and
the men went into buildings.
Aimee froze, clutching Karl. Three of them had come into
Grandfather's place! If they would kill harmless old Thomas Redcap, what
would they do to her? She inched over to a smaller peephole and looked
into the rooms below. Karl squirmed and whimpered.
"Be quiet, Karl!" she whispered.
Karl tried to lick her face. He began to wriggle more, and Aimee
was afraid that he would start to bark. She couldn't let him go--he
might fall into one of the larger holes and start to yowl. What could
she do?
Karl then belched, softly. Aimee grimaced. he smelled just like
Daddy and Grandfather did at the Melrin festival--of course! Grandfather
kept some of his jugs up here in the winter so they would be cold when
he drank them. Maybe he'd forgot to take some down this spring. Aimee
looked around until she spied a pile of earthen jugs.
"Will you be quiet if I give you a drink?" Aimee whispered as she
crawled over to the jugs. The clay stopper was fastened with wax, and
she had to dig at it with her fingernails. Karl, smelling the beverage,
was whining in anticipation.
Aimee pulled the stopper out and poured some of the brown contents
into a depression on the floor. Karl lapped fast and furious. Aimee then
went back to the peephole.
The soldiers had come up the stairs from the public rooms and were
searching Grandfather's rooms, turning over everything that could move.
Aimee was glad that the table was heavy oak, or she would have to jump
from the bottom of the stairs when she left. Finally, one of the
soldiers found Grandfather's jugs he kept by the table. They laughed and
stuffed them into their packs. Then they left.
Aimee went back to the attic window and looked at the street. The
soldiers were gathering together. The captain yelled something and they
went back into lines and marched away. After they were out of sight,
Aimee went to the board nailed to the stairs and lowered them. Then she
scampered down and went immediately to a cupboard that had been ripped
open. She ran her fingers on the top of the bottom shelf, along the
outside rim, until she found a catch. She pulled the catch and a small
door on the opposite wall swung ajar. This was another thing made by
smuggil-ers, according to Grandfather. She ran to the secret cupboard
and looked--it was there.
Grandfather had once been a soldier, and he had kept a few
souvineers. One was a big greatsword, too heavy for Aimee to lift.
Another was a decorated crossbow that Grandfather had gotten as a gift
for helping in some battle or another. The greatsword was
gone--Grandfather took it with him probably, but the crossbow was still
there, hidden with Grandfather's other treasures. She knew that she
couldn't wield it, but she would still feel safer if she had it with
her. She grabbed the weapon and a handful of silver-inlaid bolts and ran
back into the attic, withdrawing the stairs behind her.
"I know what I'll do." She thought, "I'll wait here until I see
some Dargon soldiers march by, and then I'll come down and tell them I'm
Aimee Taishent and they'll take me to the castle because Daddy's in the
guard."
She lay down by the attic window and watched the street. After a
while, Karl staggered next to her and collapsed in a heap.
"Did you have enough?" Aimee whispered.
Karl emitted an enormous belch and went to sleep.
"Karl, you smell worse than Thomas Redcap." Then she
remembered--Thomas lay on the street, dead, holes poked into his body by
the Be-innysons. Softly, Aimee began to cry. The tears flowed smoothly
down her cheeks until they dripped on the floor. Then she began to sob,
trembling. Her throat started hurting, but still she cried. Her head
started hurting--still she cried. Aimee wept until after sundown. Then
she slept.
She woke the next morning to the sounds of battle. She looked out
the attic window to see a mob fleeing down the street. Behind them were
more Be-innysons. They were hitting people, not even chasing them. Just
running over them and killing them. Aimee suddenly felt terribly guilty.
"I'll never knock over another anthill. I promise." She whispered.
"Just please, Bright Cahleyna, don't let the soldiers come in here."
The mob passed and the soldiers followed them, not stopping to look
in any buildings. Aimee breathed a sigh of relief. How long would it be
before the Dargon soldiers came by? Would they ever? There were so many
Be-innysons, what if they won? Would they come and kill her like they
did Thomas Redcap? She started to cry again.
She stopped when she heard Karl whining. The puppy was lying on his
belly, forepaws over his ears, eyes tightly shut.
"It serves you right, Karl." Aimee whispered. "Now you'll remember
how awful that stuff is to drink." Aimee then realized how terribly
hungry and thirsty she was. She also needed to go outside--badly. But
the Be-innysons were out there! She looked around until she saw some old
junk in a corner. Maybe there was a chamber pot in the pile!
Desperately, she climbed into the castoffs and began to dig. The pile
was huge--Grandfather never threw anything out. She began to tunnel into
the heap, which nearly touched the roof.
"There's my toy cart!" Aimee stated.
Karl stood at Aimee's exclamation and dragged himself to the pile.
He whimpered at his mistress.
"Karl, I was going to pull you around in this, but a wheel fell
off. Grandfather said he would fix it, but I guess he just lost it in
this mess. I'll make him put it together when he comes back." Aimee
stopped digging. Would Grandfather come back? Would anyone? She started
to cry, but her sobbing breaths reminded her of a lower call. She
quested further into the heap. Finally, she caught at glimpse of glazed
clay. Tossing small bits of junk aside, she found a cracked chamber pot.
After she relieved herself, she had a terrible thought--"How do I
get rid of this?" she asked herself. Aimee decided that she would have
to leave it here until she could think of something.
She was still thirsty, though. Aimee grit her teeth and picked up a
jug. She pried it open and took a drink. Yak! It was even more awful
than she remembered. But it helped her throat, so she drank more. She
put the stopper on the jug and sat down next to the attic window,
watching the street for Dargon soldiers. Karl wobbled over and lay down
beside her. Aimee picked him up.
"Karl, I wish you were a great knight like the old Duke Clifton,
then you'd put me on your horse and we'd ride straight to the castle.
And if any Be-innyson soldiers tried to stop us, you'd take your sword
and kill them." Aimee thought about the Be-innysons; she thought about
Thomas Redcap; she thought about the people running away, killed like
ants; and a strange feeling started inside her. It was cold, but somehow
comforting. The more she felt it, the better she felt.
"I hate you, Be-innysons." she said, and for the first time in her
life, she knew what that meant.
Aimee watch the street until she had to relieve herself again. She
went over to the chamber pot--it stank. Aimee sighed, there was no
helping it. Grandfather would understand about the smell. She walked to
the chimney and unlatched a metal door. Grandfather had put it in
himself so he wouldn't have to hire a sweep to clean the flue and he
wouldn't have to go on the roof to clean it himself. The special bendy
brush Grandfather used was on the floor beside the chimney.
She opened the door and poured the contents of the chamber pot down
the chimney. Grandfather kept the flue closed unless he had a fire, so
she knew it wouldn't splatter in the fireplace and give her away. She
would have to remember to warn him before he opened the flue next time.
Again she relieved herself and emptied the pot. That was when she heard
the crash.
She crept to a peephole and looked down. A Be-innyson soldier had
chased an older girl into the building and up the stairs to the rooms
below. He had a terrible grin on his face. He grabbed the girl and threw
her onto the floor. Then he ripped her skirts and petticoats off and
opened his codpiece. Aimee immediately knew that the man wanted to sex
(or s-e-x, as Grandfather always said around her. She was six
already--she'd heard what grownups did! Anyway, she'd seen Karl get
born.), but the girl didn't want to--the soldier was going to hurt her!
A flame started in Aimee's heart and crept up her throat. She was
going to stop him! He was a Be-innyson, and all they ever did was hurt
people. She didn't care how big he was or what weapons he had. Aimee
Taishent was going to stop him! She scampered to the attic window--no
one was on the street. At least it was only him. The girl had started
screaming. Aimee went to a peephole and looked down. She saw the man
forcing the girl onto the floor. Desperate, Aimee caught the crossbow on
a nail jutting from a pillar and pulled back the string with both hands.
"Please, Father Ol, keep the string from breaking."
Aimee pulled, leaning away from the crossbow. The string dug into
her fingers, feeling like a knife. Finally, the catch clicked--the bow
was cocked.
Her fingers hurt too much to move--there was already a purple line
across them--but she forced herself to drop the bolt into its slot, like
she had seen the guards do in practice. Then she started running toward
the stairs.
On her way, a flash caught her eye. The soldier was right under one
of the larger holes in the floor--Grandfather called them murder holes.
It was very big, Aimee had almost caught her foot in it. She looked down
and saw the soldier's back, right below her. She carefully aimed into
the hole and and gasped as the bolt slid out of the crossbow and through
the hole below. You had to hold the bow straight! She'd heard Daddy tell
that to his men, but had forgotten. She remembered now.
Aimee heard the soldier shout and then a crash. What would he do?
He couldn't get to the stairs, she knew that, but what would he do? She
looked down through the hole. The soldier wasn't there, but the girl
was. Her head bled and she lay in a ball, quaking. Where was the
soldier?
Aimee ran to another murder hole and looked down--no soldier! Had
she scared him away? She ran to the stairs to lower them, but stopped
dead as she saw them come down by themselves. Frozen with fear, she
watched as the Be-innyson soldier came up the stairs, holding a
pole-arm with a hook upon it. He smiled at Aimee and approached her,
weapon held low.
Aimee stared at the soldier as he walked toward her. He was
talking, saying something she couldn't understand. When he had cleared
half the distance between them, Karl charged the foreigner with a
squeaking snarl. The soldier batted the pup aside with his polearm.
As soon as Karl took to the air, yelping, Aimee awoke. The soldier
wanted to hurt her! She ran around the soldier, trying to make for the
stairs, but he just turned and swung his polearm in front of her. She
tried to duck around the weapon, but the soldier just stepped and hit
her with the haft.
She fell over, bruised, and heard the soldier laugh. She looked up
and saw him heft his weapon, then he swung it. The blade descended upon
her like a foot upon a beetle. Aimee tensed herself for the blow, her
last, when she heard a thump beside her. The soldier had missed! Was he
too drunk to hit her? She looked at him and her hopes died as she heard
him start to laugh. He aimed another blow at her, missing by inches. He
was playing with her--just like boys played with rats!
Aimee scrambled backwards on all fours; the soldier advanced,
smirking. He said something in his own tongue and laughed. Aimee still
went back. The soldier stopped to watch her. Finally, Aimee hit
something--it was the junk heap. She started to climb into it and froze
as the soldier yelled and charged toward her, weapon lowered.
Desperate, she grabbed at the pile below her. Her hands came up
with a piece of wood. It was the shaft from Grandfather's old cloak
tree. She had broken it last year by swinging from it and knocking it
over. Grandfather was so mad he didn't even spank her--he just told
Daddy! She pulled up the piece of wood and held the end before her--the
top with a pointed bit. It wasn't long enough! The soldier's weapon was
easily twice as long. And she couldn't even pick it up besides, the
other end was tightly wedged in the pile.
"I'm sorry, Daddy." she whispered.
At that moment, the soldier discovered one of the murder holes. His
right foot came down exactly upon a larger one and went in. The bones of
his ankle ground against each other and cracked. Yet the momentum of his
charge was too great to be halted by this minor setback. Instead, his
body flew the last few yards through the air and landed upon Aimee. His
polearm entered the pile, headfirst, catching Aimee's skirts upon the
hook.
Aimee opened her eyes. Above her lay the soldier. Why wasn't he
doing anything? Then she noticed that her hands were warm. She looked
down to wher she had been holding up the end of the cloak tree and
gasped when she saw it go into the soldier. She looked up at the young
man. He was a youth, with a light mustache beginning to form. Aimee
noticed that his hair was reddish and looked very soft. He was
motionless, breath coming in ragged gasps. Tears poured from his eyes.
Aimee watched the final spasm shake the soldier before he stopped
breathing. Then she looked at his face. He had the same look that Thomas
Redcap did when the soldiers cut him down.
Aimee went limp on the pile, sobbing. She was as bad as the
Be-innysons! She thought that killing the soldier would make her feel
better, but it didn't. She felt awful, even worse than the time she had
been throwing stones to knock down apples and accidentally hit a
squirrel. She dragged herself out of the pile, tearing her skirt on the
hook. Sobbing, she ran down the stairs.
More than anything she had to get away--she'd killed somebody. That
was the worst thing you could do! Grandfather had taught her that Ol and
Cahleyna valued all life, and now she had killed someone. She had to
hide--go where no one could find her. She ran for the stairs to the
street level when she collided with a soft form.
"Where did you come from?" Aimee heard someone say.
Aimee looked up and saw the face of the girl. Unable to speak,
Aimee pointed up.
"You say you came from heaven?" The girl's eyes were wide. "Were
you an angel sent by Cephas Stevene to rescue me?"
"No." Aimee was finally able to say. "I came from the attic. I
tried to shoot the bolt at him and he--" Aimee burst again into tears.
"I killed him!"
The girl held Aimee tighter. "It's all right, honey. He was going
to hurt me, and you only wanted to stop him." Aimee felt a hand on her
chin, lifting her face.
"I am Marta, what's your name?"
"Aimee, Aimee Taishent." Aimee said.
"Are you related to the mage?"
"He's my grandfather!"
"No wonder you're so brave. Living around magic must be very
exciting. I bet you can even read." Marta smiled and stroked Aimee's
hair.
"It's not all that exciting." Aimee said, "Usually he just sits and
studies, except when he has a customer, but I can read."
"Where is your Grandfather?"
"He's in Old Town. He went there when the Be-innysons--when
they--when--" Aimee began crying again.
"It's all right, honey. One way or another, it will be over soon."
Aimee and Marta embraced, each comforting the other.
After a time, Aimee snuffed and said, "Go into the attic, it's not
safe to be down here."
"What about you?" Marta asked.
"I'll be right behind you." Aimee said. Yesterday she had been so
scared that she forgot Grandfather's secret stash. It was where he kept
all the wonderful things he wasn't supposed to eat at his age. She
crawled under the table and pushed a knothole--smuggil-ers had to be the
most fun people. A small trapdoor pushed up and Aimee lifted it.
Underneath were pickled sweetmeats and fish salted so heavy it
crackled. There were also some pickled plums from Bichu. Aimee liked
these, even if they burned on the way down and made her feel funny. She
put it all on the table and closed the trap door. Then she climbed on
the table and put the lot in her torn skirt. After she climbed into the
attic she sat the food on the floor and raised the stairs.
As she finished pulling up the stairs, she remembered--the soldier
was up here! She couldn't turn around, she might see him. Aimee stood,
trembling, and stared at the stairs.
"It's all right, Aimee, I covered him."
Aimee turned around. Marta had covered him with the blanket she had
taken from Grandfather's bed to cover herself up. She was trying to pull
her ruined skirts around her.
"Wait, Marta." Aimee lowered the stairs and ran down. For once she
was glad that Grandfather got cold. Sometimes she hated how he always
had two blankets--it made sleeping with him too hot. She pulled the
other blanked out from under the bed and brought it into the attic. When
she returned, Marta had already started on the sweetmeats.
"I haven't eaten since before yesterday." she said.
"Neither did I." Aimee replied. "I'll get something to drink." She
walked to the jugs and got one. The two began to feast, only pausing to
drink the over-warm beer.
When they had finished eating, Aimee went to the attic window.
"What are you looking for?" Marta asked.
"I'm waiting for Dargon soldiers."
"Oh." Marta sat, quietly.
After a time, Aimee looked back at Marta. The older girl was
sitting, rocking back and forth. Tears flowed down her cheeks and
throat. Her body shook with silent sobs. Aimee ran over to her.
"What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Aimee put her arms around Marta.
"That man--he wanted to..." Marta put her head down.
"I could see that, but I stopped him." Aimee was puzzled. He hadn't
been able to hurt Marta, but Marta still seemed hurt.
"I know you stopped him, and he didn't hurt my body, but he hurt my
heart." Marta wiped her face. "He scared me and tried to do something
terrible." Marta began sobbing.
"He broke the Third Law of your Stevene, didn't he, Marta?"
"What do you know about that, Aimee? They don't teach the Third Law
to little girls."
"I can read. Mother Clariss is a Priestess for Stevene and she used
to come around and talk to me before Grandfather chased her away. One
time I sneaked one of her books out of her pouch. I kept it up here
until Grandfather found it. He was so mad--I don't know why."
"Perhaps your Grandfather is pagan...mine was."
"I don't know about that, but he made me pray all day to Ol for
that."
Marta looked Aimee in the eyes, "Then you worship Ol?..."
"Of course I do. Grandfather tells me all about him."
Marta took Aimee on her lap. "Despise not the pagan, for they may
still be good of heart." she whispered.
"What did you say?" asked Aimee.
"Just a little prayer of thanks that you were here, Aimee--What
were you saying about the Third Law?" Marta dried her eyes.
"Well, I think it goes: 'The sexyoual act is a sacrament. It is a
holy gift of pleasure...' that means good feeling, you know."
"Yes, I know, Aimee." Marta smiled, faintly. "Go on."
"...'a holy gift of pleasure from God. He who violates this gift
shall burn, but she who is violated...' Why did Seefas Stevene say 'she'
there, anyway?"
Marta sighed, "I think he had some idea what things are like in the
real world."
"Okay, anyway: '...she who is violated is as pure as before, by My
Holy Word. Let none gainsay...' That means disagree. '...this decree."
"Thank you Aimee." Marta hugged the young girl.
"Do you want to pray, Marta?"
"I would like that."
Marta recited the Plea to Stevene and the Creed of Mercy. Aimee
listened to the alian phrases. Stevene people prayed strangely, all full
of begging and pleading. Praying to Cahleyna and Ol was much easier. You
just thanked them for the good things and asked them to help with the
bad things. When Marta was done Aimee looked into her eyes. They were
brown and dark, just like Karl's fur--Karl! Where was he? She looked
around the attic and then, to her horror heard, at the same time, Karl
barking from below and a roar, like the parade at Melrin Festival,
coming down the street.
"I've got to get Karl!" Aimee cried as she ran to the stairs.
"No, Aimee, the battle's come this way." Marta grabbed Aimee and
held her tight. "Anyway, you've already proven that the Stevene looks
after brave little girls and foolish puppies very well."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." Marta lied.
The two sat by the attic window to watch, fearfully.
"They're coming." Marta whispered.
Around the corner came a Beinison legion, banner torn, shields
broken, ranks ragged. Behind them was a veritable mob of an army. Here a
soldier in fine armor hacked at a Beinison shield; there three street
toughs pelted a lone Beinison with cudgels. Old men threw rocks; young
men wielded spears. It was a rabble, but it drove the foreigners back.
Behind this line were ranks of ill-matched soldiery. Dargon personal
guard mixing with town militia. Noblemen marching alongside common
thugs.
The two girls watched the foreigners get pushed down the street,
almost as if the stones of the city had risen against them. Then there
was quiet.
"Do you think we should go out?" Aimee asked.
"We ought to wait for our soldiers to look for us. Things could
change."
Aimee nodded, and the two waited, breathlessly.
Hours later, after sundown, the girls heard noise from below.
"She's got to be here!" They heard a man yell, "It's the only place
she'd go!"
Aimee ran to the stairs and lowered them as fast as she could.
"Aimee, stop, it could be a trick!" Marta called.
Aimee, heedless, ran down the stairs, one word on her lips.
"Daddy!" She ran into her father's arms.
"I guess we found her, Lieutenant." a soldier in sergeant's livery
said. "Anything else you want?"
"No, thank you sergeant." Jerid Taishent replied. "You can go now."
"Right!" The sergeant saluted. "All right, you crowmeat, we've got
Beinison cowards to mop up! Move yer asses!"
The soldiers left at a trot.
Marta walked down the stairs, blanket wrapped around her. Jerid
looked up at the sound of her. The first thing he saw were her eyes.
Somehow he couldn't look away.
"Who is this, Aimee?" Taishent asked.
Marta blushed and pulled at the blanket.
"That's Marta, Daddy." Aimee said. "Some man tried to hurt her so I
killed him."
Jerid winced at his daughter's words.
"Beggin' yer pardon, sir," the Sergeant had returned, "but we'll be
needin' ye to help wi' the moppin' up."
"I'll be right there," Jerid said. He put Aimee down. "You stay
here until Grandfather or I come for you. Will you do that? Don't come
out of the attic unless you actually see one of us."
"I'll wait right here." Aimee said, seriously. "Karl!" Aimee dived
under the bed and retrieved the wriggling puppy. "You'd better stay with
me, or some Be-innyson will come along and cut you into gloves."
As Jerid left the shop, his sergeant approached him.
"Me 'n the men," he said, "would like to say that we're sore happy
that ye lost none o' yer family."
"Sergeant," Jerid replied, "Thank you--and the men--for that, but
you're wrong." Tears frosted his eyes. "My little girl died today."
========================================================================
"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