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-- DargonZine Volume 7, Issue 1 02/14/94 Cir 1120 --
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-- Archives at fir.cic.net in pub/Zines/DargonZine --
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-- Contents --
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Laraka III (Part 1) John Doucette Yule 13-17, 1014
Sons of Gateway 7: Reunion Jon Evans Yule 17, 1014
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1 Campaign for the Laraka III
Decision at Gateway Keep - Part 1
by John Doucette
Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
13 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
The eight Regiments of the Royal Hussars filed through the gate
to the Inner Courtyard and made for the barracks they had vacated just
eight days ago when they began their journey south to join the
fighting against the enemy army moving rapidly north towards Magnus.
General of the Cavalry Count Sir Luthias Connall and Commander
Sarah Verde, Commander of the 1st Royal Hussars, dismounted and
entered the King's Keep. Luthias was worried. The tone of Sir Edward's
message indicated that the scarred Knight Commander was himself
worried about something. And if Sir Edward, a man Luthias admired
deeply and who had seen more than his fair share of battle, was
worried, then Luthias reasoned that he himself had more than enough
reason to be anxious -- even without knowing the reason for his hasty
return to the Crown City.
He and Verde turned a corner leading to Edward's offices when
they both literally ran into the man they had been seeking. "Sir
Edward, we were just on our way to see you. Your message said to
return as fast as I could. What's wrong?"
The Knight Commander glared up at Luthias. "What's wrong,
General," he said in icy tones, "is that you seem to have forgotten
the proper form of address when speaking to a superior. I will not
tolerate that in any of my officers, regardless of rank. Is that
clear?"
"Yes, sir," Luthias responded instantly, confused by Sir Edward's
rebuke.
"Excellent, General. Now, if you would accompany me." So saying,
Edward turned and led the way down the corridor back the way Luthias
and Verde had just come, Commander Courymwen following behind her
commander.
Commander Verde laid her hand on Courymwen's arm, indicating that
Verde wanted the two to hold back slightly so they could talk. "What
was that all about?" Verde asked her friend.
"Things have been fairly tense since you left eight days ago,
Sarah," Jan replied.
"So I gathered. What's wrong?"
"Some rather high-ranking nobles have started campaigning for
Edward's replacement recently. That and...other things have put a
great strain on him. He doesn't need this now, Sarah, not with all
he's got to worry about."
"Since when have you and the Knight Commander been on a first
name basis?"
"We've been close friends for some time now, Sarah," Jan said
defensively.
"Is that all?" Verde asked carefully.
Jan stopped suddenly and turned, stricken, to face her friend.
"Not you too, Sarah!"
Jan had perhaps spoken more loudly than she may have wished.
Edward stopped and turned to face the two women. "Something wrong,
Commander?"
"Er...no, sir."
"Then let us proceed."
"Yes, sir." The four entered the Hall of Warriors and made for
the guarded door leading to the Audience Chamber.
Jan was silent for most of this time. She didn't speak again
until the group had passed into the small waiting room leading to the
Audience Chamber. "Sarah, what am I going to do?"
"Relax, Coury," Verde answered. "We'll figure something out."
The group paused outside the double doors. "Sir," Luthias began
to ask, ignoring the warning look he got from Commander Courymwen,
"couldn't you tell me what's going on?"
Edward rounded on Luthias. "The King and I are risking a very
great deal on you, Sir Knight," Edward said. "I care little for what
happens to me or my reputation, General," Edward went on in a low
voice, his eyes utterly cold and menacing, "but I will permit nothing
-- nothing, do you understand? -- to endanger my friend and Sovereign.
You had best prove worthy."
"Sir Edward," Luthias declared, the hurt tone in his voice
evident, "I would never do anything to dishonor the King. Or you, for
that matter. I will do everything you ask of me with the utmost
determination and all the strength I can muster in body and soul."
The battle-scarred Knight Commander of the Royal Armies looked up
at that intent face for several long moments before finally speaking.
"I think you'll do, Luthias Connall," he said with a note of
satisfaction. "Yes, I think you shall do very nicely indeed." Sir
Edward turned to order the guards to open the double doors but Luthias
stopped him.
Now Luthias was very confused. He risked a quick glance at
Commander Courymwen and the look on her face only served to further
Luthias' confusion. Clearly something had happened since he had
departed eight days ago. Luthias caught the distinct smell of politics
in the air.
"'Do' what, Your Excellency, is the question?"
Edward smiled ruefully, making the diagonal scar on his face
contort strangely. "That is for His Royal Majesty to say. Not I." He
nodded to the guards and the great doors opened.
A staff thumped three times against the unyielding stone floor.
"His Excellency, Sir Luthias Connall, Count Connall, General of the
Cavalry. His Excellency, Sir Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of the
Royal Armies. Commander Sarah Verde, Commanding Officer the 1st Royal
Hussars. Commander Jan Courymwen, Officer of the Royal Foot Guards and
Chief Aide to His Excellency the Knight Commander."
The four proceeded towards the throne at the far end of the
nearly empty Audience Chamber. They halted at some invisible line
perhaps ten feet from King Haralan and all four bowed deeply from the
waist as was their right as soldiers of the King. "General Connall, as
ordered, Sire," Edward announced.
"Very good. Sir Edward, Commander Courymwen, attend us." Edward
and Jan moved to stand on the raised dias, Edward on the King's right,
Jan to the right of Edward. "There are two others who must be in
attendance. The wait shall not be long."
Great! Luthias thought. Wonderful. I absolutely hate these things
and now I'm going to be forced to stand here while we wait for some
arrogant, self-important court functionary to get here to
witness...well, whatever. Why couldn't I have been just an ordinary
Knight like I've always wanted? Was that so much to ask?
Just then, one of the functionaries they had been waiting on
stepped from behind the tapestry hanging behind the throne.
Marcellon, High Mage and advisor to the King, moved to stand on
Haralan's left, his face an expression of anticipation mixed with
satisfaction. Luthias nodded and Marcellon smiled in return, that
mixed expression still evident.
Perhaps two menes passed before the second functionary made his
appearance. During this time, Luthias' natural fish-out-of-water
reaction to any court situation came to the fore. Luthias prayed his
nervousness wasn't noticeable to anyone.
When Myrande stepped from behind the curtain it was too much for
Luthias. "Sable!" he burst out. Myrande smiled and Luthias made to go
to her but was stopped by a single command.
"Hold!" Sir Edward commanded. "You have not permission to
approach the throne, Count Connall."
"Easy, Edward," Marcellon said quietly. "Calm down."
"The cause was sufficient, Sir Edward," King Haralan lightly
rebuked. "I think we can permit the Count and Countess time to
exchange greetings."
Luthias went to the dias to greet his wife. He took both her
hands in his and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "What's going on?"
Myrande smiled again, accentuating her raven-haired beauty.
"Later," she said softly.
"Count Connall," the King said, "I would not begrudge you time
with your beautiful lady wife, but there are pressing matters of state
we must see to."
"Of course, Your Majesty." Luthias cringed inwardly. He'd done it
again, messed up in protocol matters. "I apologize, Your Royal
Majesty," Luthias said as he resumed his place in front of the throne
next to Commander Verde.
"Sir Edward," the King said, "perhaps you should bring the Count
up to date on events transpiring along the Laraka River."
"Yes, Sire." Edward then launched into a very concise briefing.
When he was done, the look on Luthias' face had gone from slight
confusion to that of a man planning the minute details of a campaign.
"I take it, then, Your Royal Majesty, that I am to lead my
cavalry against the enemy army on the Laraka?" Luthias asked eagerly.
"In good time, Count Connall, in good time." The King paused,
gathering his thoughts. "We were much distressed to hear of the death
of our beloved Knight Captain Sir Ailean. He was a good man and a fine
officer. His death now renders the Northern Marches leaderless.
Granted, Lord Morion is a good man as well and we have no doubt that
he will serve Baranur as well as any man, but we cannot have such an
important position as Knight Captain of the Northern Marches go
unfilled. Lord Morion will not accept our offer, that much is certain.
Therefore we have asked our Knight Commander for advice as to whom we
should appoint to ward our Northern Marches.
"The Knight Commander has suggested someone rather young and not
primarily an officer holding the King's Commission, but we tend to
agree with the Knight Commander's choice.
"So what say you, Count Connall? Do you accept our offer to act
as our Knight Captain of the Northern Marches?"
It took a moment for Luthias to realize the full import of what
the King had just said. When he did, his first act was to think that
he must look rather foolish with his jaw hanging down to the floor.
After he'd rectified that particular shortcoming, all he could do was
stand in stunned silence.
I've done it, Father! he thought. I've done it, Roisart! I've
actually done it! A slow smile spread across his face. "I -- you --
me?"
Marcellon heaved a theatrical sigh. "All that education and the
young man still has trouble with sentence structure. I am most
distressed at today's youth's shortcomings."
The King coughed. Myrande put a hand over her face to hide her
smile. Courymwen and Verde did their best impressions of cadets trying
hard not to laugh. Sir Edward, however, didn't react at all.
Luthias cleared his throat and tried again. He found to his
dismay that he couldn't seem to make any words come out this time.
"What's that?" Marcellon said in a dry voice. "You'll have to
speak up. Or have you lost all power of speech now, son? Perhaps you
should choose another, Your Royal Majesty?" All of the Chamber's
occupants again made valiant efforts to control their mirth. Jan was
not as successful as the others and a short sharp laugh escaped her
lips.
Sir Edward turned a disapproving stare on his aide. "Sorry, sir.
Won't happen again," Jan hastily said. Sir Edward turned his attention
once more to Luthias, suppressing the beginnings of his own smile as
he did so.
"No! I -- thank you, Sire, for the offer. I accept."
"Then approach, Count Connall." Haralan stood as Luthias
approached the throne.
"Kneel," the King commanded. Luthias sank to one knee, hardly
able to believe this was actually happening.
"Count Connall," Haralan began formally, "do you swear by your
sword, the sacred embodiment of your Knighthood, to ward the Northern
Marches with all the strength in your mind and body?"
Luthias drew his sword and presented it hilt first to the King.
"On my sword, I so swear," he proclaimed, the weapon's blade resting
lightly in his hands.
"Do you further swear to maintain true and unswerving loyalty to
your King, no matter the circumstances, no matter the cost?"
"I so swear."
"Do you swear to show the same loyalty and obedience to the
Knight Commander, He who speaks with our Voice and in our Name?"
"I so swear."
"And do you swear to execute your duties fairly and impartially,
with no thought of advantage to you and yours?"
"I so swear."
Haralan brought Luthias' sword down on the young Count's left
shoulder. "By my right as King, I give you the power to mete justice
throughout the Northern Marches where you see fit to do so and in
accordance with the laws I have laid down as King."
The sword now came down on Luthias' right shoulder. "I grant you
the authority to command and well-discipline your inferiors serving
with the Royal Army, both noble and common."
The sword came down a third time. "I charge you to act wisely in
your duty and to bring honor upon Baranur and your own House."
Haralan stepped back a pace. "Rise, Count Connall, Knight Captain
of the Northern Marches." Luthias stood and as he did so the King
returned his sword to him. Diplomatic as always, Haralan refrained
from commenting on Luthias' nervousness, which was evident to everyone
present.
Speaking softly so that only he and Luthias knew what was spoken,
Haralan said, "Many eyes are upon you, Count Connall. Eyes hostile to
my wishes. Be careful. If you should fall, Sir Edward falls with you."
Luthias stepped back, giving no indication that the King had even
spoken to him.
"We regret we cannot bestow upon you your rightful Badge of
Office, Knight Captain. It was lost along with Sir Ailean, God grant
him eternal rest, and there has not been time to fashion another."
Luthias grinned wickedly. "No matter, Sire. I shall take it back
from the Beinisonians."
"Well said, Knight Captain. Sir Edward, you may proceed."
"Yes, Sire," Edward said, coming forward. "Once more, the Cavalry
Wing finds itself without a General to command it. And, once more,
Commander Verde, I must ask you to accept that duty you had performed
since the death of General Tyre. I know you will perform with the same
competence displayed in the past. It occurs to me, however, that
having the Cavalry Wing commanded thus, by a Commander, would be
inviting potential breakdown of the unity the Royal Hussars are famous
for displaying in times when the Kingdom is threatened by outside
force. Therefore, to ensure that one voice, and one voice alone, shall
speak for the Hussars, I hereby promote you to General of the Cavalry.
"Congratulations, General."
The shock and pleasure on Verde's face was evident. She also had
not been expecting anything such as this.
Haralan stepped down off the throne dias, the signal for the
others present on the dias to do so as well. He congratulated Luthias
and General Verde and then, begging pressing state matters, exited the
Audience Chamber, his guards in tow.
Luthias immediately went to his wife and greeted her in a much
longer fashion than he had had time for previously. "My God, Sable,
can you believe it?"
"Yes, actually, I can. I always knew you'd succeed like this. Are
you pleased?"
"Pleased?" Luthias laughed, making him seem younger. He grabbed
his wife and spun her around. Planting a kiss firmly on her lips, he
asked, "How's that for pleased?"
Myrande chuckled and laid her head on her husband's chest. Maybe
he's finally returning to himself, she thought.
"Now," Luthias asked, "what's been going on here the last week?"
Myrande raised her head. "What happened, Luthias?"
"The Knight Commander," he said in a low voice, "nearly took my
head off before we entered the Audience Chamber. I've never known Sir
Edward to display that much outward emotion ever. It can't just be the
war."
Sable sighed, putting her arms around her husband. "No, it's not
just the war. There have been rumors going around of late that suggest
Sir Edward and his aide are more than just friends."
Luthias turned in Myrande's embrace to regard Commander
Courymwen. The tall red-haired soldier was talking to General Verde
and Sir Edward. All three seemed comfortable in one another's
presence, though Luthias could tell that his former second-in-command
was slightly nervous. The Knight Commander did not often take time to
chat with just anybody, after all.
"Sir Edward has good taste in women, then. I don't see the
problem."
Myrande punched Luthias hard in the left arm. "Idiot!"
"Ow!"
"Just trying to knock some sense into you, you blockhead."
"What are you talking about?"
"Luthias," she said, stroking his hair, "when will you learn that
the customs of Dargon are not those of the rest of the Kingdom?
Remember what I told you about how the attitudes towards that kind of
thing are somewhat stricter here in Magnus?"
Luthias frowned. She had told him, but he'd forgotten. Come to
think of it, when the Knight Commander had come to judge that tourney
in Dargon he himself had said something to that effect. "I still don't
see the problem. What's wrong with courting? Does her family
disapprove?" he asked in disbelief.
"No, it's not that. The rumors say that the two of them have gone
past the courting stage. Far past. It was just those kind of rumors
that destroyed the Princess' marriage, or so I'm told. There are even
rumors, vague ones that say that Sir Edward's days as Knight Commander
may be numbered."
Luthias' face took on a grim expression. That's what the King
meant, he thought. Aloud, he said, "Unless Sir Edward's personal life
interferes with his performance as Knight Commander, I don't see that
anyone has a right to criticize him."
"Wait a mene," Luthias continued before Myrande could comment,
"how is it that you're so up on the current rumors? You were never
much for gossip."
Myrande hesitated, not wanting to answer. She knew Luthias'
temper and she didn't want him doing anything rash.
"There's something you're not telling me. And don't deny it. I
can see it in your face."
"Luthias, it's nothing. Really."
"Now I know it's serious. You never say 'nothing' in that tone of
voice when it means nothing. Out with it."
Myrande's lips tightened into a thin line. "I didn't have much
choice but to become acquainted with the rumor mill. While you were
gone there were those that suggested that the children I was carrying
weren't yours. Among other things."
Myrande's husband's expression grew dark, promising suffering for
those who caused her pain. "Who spread these rumors?"
"Who knows?" she lied. "That's the nature of things like this.
Any rate, the deed is done."
"Then these rumors have stopped?"
"Oh yes," Myrande responded, a hint of satisfaction in her voice.
"The King saw to it personally."
Luthias seemed satisfied with her explanation. He decided to
change the subject. "Do you believe these rumors about Sir Edward?"
"No. I know Jan Courymwen sufficiently well to know she wouldn't
do something like this, if only to protect Sir Edward's reputation.
And as for Sir Edward, I don't think it would even occur to him to
make those kinds of advances towards a woman he wasn't courting."
Luthias let his arms drop to his sides as Sir Edward and
Marcellon came over, having finished congratulating General Verde. "I
trust I am not interrupting?" Sir Edward asked politely.
"Not at all, Sir Edward," Myrande responded. "Ever since the war
started, I and the children have seen too little of you."
"Thank you, My Lady," Edward said, bowing. "I assure you I will
try to get around to see you and the children when I can. The war
presses heavily upon me, My Lady, and my duties require most of my
time."
"I'll make a deal with you, Sir Edward. Stop calling me 'My
Lady'. It makes me feel old. Call me Sable. Do that and I'll stop
pestering you about coming around to see us."
"It's a deal, My Lady," Edward said with just the barest hint of
a smile.
"Your stubborn streak's showing again, Edward," Marcellon said.
"Yes, Old Man." Marcellon collapsed in a fit of laughter.
"Sir Luthias," Edward said, turning his attention to his tall
subordinate, "I must apologize for my actions earlier."
"Sir Edward, there's no need," Luthias protested. Marcellon was
now clasping his hands to his sides he was laughing so hard.
"On the contrary, there is much need. I was -- am -- under
intense pressure and I took it out on you, an innocent subordinate who
knew nothing of his commander's difficulties." This kind of
explanation was not required -- it was dangerous, even -- from a
commander to those under him, but Edward was just to a fault, a legacy
of his dead father. "My deeds and words were of unknightly conduct
and, as one Knight to another, I ask your forgiveness."
Luthias, overcome that the Knight Commander should treat Luthias
as an equal, said, "Sir Edward, let's forget the whole incident."
"Good," Edward said, managing a real smile for the first time in
two days. "Now," Edward said briskly, "I have some special orders to
give you before you depart. That is, I will if the Lord High Mage can
control himself."
"Sorry, Edward," Marcellon said with no hint of apology. "It's
not often you tell a good joke and I just couldn't help myself."
"I'll go talk with Jan and leave you three alone," Myrande said
and started to leave.
"No, My Lady, stay." Myrande looked at Edward questioningly, as
did Luthias. "I need both your counsel, both of you being of the
nobility, and possessing a more than significant amount of status.
First, I must insist that neither of you speak of this to anyone. Not
to Jan" -- this to Myrande -- "nor to the King" -- this to both.
"I don't think I like the sound of this, Sir Edward," Luthias
said evenly.
"Nor I," Myrande added.
"I am not shouting from the Forum with ecstasy either." Edward
fixed both Connalls with that intent gaze of his that let the receiver
know what was about to be discussed was in deadly earnest. "Since the
news from Oron's Crossroads was received, I have been seized by the
impression that something other than training and professionalism and
morale is the cause for our poor performance in the war to date.
Having thought and mulled over the despatches in the last few days I
have become convinced that the enemy within is aiding the enemy
without."
"Treason?" Luthias breathed.
"No," Edward replied hastily. "At least not intentional. Let me
explain. The reason that House Troops are outside the imperium of the
Royal Army is to provide an assurance that the nobles have a power
base outside the King's control, yes?"
Luthias answered immediately; military history was his hobby.
"I'm not sure I understand exactly what 'imperium' is but I believe
the answer is yes. Having the House Troops separate was what helped
the Loyalist forces come out on top during the Great Houses War. It
also helped to curb King Darian's excesses in the Shadow Wars
afterward."
Edward looked at Luthias as if Luthias should have come to a
conclusion. "And?"
"And...I don't see what you're driving at."
"Think, Luthias! A command structure that perpetuates a situation
in which the left hand does not know what the right hand is doing or,
when both hands do know what the other is doing but neither can
influence the other..."
"...is fine for fighting an internal enemy but not an outside
one," Luthias finished in sudden understanding. "I don't know why I
hadn't seen it long ago."
"Because as you said the arrangement was often necessary for
Baranur's survival and that kind of history tends to put blinders on
those it has benefitted. And I do grant that things have worked out
when Baranur has been challenged by external enemies before but this
time is not like before! This time it is Beinison, the largest
military power on the continent."
"There's no need to preach, Edward," Marcellon said. "I think
you've got him convinced."
"And I think I know why you are speaking to us before the King,"
Myrande said. "You want us to test the waters for something, don't
you?"
"Exactly so, Lady Sable. I do indeed want the two of you to 'test
the waters'. I rather like that turn of phrase. I need to know what
level of opposition I will encounter. I know King Haralan will be
difficult, but I know my friend and while he may not be a Cadhless, he
does have a goodly store of common sense so convincing him shouldn't
be too much a chore. It's the rest of the nobility I am worried
about."
"What is it you intend to do?" asked Luthias.
Without even a pause, Edward answered, "I intend to ask the King
to grant me the Edict."
Luthias' eyes widened. "My God!" he exclaimed in wonder that
Edward would have the daring to go to such lengths. Noting Marcellon's
lack of reaction, Luthias asked, "You knew?"
"Edward came to me for advice early this morning."
"Forgive my ignorance, gentlemen," Myrande said, "but just what
is this Edict?"
"An ancient decree," Luthias responded, eyes never straying from
Sir Edward's face, "that gives the Knight Commander total and absolute
control over the entire Combined Host of Baranur, Royal Army and House
Troops alike. No noble may refuse the Knight Commander's orders, no
matter the circumstances. To do so means instant death. In effect, the
Military Command Edict makes the Knight Commander Prince in all but
name for so long as the Edict is in force."
"And if and when the Edict is declared to be in effect,"
Marcellon broke in, "the wails of protest will drown out even the sun.
I would think it safe to say that House Northfield would feel directly
threatened. One does not make enemies of the most powerful of the
Great Houses lightly. Indeed, House Northfield might, just might mind,
feel compelled to resort to a drastic and very permanent solution."
"That is why I need the two of you to begin laying the
groundwork," Edward said, resuming the conversation. "Luthias will
feel out those nobles he comes across while leading his troops against
the enemy. You, My Lady, will seek opinions from those nobles here at
the capital."
"When do you plan to ask His Majesty?" Luthias inquired.
"Soon. If we can turn things around, I may not have to ask at
all. But if the situation does not improve and improve very quickly, I
may have to ask within the month."
"You can count on us, Sir Edward," Myrande said.
"Good." Edward turned his full attention on Luthias. "Now that
that is out of the way, I will give you your orders. They are brief
and are the same I have sent on to Lord Morion." So saying, Edward
produced a message packet from his tunic and handed it to Luthias.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, Lady Sable, Commander Courymwen and I
have a great deal of work to do."
"Of course, Sir Edward."
"Knight Captain, I leave you and General Verde to your duties."
Edward returned Luthias' salute, bowed to Myrande, and then left,
Commander Courymwen in tow.
"Sarah, come over here and we'll see what the Knight Commander
has set out for us."
"Sir!" General Verde walked briskly over to Luthias and Myrande
from the far side of the chamber.
"Do you want me to leave?" Myrande asked.
Luthias thought a moment. "No, Sable, I'd rather you'd stay. If
these orders are sufficiently lenient, we may be able to spend some
time together before I have to leave."
"All right, then," she agreed. "General, it's good to see you
again."
"The feeling is mutual, My Lady. I was afraid that after being
away for such a long time as eight days you might forget me." Both
women laughed, which helped to dispel the somber mood that had been
building.
"Well, we may be gone longer this time," Luthias commented.
"What are our orders, sir?"
"I was just about to find out." Luthias broke the seal and took
out the parchment contained inside. Luthias quickly read the text and
then silently held the parchment to Verde. Verde's features hardened
after she read the orders.
"May I see?" Myrande inquired. Verde looked questioningly at her
commander. Luthias nodded. Silently Verde handed the parchment over to
Myrande. Myrande read the words slowly, the unfamiliar style causing
her some difficulty. The fact that some of the letters were Galician
instead of Baranurian also accounted for her difficulty.
One line only was written on the parchment in a strong hand, the
letters almost block-like: "Hold at all costs -- done this the
Thirteenth Day of Yule in the One Thousand and Fourteenth Year of the
Kingdom of Baranur by my hand, Sir Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of
the Royal Armies".
Looking over Myrande's shoulder, Marcellon read the order at the
same time as she. "Not an easy task."
"We'll only be outnumbered two-to-one, Your Excellency," Verde
objected. "We may not have an easy time of it, but we'll hold."
"You seem very sure of yourself, General."
"Of course, My Lord," Verde said, nonplussed. "We are Hussars,"
she said as if that explained everything.
"Of course. Good luck, Luthias, General." Marcellon kissed
Myrande's cheek. "I'll be by tomorrow to see you and the children."
"See you soon," Myrande agreed.
"Sarah," Luthias said, "why don't you go tell Michiya to give the
troops plenty of rest. And then see to the replenishment of whatever
supplies we may need."
"Yes, sir." Verde saluted and exited the chamber at a brisk pace.
Neither Luthias nor Myrande said anything for long moments, the two
just stood there enjoying the look, the presence of one another.
Eventually, the silence was broken.
"Do you have much time?"
"Just one night."
"I suppose that's not so bad," she replied with a smile.
"And we shouldn't be away too long. Like Sarah said, we won't be
outnumbered by too much, not in military terms anyway. And we've got
Gateway's walls to shelter behind. I'll let the Beinisonians smash
themselves against us and that will be that."
"Luthias, don't lie to me. You don't believe any of what you just
said any more than I do."
Luthias held her head against his heart. "Sable, promise me."
"What, Luke?"
Luthias had to clamp his jaw a moment; the old nickname made him
shake with fear and the grief that he might not come back again. "If I
die--"
"You won't die."
Luthias was never sure how she could believe this. She knew
battle; her father had been a Knight. She had treated wounds, and
watched people die--watched her own father fall valiantly to the Red
Plague. "I might die," Luthias admitted, and the fact never frightened
him so much as it did now. "If I die--"
"You won't die," Myrande insisted tightly. "If you do, I'll have
Michiya's head and Marcellon's."
Luthias frowned with exasperation. "That won't solve anything,
and it won't bring me back, either."
Myrande's face was getting its customary obstinate look. "You
won't die."
"Then you won't have any trouble promising."
She sighed. "What?"
"That you won't..." Luthias was unsure how to say such a thing.
"That you won't be alone forever. That..."
Myrande raised both eyebrows and her face took on that look which
made Haralan remark that she would have been an excellent queen. "You
would have me marry again?"
Luthias nodded mutely.
"And who would you have me marry?"
Luthias blinked; he had never considered that question. "Michiya
--" he fumbled. "Sir Edward -- hell, I don't know. Marry King Haralan
if you can get him, Sable. I just don't want you to cut yourself off
from life, and --"
"You don't need to worry about it," Myrande replied, and her
voice was hard. "If you die, I will never marry again." Her head
tilted upwards, and her black eyes were hard as stone. "I won't be
able to endure your death a second time, Luthias. They'll bury me
beside you." She looked over her shoulder. "You'd better go."
Luthias stared at her. "You wouldn't kill yourself!"
"I wouldn't have to," Myrande stated, her voice stale. Then, her
eyes suddenly filled with dark fire. "No, I'd make the Beinisonians
pay first."
Suddenly, Luthias laughed, and he kissed her quickly. "You're
right, Sable. I'd better go."
Confused, Myrande shook her head and reached for her husband's
hands.
"What is so funny?"
"Oh, nothing, but I've really got to stop Beinison before they
kill me." And suddenly, Luthias found his wife in his arms, clutching
him tightly. "I'll see you this evening."
Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
17 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Lord Morion kicked at a stake in the earthen rampart, sending it
flying. "Sergeant," he said harshly to the soldier in charge of the
men working on that portion of the fortifications Morion had started,
"I want these stakes driven in securely! They'll cause no one trouble
the way they are now!"
"Yes, sir!"
Morion continued on his inspection of his defenses. When he'd
been denied access to Gateway Keep on his arrival seven days ago,
Morion had all but given up hope of even making a stand against the
Beinisonians when they came. Morion had been a soldier for too long
though to give up without a fight. And so he ordered what he
optimistically called fortifications built.
The thing his men and women had been laboring on for close to a
week now was finally nearing completion. The fortifications consisted
of an earthen rampart two hundred yards long with a twenty-five yard
belt of pits and stakes placed in front. All this was built on the
south bank of the Laraka's tributary where Morion's force had forded,
only a few hundred yards from Gateway's comforting walls. Defending
behind the rampart might enable Morion to prolong the battle by one
bell's time, perhaps two.
Despite the fact that Morion knew the defenses were mainly for
show -- the morale of his troops badly needed reinforcement -- it was
not the unfinished state of the fortifications that worried him (after
all, it was just possible that the rampart and Outer Works would
actually stop the Beinisonians for more than a bell) it was the fact
of the enemy's absence that caused him to have sleepless nights. The
Beinisonians should have taken Port Sevlyn five or six days ago and if
the enemy general force-marched his troops it should only take four
days to reach Gateway. But the Beinisonians weren't here. And that
made Morion uneasy. He had been sending out patrols formed from the
Battalion of current and former students he'd raised but so far the
patrols had reported no sign of the enemy. Strange.
"Well, Colour Sergeant?" he asked the man who just came up behind
him.
"Three patrols ha' reported back, sair," the Lederian answered.
"They've nae spotted a thing. Tha fourth patrol is overdue."
Morion had been absently staring across the river as he listened
to MacLaird's report. Now, his head snapped around. "How long?"
"Two bells, sair," MacLaird said in a tone that said the Lederian
was having the same thoughts as Morion.
"Double the watch, MacLaird. I'll be in my tent if you need me."
"Aye, sair."
* * *
8 Leagues south-southwest of Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
17 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Goren Winston and three guards moved north along the Laraka's
west bank toward the last and only ford before Gateway Keep. The newly
exonerated Lord of House Winston was pushing himself to the limit in
order to reach Gateway and reclaim his birthright from his brother,
Ne'on as soon as possible.
He no longer knew his brother. The boy that had grown up with
him, rode a raft down the Laraka to Port Sevlyn (to the consternation
of their mother, and the amusement of their father). The boy that, he
admitted, took the brunt of Goren's anger every once in a while.
Perhaps it was his fault, he thought, that Ne'on had been driven away
from the family. Goren was three years his brother's senior. Ne'on
probably never understood why Goren, while he loved his father, had
felt so constrained by Kald's rule, even while hunting in the woods.
Goren now had freedom, but at the price of his father's life. No,
Goren did not drive Ne'on to kill their father. That was another's
influence, and something he had been avoiding thinking about.
I'll think about it later, he thought. Meanwhile, some where in
the back of his mind, he knew that 'later' was drawing nearer with his
every movement closer to Gateway. 'Later' was not going to be an
option, when he encountered Phos.
Whatever his feelings, Goren had to tackle the problem of how to
gain access to Gateway. For all he knew, the Beinisonians might be
laying siege at that very moment to his home. And who knew what
changes Ne'on had made since Goren left. His best hope, his only hope,
he realized, was that Marcus was still Castellan. If Ne'on had left
Marcus in his position as Castellan, then Goren's task would be made
easier. If Marcus was still Castellan. If the way to Gateway lay open.
If, if, if...
Goren adjusted his baldric and increased his pace. With any luck,
he thought, I should make it by late afternoon.
* * *
83 leagues south of Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
17 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
The half-noon sun beat down on the long line of men, women, and
horses, hot and doubly so for those wearing amour, which was
practically all of the column. Luthias marched with General Verde and
Sho-sho Kirinagi at the head of the eight thousand- strong procession.
"Well, Sarah?"
Verde thought for a moment then answered, "I don't think we'll
reach Gateway before Beinison, sir. Not unless we push it."
Luthias made an instant decision. "We'll continue on as we are
then. No need to tire the horses any more than we absolutely have to
if we're going to have to fight once we get there. Do you agree,
Sho-sho?" Luthias asked through Michiya.
Kirinagi replied through Michiya, "Whatever you think best,
Tai-shu. If the horses tire, then we shall fight on foot. Regardless
of the circumstances my samurai and I will allow nothing to deter us
from our duty. We are yours to command."
Luthias inclined his head as acknowledgement. "How about you,
Michiya?"
"It would seem to me, Luthias-sama," Michiya said, "that the
decision should be based on the news from Gateway Keep. Until we know
more, we should not commit ourselves to an unalterable course of
action."
"When's the next patrol due in, Sarah?"
Verde shifted her reins to her left hand while she used her right
hand to shield her eyes from the worst of the sun's glare. "There
should be a patrol due in sometime within the bell, sir."
Luthias considered. He still felt that his decision to carry on
as things stood to be the best. However, if Gateway was under
siege...no, stick with his original decision. Unless one of the
patrols brought back news that would require a change in plans. "We'll
keep to our present rate of march. But we might as well get as many
leagues behind us as we can. Pass the order to mount."
"Yes, sir," Verde said and signalled one of the buglers. The
bugle's call sounded three times and was quickly passed on down the
column. Baranur's elite mounted their horses and were soon making good
time toward Gateway.
* * *
Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
17 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
MacLaird paced back and forth on the ramparts, anxiously watching
for the overdue patrol. The patrol should have reported back three
bells ago and its absence was causing the Baranurian army's commanders
worry. That sense of anxiety had communicated itself to the troops and
more than one occasionally looked up from whatever he or she was doing
and scanned the north bank of the Vodyanoi for some sign of the
missing patrol or worse, the enemy.
MacLaird decided that endless pacing would accomplish nothing,
whereas a few bells' rest would do wonders. He turned to one of the
two soldiers standing guard near him. "Laddie, Ah'm goin' tae take a
rest for a while. You and ye're mate keep a sharp eye oot for tha'
patrol. If ye see anathin', coom an' fetch me quick-smart. Got it?"
"Yes, Colour Sergeant."
"Good lad." MacLaird had just stepped down from the ramparts and
was heading for Lord Morion's tent when he was stopped by a shout from
the ramparts.
"Colour Sergeant! Across the river! I see something!"
MacLaird bounded up the earthen steps and was at the soldier's
side in a flash. "Wha', lad? Wha' d' ye see? Where?"
The soldier pointed. "That copse of trees off to the left. I
thought I saw something moving at the edge."
MacLaird and the soldier stared for a long time at the wooded
area. Nothing. "Laddie, are ye sure?"
"I'm almost positive...I thought for sure...I...I'm sorry, Colour
Sergeant, I guess my mind was playing tricks on me. I wanted to spot
that patrol so bad."
MacLaird picked up on something in the young man's voice. "Ye ha'
friends in tha patrol?"
"Yes, Colour Sergeant," the soldier said in a low voice.
"I understand, lad. Ye've done no wrong."
"Do you think any of them are alive?" the soldier asked in a
pleading voice.
MacLaird, in a surprisingly compassionate gesture for the
normally hard man Morion's students had come to fear and respect, laid
his hand on the man's shoulder. "Laddie, I wilna lie to ye. They've
been past due for three bells now. Chances are they found tha enemy
when they wernae ready for it. It's hard son, I know, but ye must keep
ye're spirits up. It's nae easy, but ye'll ha' tae get used tae this
if ye're tae continue wi' tha life ye ha' chosen for yeself."
"Thank you, Colour Sergeant."
"Dinna. Ah was just doin'--" MacLaird stopped in mid-sentence.
"Laddie," he asked eagerly, "d' ye see tha' flash o' light yonder?"
"No...wait, I did see something. Maybe..." Just then, a figure in
tattered leather amour and dragging a sabre from a leather thong
fastened to its wrist emerged from the trees. The figure was
staggering and one hand was clasped to the figure's side. The face was
twisted in an obvious grimace of pain.
"Great Culchanan's Ghost!" MacLaird exclaimed. He leaped down the
stake-studded embankment and scrambled across the Outer Works. The two
soldiers on the rampart with him were close on his heels.
MacLaird ran as fast as his legs would carry him, throwing up
great waves of water as he splashed across the knee-deep ford in the
Vodyanoi. He slipped once on the unsteady footing of the river bottom
and came up soaking wet, coughing and spluttering from the water he'd
taken into his lungs.
He reached the far bank just as the figure that had emerged from
the trees collapsed. He turned the blood-stained soldier over.
"Aurellan!"
MacLaird looked around at the young man he had been speaking with
just a short time before. "Ye know tha lass?"
"Yes, Colour Sergeant. We're good friends. She's part of our
Battalion."
"Well, she's in nae good condition. Ye," he said, telling off the
second soldier that had come across, "get yeself o'er tae Evris tha
Healer an' tell him we're bringing in a casualty. Quick-smart now,
lad!" The soldier saluted, turned, and ran back across the ford.
"Here," MacLaird said to the young woman's friend, "gi' me a hand
gettin' her across." MacLaird and the soldier gently picked Aurellan
up and carried her back to the Baranurian lines.
In the healer's tent several dozen yards back from the ramparts,
Evris, the Baranurians' only healer, was preparing his large tent for
the numerous casualties that were certain to arrive once battle was
joined. Evris was not alone, though. He had ten assistants, two of
whom had shown that they might posses the aptitude to become healers
themselves given some intensified instruction in the healers art.
None of his assistants had seen anything like the horrible
injuries the wounded would be suffering from and that worried Evris.
The aging healer had been plying his trade for thirty years in the
King's service and had seen it all. Those thirty years had taken their
toll. Of late, Evris had been considering leaving the Royal Army and
retiring to Magnus, perhaps to a teaching position at the University.
After this campaign, his was certain he would retire. Thirty years of
tending to those whose business it is to maim and kill is enough for
anyone.
The flap to the tent opened and two soldiers, one soaking wet,
carried in a third soldier with a bloody gash across the abdomen.
Evris pointed to a table to his left and the two soldiers set their
wounded comrade down. "Ethros, finish laying out these instruments.
You two, let's get started on this one."
When Evris emerged three quarters of a bell later he found a
somewhat dry Colour Sergeant MacLaird, an anxious Lord Morion and two
of the force's Commanders waiting for him.
"She's alive, but just barely and that for not much longer."
"Can she speak?" Morion asked intently.
"My Lord, she has received a sword-cut to the abdomen. She is in
a great deal of pain and I've been forced to give her a potion that
makes her very groggy. She's dying."
"I realize that, Evris, but I must know what happened to the
patrol. Our continued survival may depend on it."
"Very well, My Lord. I can give her something to bring her around
but you must be quick, My Lord."
"That will suffice."
"You and one other, My Lord."
Morion motioned for MacLaird to follow and the two stepped past
Evris and entered the dark tent.
"Through that flap and to your right, My Lord. I'll be there
shortly with a potion."
Morion nodded and he and MacLaird stepped through the flap
leading to the area reserved for the more seriously wounded. Aurellan
was lying unconscious on a pallet, a blood-soaked bandage covering her
wound.
Evris entered the closed-off area carrying a bowl filled with a
vile-smelling brew. He sat on the pallet and tilted the bowl to the
dying woman's lips. Within moments, Aurellan began to show signs of
waking.
"Lassie?" MacLaird tentatively asked. "Lassie, can ye hear me?"
Aurellan opened her eyes a fraction. "Who...where...?"
"Aurellan, it's Lord Morion and Colour Sergeant MacLaird," Morion
said in a gentle voice. "Can you tell us what happened to your
patrol?"
"Patrol?" Aurellan repeated weakly.
"Yes, Aurellan, your patrol. Concentrate. Tell us what happened."
"Patrol...patrol...oh, yes. Ambushed."
"Where? When?"
"Don't...don't re...remember. Hurts."
MacLaird broke in. "We know it does, lass. All ye ha' tae do is
answer a few wee questions an' then ye can sleep."
"The patrol, Aurellan," Morion's stern tone resumed, "tell us of
the patrol."
"Benisons," she responded in a still-groggy voice. "Ran into some
few bells northwest. Lots. Tried to get away but caught us. Stupid
officer. Wouldn't listen when tried tell him we should scram.
Beinisons kept coming. No more arrows. Keenan...Keenan went down.
Couldn't save him." Aurellan was crying now, the tears silently
flowing; the strength to do more than that was gone.
"It's a'right, lass. We'll nae trouble ye anamore."
Evris stepped forward with a bowl half-full of a sweet-smelling
liquid. "Drink this, Aurellan." Evris helped the young woman drink.
She'd breathed her last even as Morion and MacLaird were exiting the
tent.
Outside, Morion stared at the ground for long moments. Neither
man seemed willing to break the silence. Eventually, Morion's warrior
training reasserted itself, reminding him that he had a commander's
duty to perform that took precedence over everything else, even grief
for a departed student.
"The pickets should be doubled."
"Sair," MacLaird protested, "tha men are verra tired. They ha'
been workin' on tha ramparts since before sunrise."
"And they'll work on the ramparts long after the sun sets. The
enemy is almost upon us. We'll have plenty of time to rest after the
battle." If the gods see fit to spare anyone.
"Aye, sair. Ah'll see to it straight away."
Morion massaged his neck muscles as MacLaird walked away.
Consequently, it took several moments before Morion realized MacLaird
had stopped. "Something, Colour Sergeant?"
MacLaird pointed. "Aye, sair, ye might say tha'."
Morion looked in the direction MacLaird was pointing. The senior
Regimental commander, Commander Vroneth, was striding briskly towards
Evris' tent. From the set of his face, Morion could hazard a guess as
to what news Vroneth was bringing. So could the soldiers whom Vroneth
passed on his way. Work throughout the camp came to a halt as the
soldiers' intuition told them something was up.
Vroneth marched sharply to Morion and halted, giving a
parade-ground salute. "Report, Commander."
"My Lord," Vroneth said, "the sentries report Beinisonians
approaching from the north. Thousands of them."
"Right." Morion sighed. "This is it, then. Stand to, Commander."
"Sir!" Vroneth moved away from the tent, catching the eye of
Morion's bugler as he went.
Vroneth stopped, facing the camp. He filled his lungs with air.
"Stand...to!"
The clarion call of the trumpet filled the air, its rising notes
summoning the Baranurians to the ramparts, stirring the blood with its
call to battle.
Marcus Ridgewater stood on one of the two towers flanking the
gate and watched the unfolding scene in the Royal Army camp only a few
hundred yards from Gateway.
"Should we stand to as well, sir?" asked a young officer of
Gateway's small complement of soldiers.
Marcus remained silent. He wanted to answer "Yes," to tell the
youngster to sound the alarm. But he could not. For he was bound by
orders to do nothing. The Lord Keeper's son - make that, the new Lord
Keeper, Ne'on - had ordered Marcus to remain aloof from the conflict.
Ne'on thought to keep Gateway removed from the war. Marcus
snorted in disgust. He turned to the waiting officer. "No," he ground
out.
"But, sir!"
"I said 'No' and I meant it. I don't expect you to question me
again."
MacLaird walked with a steady measured pace along the rampart
behind the soldiers of his Battalion. "Steady, lads. Remember, they're
just flesh an' blood like we are. Do wha' ye're told, listen tae ye're
sergeants, an' show those wee bastards wha' Laird Morion ha' taught
ye." His words echoed those of the squad sergeants and did more to
ready his troops than any oration could have.
As yet, no enemy had appeared. Almost a quarter of a bell had
passed since the stand to had been given. Two of the three Baranurian
Regiments manned the ramparts along with Morion's Battalion, now under
the command of Colour Sergeant MacLaird. Lord Morion waited behind the
ramparts with the reserve, Vroneth's Regiment.
An uneasy feeling had come over MacLaird but he couldn't pin down
the cause. It took him several moments to realize that what was
causing his uneasiness was the total absence of sound other than that
made by man. The Lederian pushed his way through the ranks 'till he
found himself up against the wooden palisade of the ramparts
themselves. He stood motionless, staring across the river with every
fibre of his being, as if by sheer force of will he could force the
Beinisonians to reveal themselves to him. (In the back of his mind the
thought that the enemy might have wizards fluttered around until he
caught it and squashed it; he absolutely refused to contemplate such a
catastrophic happenstance.)
Very shortly he was rewarded with the sight of the enemy, a
reward MacLaird would have just as well gone without. One moment there
was nothing, just the slowly flowing water of the Vodyanoi and the
gentle slope of the hill on the far bank, then the hill was moving as
three thousand five hundred of Beinison's elite marched into view,
light sabres banging against their legs as they ran.
The Beinisonians stopped at the base of the hill, a scant few
yards from the water's edge. An elegantly armored rider trotted his
mount out in front of the enemy line and rode parallel with the
Baranurian fortifications. He was obviously the commander of the
Beinisonian force. He studied the Baranurian defenses with an arrogant
air. Finally, finished with his study, he rode back within his own
lines and issued orders to a group of similarly attired mounted
officers. His orders given, he galloped his horse to the top of the
hill as his officers dismounted and moved to their units.
The Baranurians knew what would be next in the sequence of events
and all along the line they tensed, ready to receive the enemy. In the
very center of the line, MacLaird raised his hand, the signal for the
few archers in the force to make ready.
Across the river, the Beinisonians were arranging themselves into
four blocks of roughly eight hundred fifty men formed in thirty three
ranks of fifty. In the center of each block was carried an oak pole
topped with a golden eagle and encased in leather, the Colors of the
Beinisonian Regiments. Each was ringed by the possessing Regiment's
fiercest warriors. Every man was fully prepared to die to keep the
Colors from the enemy.
For long moments, the only sounds that could be heard were the
low but firm voices of the Baranurian Sergeants as they gave final
instructions and advice to their troops; the Beinisonians, for their
part, were utterly silent, a fact which did much to unsettle even the
most stalwart Baranurian veteran. Each line was immobile; the
Beinisonians seemed hesitant, reluctant almost, to begin the contest
and the Baranurians dared not take their attention away from the foe.
From Gateway's battlements, Marcus saw movement in the enemy's
lines which he knew the waiting Baranurian soldiers could not see;
buglers and messengers making their way to join their commander on the
hill. "Won't be long now," he said, more to himself than anyone else.
"Excuse me, sir?" the officer who had earned Marcus' wrath
earlier asked.
"Nothing. The show's about to begin." Marcus felt sick. What
Ne'on had ordered him to do was wrong. Marcus was sure he was
betraying the soldiers about to die on the Vodyanoi's south bank by
complying with Ne'on's orders. He was almost certain he was betraying
the Kingdom. But if he didn't do as Ne'on, his commander and Lord in
law, bid him do then he would just as certainly be guilty of betrayal.
Unless Ne'on were relieved of his command, he thought, noting
three horseman riding north along the Laraka, heading for Gateway.
"What do you make of that?" he asked the soldier at his side,
pointing to the three figures.
"Someone's riding toward Gateway, sir."
Marcus looked at the soldier quizzically. "What's your name,
son?"
"Andrews, sir," he answered proudly.
"Andrews, if you can't make a better assessment of those three
immediately, you'll be cleaning outhouses for the duration of your
assignment."
Andrews' face went slightly pale, and he stared intently into the
distance. "If I didn't know any better, sir..."
Marcus did not smile. "Let's assume you don't."
"Well, I'd say that was Lord Goren. But isn't he in the dungeon?"
"Officially." Just slightly, Marcus grinned.
If Ne'on's actions were to cause, or be likely to cause, the
Kingdom great harm, then Marcus might be justified in disobeying
orders. Further, if that was Goren Winston, riding with three of the
King's guards, then Marcus could assume Ne'on was no longer in
rightful possession of Gateway. Marcus was not too concerned with what
might happen to him, it was his soldier's honor - and Gateway's -
which concerned him. Marcus had to be absolutely clear in his own mind
that following Ne'on's orders would conflict with his higher duty to
King and Kingdom - and that Goren was returning with redemption.
Araminia grant me fortune, he pleaded silently. He stared at Lord
Morion's personal standard for what seemed like an eternity as his
inner thoughts maneuvered and counter-maneuvered.
Lord Morion is not properly under the King's sovereignty and yet
he is ready to sacrifice all for the slim chance that he may somehow
aid Baranur. And here I stand blowing in the wind. Ne'on has been too
long here with his accursed Black Hand. No, my duty is clear. Ne'on
may turn me into a toad or blast me to ashes but he will not have my
allegiance. Only my fealty to the King is left. I will do what I must
and Ne'on be damned!
Marcus straightened and turned. "Captain of the Guard! To me!" An
answering shout and in moments Gateway's Guard Captain was standing at
attention before his commander.
"Captain, I want you to quietly stand the garrison to."
"Sir?" The Captain was very aware of Ne'on's orders.
"You heard me, Captain. The Lord Keeper is no longer in command
of this keep. There," he pointed to the three oncoming riders, "is
Lord Goren, the new Lord Keeper. Our duty to Ne'on is finished. Our
duty to the King is not."
Marcus was rewarded with the largest (and only, so far as he
could remember) smile ever to grace the Captain's face. Obviously, the
Captain of the Guard had not well-liked his orders. As the Captain was
turning to go, Marcus stopped him with a hand. "One more thing. I want
two score archers to keep an eye on the Black Hand. They may give us
trouble. If they do, they are to be killed instantly. Handle it
yourself."
"All of them, sir?" The Captain knew the Castellan's youngest son
was a member of the Black Hand.
"All that resist, yes."
"Yes, sir."
On the hilltop on the Vodyanoi's north bank, the buglers and
messengers had reached the Light Infantry's commander. A breeze began
blowing up from the south, stirring the water slightly. At a command
from their leader, the three buglers lifted their brass horns to their
lips and blew a single note.
The standard bearers of each Regiment in the Beinisonian line
reached up and removed the leather casings from their Colors. The wind
caught them, making them snap and flutter.
Morion signalled his own buglers and the Baranurians unfurled
their Colors.
On the hilltop, the Beinisonian commander raised his sword in
salute. The enemy's horns sounded once more and the enemy line moved
forward into the water.
"A'right, m' wee bairns," MacLaird said, "make ready."
At a silent signal from their officers, the Beinisonians drew
their sabres en masse. When the enemy were approximately halfway
across a single note sounded from the hilltop. With a mighty shout the
Beinisonians hurled themselves at the ramparts.
"Now!" MacLaird shouted, dropping his arm. Here and there along
the line, bow strings thrummed and arrows dropped among the advancing
Beinisonians, felling a few of the enemy, too few to make any
difference.
The Beinisonians pounded across the ford throwing up a great
spray of water. The leading edge of the charge reached the south bank
and immediately disappeared into the staked pits the defenders had
dug; perhaps three-score of the enemy fell screaming to their deaths.
The survivors of the first rank advanced more carefully on the
ramparts now just a few yards away anxious to avoid their comrades'
fate. Not everyone was successful in avoiding the pitfalls and another
score went to meet their ancestors.
The enemy wave was at the earthen embankment now, frantically
clawing their way up towards the waiting defenders while at the same
time trying (unsuccessfully in some cases) to avoid the stakes that
made the slope look like a massive, elongated pin-cushion.
The first of the Beinisonians reached the top and the smithy's
din of combat rang out in all its fury. Men and women up and down the
line staggered back or fell clutching at slashes and cuts. More than a
few, Baranurian and Beinisonian alike, lay sprawled in death. The
fighting was bitter and the Beinisonians were taking most of the
losses. Boiled leather just could not compete with chain and scale
mail in close-quarter fighting.
After what seemed like forever to those on the ramparts, a bugle
sounded, three notes rising in successive octaves, the Beinisonian
signal to retreat. The enemy flowed back across the Vodyanoi leaving
four hundred dead and wounded. The Baranurians counted their losses at
nearly two hundred. The fighting had raged for almost a full bell.
MacLaird was relaxing on the ground after having issued orders to
remove the dead and dying. Morion came up and sat beside his friend.
"Water?" he said, offering the Lederian his canteen.
MacLaird snatched at it like a drowning man grabs a rope. Raising
the canteen to his lips, he downed it in one go. "Thank ye, sair. Tha'
was much appreciated."
Morion smiled. "What do you think?"
MacLaird thought for a moment before he answered. "Ah think we
can hold these wee buggers from now 'till Burgondonan. It's when those
other lads show up tha' we ha' soomthin' tae worry o'er."
"My thoughts exactly." Morion stared up at the sky, gaging the
sun's position. "I'd say we've no more than four or five bells."
MacLaird swallowed the chunk of bread he'd been chewing and
looked at his lord. "Aye," he agreed without emotion, "tha' be aboot
wha' Ah'd guess."
"I'm sorry, MacLaird."
"Sorry? For wha' are ye needin' tae be sorry aboot?"
"For getting us into this. I could have stayed out of this war,
you know. But my honor wouldn't let me."
"Sair, we ha' been together now for more years than Ah like tae
count. Ye ken why Ah left my clan." MacLaird paused, the moment making
him feel uncomfortable. It was unusual for the pragmatic Lederian to
make such a speech. "Sair, we saved each other tha' day in tha'
forest. Ah dinna ken it then but Ah do now. Ye ha' been my Laird an'
it ha' been my duty an' my honor tae help ye preserve yours."
"Thank you, Colour Sergeant. But my honor seems to have gotten us
killed this time."
"Wha' better way for a soldier tae meet his death than tae go
down fightin' for a good cause again' o'erwhelmin' odds?"
Morion sighed. "I'm getting too old for this."
MacLaird leaned close and spoke in low and gentle tones. "Tha'
lass will be a'right. Lady Kimmentari ha' a good head on her
shoulders. She'll scramble before anathin' cooms within' reach o'
Pentamorlo."
Horns brayed, shattering the early afternoon respite.
The second round of fighting had been raging for just over two
bells when Morion felt the ground begin to tremble. Then he saw them.
The cries of the wounded, the grunts and groans of the combatants, the
death screams, the clash of steel on steel, all were banished from
Morion's senses as his brain confirmed what his eyes were seeing.
The crest of the low hill on the other side of the river came
suddenly and menacingly alive as rank upon rank, Regiment upon
Regiment of Beinison's heavy infantry rushed into view, sun glinting
off shields and armor.
"My God!" Vroneth breathed. "Is there no end to them?"
Morion did not answer. He was far away from Gateway Keep. His
world was a blue-skinned woman whom he loved dearly and now knew he
would never set eyes on again. The vision passed. He realized someone
had been speaking to him. "What, Commander?"
"Your orders, sir?" Vroneth repeated softly.
"Orders, Commander? What good will orders do now?"
Vroneth was shocked. "But, My Lord! We must do something!"
Morion was silent long moments. "Quite right. I don't know what
came over me." He turned to regard Gateway's battlements. "If
only...but that will not happen. Ready your men, Commander. We'll
commit all our reserves. Our only chance now is to meet the enemy at
the ramparts with everything we have."
Vroneth saluted and moved off, giving orders to his officers.
When all was ready, Vroneth signalled to his bugler. At the bugle's
call the eight hundred men and women of Vroneth's Regiment marched to
join their comrades in the fight for the ramparts.
"Any word from Captain Greerson?" Castellan Ridgewater asked a
junior officer standing nearby.
"Not yet, sir."
Damn! Marcus swore. I'd feel a damn sight better if I knew for
certain the Black Hand was gone. "No plan survives contact with the
enemy."
"Sir?"
"Nothing. Are the catapults and ballistae ready?"
The officer made a quick visual check. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Set your sights on the Vodyanoi crossing." He turned to
another officer. "Make ready to open the gate. And keep an eye on
Goren... it appears he has company."
In the Keep, a member of the Black Hand was at that moment
looking out one of the high, narrow windows that were really more
arrow slit than for gazing out of.
"Are you in or out, Mak?" asked one of four Black Hand soldiers
sitting on the floor in the midst of a dice game.
"Just a moment," he replied absently.
"Come on," pushed another. "I've only got another two bells
before shift."
"What has you so interested?" the first asked.
"Something's going on. They're moving the catapults into
position."
"What?" The first soldier joined Mak by the window. "Are we under
attack?"
"Don't think so."
"What, you think the Castellan's finally found some balls?"
"Maybe. We should let Clay know about this."
"Right. Let's go."
MacLaird snarled as he swept the head off a Beinisonian
skirmisher. The Lederian's armor was splotched with blood, not all of
it the enemy's. In the best tradition of the men of Lederia he had
given himself to the battle rage and the Beinisonians were paying a
terrible price for it. Few there were among the enemy Regiments that
found the courage to go up against the seemingly insane apparition.
To his rear a bugle sounded and all at once the pressure on his
Battalion eased as Vroneth's Regiment came into the line. Then
MacLaird saw the glittering wave of the enemy heavy infantry Regiments
rolling over the Vodyanoi. "M'anam don sleibh!"
The Beinisonian light infantry were thrown back by the added
weight of Vroneth's warriors but that meant little. MacLaird knew
those heavy infantry Regiments had sealed the Baranurians' doom.
Several yards away to right of center Lord Morion looked not to
the enemy but to his camp -- even now being dismantled by his order --
and its wounded. Morion did not truly despair of dying, it is a thing
all soldiers know comes sooner or later. He knew he would make his
death a worthy one, but his being was permeated by a fear of the fate
of those who lay helpless on their blood-soaked pallets. Morion had
heard of Port Sevlyn's fate and fully expected his wounded to be
slaughtered.
"Vroneth?"
"My Lord?"
"Pass the word. There will be no retreat. We win here, or die."
Vroneth saluted gravely and moved off to inform his officers.
Goren raced full speed toward Gateway Keep, six advance scouts
following his group of four. As he sped along the river's edge, his
horse almost frothing with exertion, he saw a sight he'd never forget:
Gateway's main gates were opening. "Marcus, I love you," he thought,
and urged his men to ride faster.
The six Beinison scouts behind him were persistent, he had to
give them that. But coming up the back trails of the Laraka, where
Goren had grown up, he had spotted them and out-maneuvered them
easily. The Laraka flowed north until it met the Vodyanoi, where the
latter joined it and turned it west. Gateway was on the eastern rock
base where the two rivers met. Fortunately for Goren, the rest of the
Beinison army was on the other side of the Laraka and the Vodyanoi,
not between Goren and Gateway.
As they continued toward the keep, Goren saw six men line up with
bows, draw, and take aim.
"I hope they recognize us," yelled one of his men. "Or at least,
are damn good archers!"
"They're in Gateway," was Goren's reply. "I'd put Marcus' troops
against the Legions of Death if I had to." A flight of arrows streaked
across the sky, landing thirty yards behind them and just in front of
the pursuing Benosians. "If that doesn't give them second thoughts,
they won't have time for thirds!"
Inside the object of so many people's desire, Captain Greerson
moved carefully out of sight among the buildings close against the
keep overseeing the final positioning of his archers. A quick glance
at Gateway's siege engines told him he had little time. A quick mental
review of his dispositions left him less than totally satisfied but he
decided they would serve. They'll have to, he thought.
The main gate to the keep opened and the bulk of the Black Hand
emerged. Their attention was on the busy heavy catapult crews in the
bailey. They totally failed to notice Greerson's force concealed
nearby. Swords drawn, they advanced on the catapults. Mak, the soldier
who first noticed the garrison's efforts at changing allegiance,
opened his mouth to speak.
An arrow sprouted from his neck. He stopped, a shocked look of
disbelief on his face. He fell choking on his own blood. He was soon
joined by many of his fellows as Greerson's troops opened fire. Caught
out in the open and now leaderless, the Black Hand died before any
organized attempt at resistance could be made.
Even before the last of the Hand was dispatched, the catapults
had begun their deadly song.
At the Vodyanoi crossing, the wave of steel-clad Beinisonians was
at the halfway point when a series of low dull thuds issued from the
direction of the fortress-waypoint commanding both Vodyanoi and Laraka
rivers.
With heart-stopping suddenness huge gouts of water were thrown
into the air as boulders the size of small huts found their mark. The
first few ranks of the enemy disappeared almost without sound. The
green-blue waters of the Vodyanoi turned crimson.
Morion spun and stared, slack-jawed, at the sight of Gateway
Keep, its great gate swung wide and beckoning. It was several moments
before he or anyone could react to what their eyes transmitted to
their unbelieving brains. Morion pushed and shoved his way to his
bugler's side as another salvo from Gateway's catapults arced
overhead.
"Sound retreat!" The bugler raised his instrument to his lips and
blew a discordant sound. "Spit, boy, spit!" The young soldier wet his
lips and again tried, this time with more success.
So ended the Baranurian army's organized defense. The bugle's
call to retreat, combined with the promise of Gateway's beckoning
gate, shattered the defending force. The discipline that had held
through so much for so long fled as a wisp of fog on a blustery day.
Where once there was a line of battle ordered into Regiment and
Battalion, now there was a mob of desperate men and women frantically
trying to reach the safety of Gateway Keep.
Here and there among the chaos, a sergeant or officer tried to
rally their troops. Most met with failure. A few did succeed and
Morion pushed and shoved his way to the nearest group. He found the
leader of the group, a Captain, by the simple expedient of colliding
with her.
"My Lord!" the Captain exclaimed with some surprise.
"Good work, Captain!" Morion praised. "How many have you?"
"Between three- and four-score, My Lord."
Morion quickly assessed the overall situation, such as he was
able to amidst the confusion, and the state of the body of troops
before him. "They're shaky."
"Yes, My Lord," the Captain replied in a voice that said she,
too, was shaky.
"Well, no help for it. Can you hold them?"
"I don't know, My Lord." Seeing Morion's expression, she
amplified. "I'm sorry, My Lord, but that is the only answer I can give
you. Some will stay...I'm sorry to have failed you, sir."
"Worry about recrimination later, Captain. Right now, we've got
to get some sort of line established."
"With what?" The Captain pointed at her troops, drawn up in a
loose square. "Look at them, My Lord. The enemy has not yet gained the
rampart and already they're wavering."
"Well firm them up, Captain! Because wavering or not, in whatever
numbers you can muster, you ARE going to form line! There is no way
that ," he said, gesturing at the packed mass before Gateway's main
gate, "is going to make it inside before the Beinisionians come over
that rampart over there. We have to buy time for those at the gate and
for the wounded to get inside." To the Captain's doubtful face he
replied, "You don't have to hold the entire enemy army. When they see
a force deployed, they will also deploy and that will take time. A few
menes, even a few moments, can make a difference."
"Yes, My Lord," the Captain said sullenly.
Morion regarded her intently for a moment then issued additional
orders. "Gather what you can to you. Force them to deploy then fall
back, then deploy again and so on."
"Where will you be, My Lord?"
"I'm going to try and get some people together to help Evris get
the wounded moved. We can't leave them for the enemy."
"No, My Lord."
"Good luck," Morion wished then turned and, with his bugler
following, waded into the maelstrom.
"Goren, you blasted fool!" Marcus yelled as he worked his way
down the stairs to the courtyard. His lord had just made his way into
Gateway - probably would have died without his help - and didn't bring
half the forces Marcus had instructed him to months before. "What in
Muskadon's name are you doing? Damn good to see you, but where's your
escort? I told you to come back with a regiment of men and the King's
seal, and demand your rightful place. Burn my ashes in Rise'er's
feast, boy, you're lucky I opened those gates... Ne'on himself ordered
them shut and the garrison to stand down. If I-"
"Marcus!" Goren's voice finally made its way through the
castellan's barrage of dialogue. He looked at the castellan, smiled,
and grabbed him by the shoulders. "It's good to see you, too. Now,
where's the rest of the force? With all those men outside, I counted
on at least three more regiments in Gateway... did you deploy them
before I got in?"
Marcus' expression turned dark. "Your blasted brother,
self-proclaimed Keeper of Gateway - you took care of that business,
now, didn't you?" When Goren nodded, Marcus continued. "Ne'on ordered
the garrison to stand down, and not to allow access to Gateway. Just
recently, I countermanded that order. The catapults and ballistas are
firing on the Beinison army now, but I'm not sure how long it will
take Morion to move his troops in - and the Benosian's will be making
for the entrance as fast as he will."
Goren grasped the parchment from inside his cloak and handed it
to the Castellan. "This is the King's hand, and his decision to place
me as Keeper of Gateway. Take as many horse as you can - leave one for
me - and gather archers by the gate. I'll return in menes, Ol
willing."
As Goren turned towards his father's mansion, Marcus yelled to
him, "Watch your brother, boy... he's not to be trusted." Damn fool,
he thought, Morion and his troops don't have menes. "Captain of the
Guard!" He waited for the man to signal from the parapets. "Gather the
two archer companies and all the horse you can muster. We're going to
get our hands dirty on this one!"
MacLaird stood in front of a group of soldiers from all units and
glared at them with sword drawn. By dint of force of personality (and
outright physical threat) the Lederian had gathered twenty-two to him.
He wasn't satisfied with their morale, but it would have to do.
Off to his left and toward the ramparts, a bugle sounded -- hahn
taa-ree -- the signal "Form on me!" MacLaird smiled, a wide, vicious,
happy grin. He sheathed his sword and bellowed commands to his force.
"Hurry, Colour Sergeant!" Morion exhorted.
"Sair!" MacLaird turned to his troops and spat out a stream of
invective that would have melted stone. Morion, MacLaird, and close to
two-score ordinary soldiers were desperately, frantically trying to
move Evris' field hospital and the wounded within.
Niceties were set aside for greater concerns. Those who were too
badly wounded to walk were carried gently but swiftly towards the
safety of Gateway Keep. The dying were aided on their way with a quick
sword-stroke or dagger-thrust.
The hospital was mostly torn down and moving when the catapults
stopped.
"Keep form, men!" Marcus yelled as he and two hundred archers of
his own training were riding toward the enemy lines from behind the
Baranurian ranks. Already, swarms of Baranurian soldiers sped past,
some desperately lunging through the line of make-shift cavalry riding
their way. Marcus silently hoped no men died of stupidity in their
attempt to gain Gateway's safety.
Seeing the hospital was already broken down, Marcus concentrated
on the main bulk of the front line. At about three hundred feet, with
hundreds of fleeing soldiers around him, he gave the order to
dismount. "Concentrate your fire at the front line, enemy rear.
"Ready!" Two hundred bows pulled back, aiming at where the enemy
was deploying a force meant to wipe out one of the few small patches
of resistance left in the Baranurian force. "Aim!" Arrows steadied on
their rests. "Fire!" Two hundred arrows swarmed through the sky,
casting a small, fast-moving shadow of death over the troops until it
struck its mark. A few of the enemy were killed, more wounded, and the
advancing force slowed.
"Captains, choose your targets and command at will!" Marcus
screamed as he mounted his horse. From his position, he could barely
make out the form of a commanding officer nearly quarter of a league
away. The wind was at his back. It would be a major set back for the
enemy, he thought. Hefting his own great bow, he chose a long arrow
from the quiver. More draw for more distance, he mused. He pulled back
on the string, meeting the arrow's nock with his chin.
As he took aim, he remembered hearing stories of incredible feats
of archery, and how his childhood had been charmed with their heroic
lore. Galthamon, in the Great Houses War, had slain a commanding
officer from half a league away with a great bow. The Legion of Death,
two regiments of archers, had defeated entire armies on their own. He
gauged the wind another moment, and fired.
The arrow seemed to be in the air for an eternity as it sped
towards its target. Marcus had adjusted for wind, distance, height
difference... to no avail. It struck the ground harmlessly an easy
twenty feet from the Beinison officer, barely noticed by an aid, and
considered a random shot by all around. The officer did, however,
quickly remove his presence from the sight of the enemy army.
Marcus thought all those stories about Galthamon were a little
over stated, and returned to the situation at hand. His force of
archers were causing a noticeable gap between the enemy and Baranurian
troops. Morion's mobile hospital, looking over his shoulder, was
almost at Gateway. In fact, there were very few troops between he and
the enemy, and all of them were moving towards safety.
"Cease fire!" he yelled. "Mount up, and ride for Gateway. In
form!"
(to be continued...)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Sons of Gateway 7: Reunion
Yule 17, 1014 B.Y.
by Jon Evans
(b.c.k.a. <godling@sytex.com>)
Gemstone Expedition, day 94, Lieutenant
Howen, reporting: we spent six weeks in the
cave of the magicians, healing our wounds and
re-stocking our supplies with theirs. It
took longer than expected to recover from the
damages... I guess the injuries went deeper
than we thought. Hanlar blames it on Lord
Ne'on's gem - a two-foot, purple, uncut piece
of something I've never seen before. I told
him it was the altitude and the thin air, and
we left the next morning.
Everyone seemed to feel better just
leaving the cave. But three weeks later, the
gem is still glowing, we're losing weight
rapidly, and one of the horses just up and
died. No explanation. The other horses
bucked their way free, and bolted. That was
three nights past, and we've been walking
ever since - I only hope things go well
until Gateway. Our water supplies will run
short in another day or two, but we should be
able to make it to the Laraka by then, and
our going will be easier. We should be able
to scavenge both food and water at the river.
For the past few days, there have been
large dust clouds to the west, and swarms of
buzzards. I sent a scout to find out what's
going on.
"Lieuten't," Hanlar spoke from the opening of the tent, his six
foot frame filling the space between the flaps. "Scout's come back. I
think you might wanna take this 'un in yuir tent, sir."
Howen looked at his junior officer, a man who knew the
disreputable men in this mission better than himself, and beckoned him
in with the scout. Walkins, the man who Hanlar had picked for the job,
looked shaken, a little pale, and out of breath. His black matted hair
was speckled with bits of grass and brush, and the mud on his knees
was dry, but dark. Running for two days, Howen figured, and trying to
keep out of sight of whatever it was he saw.
"Go'n, Walkins, tell the Lieuten't wha' ye saw," Hanlar pushed
the man forward a bit. Walkins stepped with the push, and looked
wide-eyed at Howen. He looked back at the Sergeant, then started.
"S'like this, Sir... there's a batch o' bad luck - bout a keg o'
pitchers - comin' this way - ow!" He clutched his shoulder as the pain
from Hanlar's punch made its way into his muscle.
"This ain't the sewers o' Magnus, ye scum! Talk odd to 'im!
Sorry, Lieuten't," Hanlar added, "the rats o' the land 'ave their own
language. Pitchers, see... beers, drinks, what 'ave ye... they's town
guards to thievin' scum. Keg o' pitchers, must be lots o' guards. Or
troops."
"Aye, Cap'n, and bad ale is they."
Hanlar scowled a moment, then looked at his Lieutenant. "Not
flyin' Baranur's colors, sir."
Howen looked at his sergeant, the lines around the man's eyes,
the chapping of his lips. He'd been through a lot, lately - they all
had - and was in no shape to assault an enemy army. If it was an
enemy, and not some envoy travelling in from Bichu or some other
realm. Too far north and west to be Beinison, surely. "Walkins, what
direction are they headed?"
Walkins leaned forward and almost whispered, "Straight for
Gateway, I'd bet me mother's knickers."
* * *
Riding North to Gateway after his brief audience with the King,
Goren Winston felt clean for what seemed like the first time in ages.
He had a horse to ride, three men who knew him, and he was in charge
again. It felt comfortable, despite the circumstances. How he and
three of his uncle's House Troops were to enter Gateway, depose Ne'on,
and fortify it against any possible invasion were only small matters
when he thought of Phos.
Phos, the Demon. Not in the sense that he ever thought of demons,
but then he had never met one, or even thought much about them. This
one seemed more like a mad war general. He couldn't explain it, but
from the brief time Phos had exposed himself to Goren, Goren felt as
though he knew Phos; at least, a little bit. Goren knew that Phos'
entry to this world couldn't be allowed. It could cause more harm than
this whole war. He only wished he had been able to talk with Lord
Equiville about dealing with the matter, but the High Mage had been
unavailable for the one afternoon Goren had spent in Magnus.
Then, of course, there was Rho. She wasn't nagging him. She
wasn't preaching Stevenic platitudes to him. She wasn't giving him
orders or telling him things that made no sense. The only thing that
bothered Goren was that she simply wasn't there, and he didn't like
that. He liked her not being there. He didn't like the fact that it
bothered him. He'd have to talk with Marcus about that one.
If his father were alive, Kald would tell him to take her to the
hunting cabin, light a fire, pour some wine. He smiled when he
remembered the first time he had done that. In his naive youth, he
thought they would just sit by the fire and drink wine. Maybe talk
about hunting, which fascinated him and therefore must be fascinating
to everyone! He smiled again, and pulled himself out of those thoughts
as one of his men rode up from ahead.
"Lord Keeper!"
"What is it, Wilkes?"
"I estimate we're about two bell's from Gateway, my lord."
The guard looked nervous. Their position relative to Gateway was
obvious. Goren had travelled the road many times in the last
twenty-four years of his life. Goren lifted the iron cap from his head
to wipe back the brown hair falling in his eyes. "Yes, I'd say that
was about right. Is there a problem?"
"Well, sir, to be honest..." The guard looked around for a
moment, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news.
"Wilkes, when communication breaks down, problems become
catastrophes. Catastrophes cause irreversible damage. Great men become
great by avoiding the collapse of communication."
"Your uncle always told us that, Lord Keeper."
"Good, then what's the problem?"
"I think the war has made its way to Gateway, my lord."
Goren halted his steed. "Excuse me?"
"The war, my lord. When we get over this ridge," the guard
pointed to the hill he had just come over, "you'll see Gateway in the
distance. Looks like some troops have dug in outside her walls,
probably Beinison since they're not being let in, but I could have
sworn I saw Baranur's colors. The Winston flag still flies from
Gateway, though, my lord."
"You didn't see Beinison colors?"
"No, my lord, but there's a hill not two leagues past the joining
of the Laraka and the Vodyanoi."
"I know it well, Wilkes, it's on the west road to Port Sevlyn."
"There's one more thing, Lord Winston."
Goren sighed. "Yes?"
"My lord, if you'll look at the sky behind you..."
Goren turned and looked up. The slightly cloudy sky was darkened
by rising dust some distance behind. But for the trees, they might be
able to see the cause from the hill top. Goren sighed. He guessed he
had fifty leagues or less on the forces behind him.
There were forces stationed outside Gateway, which probably meant
Gateway was full. Two regiments normally made up Gateway's garrison;
another five could be squeezed if the surrounding population didn't
expect protection. Figure on six regiments inside her walls. If
Gateway was being fortified by the King's men, then Port Sevlyn must
be in danger of falling. That didn't make sense - Beinison is south of
Baranur, and Gateway Keep is north of Magnus, Baranur's capital city.
The battalions at Gateway must be on their way east, to the Duchies of
Pyridain and Westbrook.
One thing was certain, he didn't have time to sit there and
wonder about it. "Let's ride for Gateway, full gallop."
* * *
"Captain Clay," Ne'on's voice called out. "I require your
assistance."
Clay turned from his conversation with Marcus Ridgewater and
opened the door to Ne'on's sanctuary. He didn't usually engage in
conversation with Gateway's castellan, but he and Ridgewater had found
a common point of interest in Lord Morion's troops. Stationed outside
Gateway's walls, Morion's men didn't have a chance of holding out
against the Beinison forces on their way. And, without Morion's aid
inside the keep, the two thousand under Ne'on's command would be
devastated as well.
Before entering the Lord Keeper's quarters, Bartholomew Clay
turned to the Castellan: "Marcus, it is Ne'on's order that we stand
down. And, it is to his Black Hand that you will have to answer for
any action against him."
The captain closed the door to Ne'on's sanctuary, shutting the
confused castellan out, and himself in. Ne'on was standing by his
table of vials, powders, and live animals. The wizard likes his
components fresh, Clay thought. He advanced to where Ne'on was staring
at a bottle of crystal-blue liquid. "What is it, Lord Keeper?"
Ne'on turned to Clay and frowned. "Your ignorance baffles me," he
said. "Haven't you, in all your years of sword play, ever required the
assistance of a magical potion? To cure wounds, ease the pain, that
sort of thing."
"Yes. But, they were an opaque blue, maybe blue-green depending
on who sold them. Not clear like that one."
Ne'on slammed the bottle onto the table, nearly shattering it.
"That!" he exclaimed, his eyes burning with intense excitement. "That
is the presence of the Stone! Come..." Ne'on nearly ran to the
inscription of the mystic circle on the floor. "We're about to
complete our business in Gateway. This time tomorrow," Ne'on stared up
into oblivion, "the stars will be within my grasp."
Clay took a good, long look at the man who was employing him. He
had done this the first time he had met Ne'on, just outside Magnus'
infamous fifth quarter. Then, he had seen only a second son of a minor
noble - a son who wanted his brother out of the way for monetary
reasons. He had been used to dealing with men like that - there were
many second sons in Baranur's seventeen duchies. A few had already
employed Clay to make them the first son.
Now, however, Clay saw something different: either a man of some
magical skill who was not fully in touch with reality; or something
undescribable, filled with potential but frustrated by the limits
of... He didn't know. If Ne'on was the first, life in Gateway would
soon cease to be a comfortable thing for Clay. If Ne'on was the
second, then someone had better make sure whatever was limiting him
continued to do so. Either way, Clay thought, it's almost time I left
Gateway to its own fate.
The Captain's thoughts were interrupted by Ne'on's words. "Clay,
bring my black-handled dagger, the red incense, and the Lederian red
wine. They're over by the window. You know what to do with them.
Afterwards, clear the table with the animals and bring it to the edge
of the circle. I'll need it to support the Stone."
As Ne'on sat cross-legged in the center of the circle,
concentrating his will in preparation of the spell, Bartholomew went
to the window to gather Ne'on's items. From there, he could see out to
the main towers of the bailey, and the catapults which were moving
into attack positions. Gateway was slowly, and quietly, standing to.
Bartholomew Clay smiled as he pondered the situation, and brought
the items Ne'on had requested within the circle. Marcus knew the Black
Hand would move against him when his actions were realized. However,
the present force of the Hand numbered only twenty, give or take a few
of the youths. The regular guard, on the other hand, numbered over
2000, and were all but fanatical followers of the castellan.
Clay slowly and meticulously placed the dagger on the alter
within Ne'on's circle. He then replaced the ashes in the burner with
the incense Ne'on desired, and filled the ceremonial goblet with wine.
He took his time, more than was necessary, making sure the salt on the
altar was plentiful, and the candles weren't so low they would burn
out in less than a bell. He even checked to make sure the altar itself
was facing East, even though it hadn't been moved since Ne'on placed
it there over a year before. When Clay heard the sound of boots
running down the hallway outside, he knew his patience had paid off.
Captain Clay opened the door before Mak, one of the Black Hand,
could knock: disturbing Ne'on prior to his spell casting could be
dangerous. "Outside, and quietly," the captain said to his sergeant.
Once outside the room, Clay shut the door carefully. "Now, what is
it?"
"Captain, it's the castellan," Mak answered.
"Is something wrong with him?" Clay feigned ignorance. He was
certain Ridgewater would take steps to insure Gateway's protection
from the Black Hand and he had no wish to be involved.
"No, sir. He's ordered the catapults into position. In a few
menes, Gateway will be involved in that mess outside!"
"Hmmnn... gather the Hand and commandeer the catapults. When
that's done, take a few men and arrest the castellan. By order of the
Lord Keeper."
"What are you going to do?"
"Ne'on's ordered me to stay here and assist him, I've got to do
just that. Now go, and hurry up. You don't have much time."
As Mak turned and ran down the hall, Bartholomew re-entered
Ne'on's sanctuary. He was sending those men to their deaths. He knew
it, and he didn't care. They were mostly low-life scum, to him, and if
Ridgewater didn't get the reaction he was expecting from the Black
Hand he'd know something was up. Besides, their deaths would give
Marcus the impression that Clay was as good as dead. As soon as Ne'on
began his second spell - one which Clay had been told would take some
bells - the former captain of the soon-to-be-extinct Black Hand would
be working his way out of Gateway. To where, he didn't know.
Gemstone Expedition, lost track of the
day, Lieutenant Howen reporting. If all
things come in threes, then only my death
remains. Funny how you get philosophical
when situations are desperate. The first
tragedy occurred with the Beinison force's
advance scouts. We were taken by surprise
four times by relatively small groups; they
were, however, better trained, armored, and
fed than our more sizeable force. The fifth,
and last attack took place more than two
bells ago - this time we were ready,
foregoing movement in order to fortify our
position. The entire attacking group - only
a squad of light infantry - were killed, with
heavy losses inflicted on our side. We now
number only four. We lost Hanlar in that
last skirmish; a man without whom I would
have failed this mission, or at least already
been dead. Hoping to avoid further contact,
I've ordered the men moving again - straight
for Gateway.
The forest and hills are excellent for
hiding. Often, this works against the people
doing the hiding. When we emerged form our
cover, only leagues from our destination, we
were greeted with a horrendous sight: Gateway
under siege. This was the second tragedy.
There seems to be a force of about three
Baranurian regiments outside her walls. They
are defending themselves valiantly against
the light infantry of Beinison, but the heavy
infantry have just begun to close. Shortly,
the massacre will begin, and our deaths will
follow. That will be-
"Lieutenant Howen," a voice called, and the Lieutenant looked up
from his log to see a virtual ghost. Not more than six feet from the
leader of this expedition stood the wispery form of Ne'on Winston,
Lord Keeper of Gateway.
"My lord?" Howen answered. He could not believe his eyes.
Certainly, between the bloodshed he had witnessed, the starvation he
was suffering from, and his lack of sleep he must have gone mad. It
was the only answer he could imagine.
"Do not be afraid, Lieutenant, I offer salvation." With a wave of
his hand, Ne'on formed a shimmering circle in front of Howen. "Call
your men, carry the stone through the circle - you soon will be within
the safe walls of Gateway. Hurry now, this area is not safe."
The image faded before Howen could reply. "Men," he called, "pick
up the cursed stone and follow me."
The three remaining members of the Black Arm hefted the stone
with the poles they had been using to carry it. They were weak, tired,
and hungry, but blood pumped excitedly through their veins at the
sight of salvation. The lieutenant ordered his men through the circle
first, not concerned with his life now that escape was so close. When
the stone entered the circle, however, only it disappeared, leaving
Howen and his three men behind. The lieutenant began to cry.
As a large, purple stone appeared from out of nothing and floated
toward the table, Clay stared at his lord. "You deserted them."
"Of course I did, Clay - I never intended for them to live."
Ne'on looked reproachingly at the captain. "Is something wrong, Clay?
Haven't you ever left a man to die before?"
"I kept my word, Ne'on. I may be a mercenary-"
"Assassin, more accurately."
"As you wish. But if I make a promise, I keep it."
"Your right, Clay," Ne'on mocked. "It was terrible of me to go
back on my word. I regret it, truly. Satisfied?"
Clay spat on the floor. "You have no dignity, Ne'on." Clay turned
to leave.
"Leave now, Clay, and you won't be coming back."
"That is how I intended it."
"Well, then, good bye."
A sphere of complete blackness formed around Ne'on's head, then
launched itself in Clay's direction. Bartholomew jumped quickly to the
right, swinging his sword at the dark sphere. The ball of darkness
flew past, striking the door to the corridor and enveloping it.
Instantly, the door burst in flames and was reduced to cinders. The
black ball was gone. Clay leapt to his feet and dove head first into
the hallway. As he ran from the room, he could hear Ne'on's laughter
following him.
* * *
Goren and the three guards of House Winston were riding full
gallop, as much to make haste to Gateway as to lose the advance scouts
following close behind. Goren hoped that close proximity to Gateway
would deter the Beinison squad, but when they got to within quarter of
a league from the keep, the scouts were still at their backs. He
thanked Nehru the pursuers didn't have bows to shoot him in the back,
and cursed his lack of foresight for not having brought any himself.
A loud horn rang out from Gateway's parapets at about the same
time ballistas began firing their heavy load into the Vodyanoi.
Looking ahead, Goren noticed the gates of Gateway were opening, and a
barrel-chested man in scale armor was waving to Goren from the
parapets. "There's home, men! Run 'em dead if you have to, but we're
almost there!" As Goren and the guards made their way into Gateway
Keep, five of Marcus' archers convinced the Benosian scouts to head
back to camp.
"Goren, you blasted fool!" Marcus yelled as he worked his way
down the stairs to the courtyard. "What in Muskadon's name are you
doing? Damn good to see you, but where's your escort? I told you to
come back with a regiment of men and the King's seal, and demand your
rightful place. Burn my ashes in Rise'er's feast, boy, you're lucky I
opened those gates... Ne'on himself ordered them shut and the garrison
to stand down. If I-"
"Marcus!" Goren's voice finally made its way through the
castellan's barrage of dialogue. He looked at the castellan, smiled,
and grabbed him by the shoulders. "It's good to see you, too. Now,
where's the rest of the force? With all those men outside, I counted
on at least three more regiments in Gateway... did you deploy them
before I got in?"
Marcus' expression turned dark. "Your blasted brother,
self-proclaimed Keeper of Gateway - you took care of that business,
now, didn't you?" When Goren nodded, Marcus continued. "Ne'on ordered
the garrison to stand down, and not to allow access to Gateway. Just
recently, I countermanded that order. The catapults and ballistas are
firing on the Beinison army now, but I'm not sure how long it will
take Morion to move his troops in - and the Benosian's will be making
for the entrance as fast as he will."
Goren grasped the parchment from inside his cloak and handed it
to the Castellan. "This is the King's hand, and his decision to place
me as Keeper of Gateway. Take as many horse as you can - leave one for
me - and gather archers by the gate. I'll return in menes, Ol
willing."
As Goren turned towards his father's mansion, Marcus yelled to
him, "Watch your brother, boy... he's not to be trusted."
Bartholomew Clay never thought he'd see Goren Winston again;
certainly not in the fine-clothed garb of a nobleman. Goren Winston,
however, seemed to be looking forward to their present situation. Clay
was running down the corridor from the direction of what appeared to
be Kald's old quarters. Goren, albeit tired from running the horses
near to death, was armed, armored, and feeling healthier than he had
in months.
"Clay," Goren called. He couldn't remember the rest of the man's
name, or his title, or very much at all about the man. His familiar,
long blonde hair, and his left-handed sword - what was left of it -
were all Goren needed to jostle his memory.
Bartholomew stopped, surprised at Goren's appearance, and noted
the sword by his side and the armor on his person. The captain of the
former Black Hand, Ne'on's personal guard, and the Black Arm,
Gateway's now-defunct elite militia, held his sword in front of him,
anticipating an attack. Looking down the length of his blade, however,
he noted the farthest half was missing. Had Ne'on's black sphere done
that?
"You have me at an advantage, Winston. My blade seems to be..."
He chuckled, "incomplete."
Goren drew his own blade, strong and trustworthy, and stared at
the man. He was terrible with a blade, and knew Clay could easily
defeat him, normally. Goren rationalized that this made them even.
"You had the advantage, a year ago, when I was drunk in Magnus. And
again, while I lay in shock in the dungeon, did you tell your men to
stop kicking me? Did the bludgeoning I received inspire pity or
remorse on your part? You have a sword, broken though it is, and a
dirk at your side. Use them."
As Goren advanced, swinging clumsily at Clay, the captain back
peddled down the corridor. He recognized the lack of skill in Goren's
footwork, the complete non-mastery of blade control. In some respects,
he thought, this made Winston more dangerous than someone who knew
what he was doing. Bartholomew thought he might die, this day.
"I have an offer for you, Winston. My life for yours."
Goren almost laughed. Clay was obviously not in the position to
bargain, but he seemed ernest. He wondered. "How do you mean?"
"In Ne'on's sanctuary, he's preparing a spell. Something about
bringing Phos into the world. He sent eighty men to their deaths
already, getting some damn spell component. My guess is, as soon as
Phos gets here, we're all dead. I can't stop him, but maybe you can."
"How would I stop Phos? He's..."
"Not Phos. Ne'on. Of course, you'll have to kill him."
That thought struck Goren hard. He'd thought he might have to
force his brother to rescind the seat. Maybe push the man who used to
be his little brother around a bit, scare him into complying. Death
had been there, in the back of his mind, but he had foolishly hoped
banishment would solve the problem. But that simply would have been
hoping for someone else to take responsibility.
Clay continued. "Not just any death, either. You can't take
chances. You'll have to chop his head off his shoulders. Let his blood
pour out on the floor until his lifeless body falls in a heap. That's
the only way you can be sure. Phos has to be stopped, and your brother
is in the way."
"I can talk to him. Ne'on will listen to me."
"Maybe once, but not now. The spell's already started. If you
don't get in there soon, it may be too late. As it is, you can't waste
time fighting with me. My life for yours."
"If you're still in Gateway when I get out of that room, I'll
have you killed."
Clay smiled. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
When Goren entered what used to be his father's study, he
stopped. The trophies along the wall had been torn down in place of
shelves littered with potion bottles and books. Where an ornate rug
used to be, a red pentagram had been inscribed within a circle, the
rug rolled up in one corner. And, over the flames burning in the
fireplace was a cast iron kettle of no small size.
Ne'on was there, too, sitting in the circled pentagram,
concentrating on something - the stone glowing in front of him,
perhaps. Candles were lit about the circle, and a small altar burned
incense and coal in the center of it all.
As Goren stepped forward with sword in hand, a voice filled his
head with doubt. "Can I kill my brother?" it asked. "How do I know
what he intends to do? Clay told me? Who is Bartholomew Clay that I
should trust him? He was probably lying to save his own life,
worthless and puny that it is. And Ne'on is my brother."
He answered that voice. "What else is there? Phos has revealed
himself to me. Phos has already told me of his plans to gain entry to
this world, and to destroy anything and everything he can. Ne'on was,
as near as I could tell, in Phos' total control the last time I saw
him."
The last time I saw him was seven months ago. Phos might be
nothing.
He killed my father. He tortured me in prison.
I switched the cups. The guards tortured me in prison, as they
probably do every prisoner sentenced to life. He's your brother, by
J'mirg, you can't kill a man when he's not looking!
Goren suddenly started toward the circle again. "I don't worship
dark J'mirg, Phos - get out of my head!"
A reddish form appeared over the glowing stone in the circle. It
seemed more human than the last time Goren had seen it, but the flames
were still evident in its eyes, and fire seemed to drip like saliva
from its over-sized jowls. It was Phos, as he intended to enter this
world.
"Greetings, Kald's eldest son;
You've come too late, I've won.
This life new shall I make;
This worthless world I'll take.
Immortality 'waits,
With death's and blood's complaint.
J'mirg's son shall entrance gain,
Peaceful Lordsrealm's plane."
Goren continued toward the circle, but something - Phos, he
guessed, or the magic Ne'on was using to summon him - stopped his
entrance. The circle protected Ne'on from harm while Ne'on summoned
the world's damnation. Kind of ironic, Goren thought.
"Entrance this circle ye,
Been forbade while armed thee.
Ghastly goals no easy task,
With th'hands must lift death's mask.
Given you choice has he,
Ne'on dies, but not me.
Releas'd am I, his head gone,
With his head, I'm undone."
Goren looked at Phos. The demon - so Goren called him, for he
knew no better - had lied to him before. But it was rhyming. Why did
that stir something in his memory? Rhymes were sometimes used in
spells. Was Phos taking the time to cast a spell, while Ne'on summoned
him here? If so, and he understood Phos' words correctly, Goren
couldn't enter the circle armed. And if he didn't stop Ne'on, the
bloodshed outside would propel Phos into Lordsrealm.
So, Gateway would be safe anyway. He could just sit there and
wait for Ne'on to finish the spell. Ne'on didn't have to die. He
didn't have to take Ne'on's throat in his hands and squeeze the life
out of him. But, what would happen in Lordsrealm? According to
religion, Lordsrealm was where all the gods - at least, from that
religion - resided. So, if Goren sat back, and watched the spell come
to completion, Phos would eventually disappear into his reward.
Reward for murder. Reward for deaths which, if Goren could, he
would prevent. And how many deaths were needed? Would the thousands
massed at Gateway be enough? How about just the Royal Duchy? Even if
it numbered only tens, or one, it would be too much. It was evil.
Ne'on, Goren had to admit, as much as he loved what Ne'on used to be,
was evil. He played in this willingly. Goren dropped his sword and
entered the circle.
"Thy step sounds in the fire,
As sour notes from a lyre.
With your hands must death make,
And Ne'on's life thee take.
Make no haste, time is still,
Take pause, gather your will.
The spell nears its bright end,
Life is precious to defend."
Goren looked up at Phos, whose form was beginning to solidify.
The air within the circle grew heavy with heat and a smell like embers
from a cedar fire. He watched as Phos breathed his first breath of air
on Makdiar. He looked at his brother, helpless, still entranced and
oblivious to the imposing death in both Phos' and Goren's presence. He
still could not kill - Ne'on was, after all, his brother. Someone with
whom he had grown, and learned.
Goren grabbed a small pentagram and the incense on the table,
feeling the pain as the incense burned in his hand. "To any god that
will listen, give me the strength to send Phos back to whatever
damnation he came from!"
Goren made to grab the Stone of Strength, completely ignorant of
its powers, but Phos was already complete. With a swipe of his massive
arm, Goren was knocked back three feet to the edge of the circle,
colliding with the same force that had kept him out of the circle the
first time. Blood trickled down from his nose, but for the most part,
he was only dazed.
Phos stepped toward him, grabbed him by his armor, and lifted him
to face level. "You could have run, little human. I would have spared
your life - one Winston was enough for my plans. If you had left
Gateway, you could have lived a full, long life. But trapped within
this circle, you are mine to devour, piece by piece. Body and soul."
"Think again, Phos," Goren replied, "I don't know much about
magic, but if I can't physically leave this circle, neither can you."
"Don't be obtuse," Phos smiled. Reaching his arm out to the
circle's perimeter, "Of course I ca-" His arm was stopped by the force
of the magic circle. "The little gnat."
Dropping Goren to the ground, Phos stepped over to Ne'on, who was
still half in a trance. Phos grabbed Ne'on by the neck, lifting him up
to face Phos, and breaking Ne'on's concentration. "Little gnat, what
are you doing? Release this spell, or I shall painfully remove vital
organs from your body."
Ne'on half smiled, though the pain he was already suffering was
evident. Phos' grip on his neck was not gentle. "Heh - first spell I
ever cast without you, Phos. Tied this circle into your being. Didn't
think I could do it, but you're stuck here, just like me. Till you
die. Ow! Heh... Hello, brother. Nice to see you again. Sorry you got
stuck her- ulg."
Phos stuck his finger down Ne'on's throat and grabbed his tongue.
Ne'on screamed and flailed, teears running down his face. With a
sickening, wet, ripping sound, Phos removed the greater portion of
Ne'on's tongue and dropped it on the floor. Ne'on's breathing gurgled
as the blood welled up in this mouth. "Did that hurt? No, don't
answer. I can see that it did."
Goren grabbed the stone from Ne'on's altar: the Stone of Strength
which had been abducted by Ne'on from the Nar-Enthruen. The Stone into
which, in a desperate attempt to ward off the Black Arm, the remaining
magi had poured their powers. The Stone which, as the Black Arm had
transported it to Gateway, slowly sapped the life force of the
surviving members of that expedition. And the Stone which, as a
component of Ne'on's last spell, had been actively conducting magic
like heat through metal. Goren grabbed the stone and, lifting it with
all his might, brought it forcibly up against Phos' head.
The stone impacted with him and Phos writhed in agony, screaming
as his life was sucked into the Stone. He resisted the Stone's pull,
desperately grabbing at the floor, the altar... to no avail. His life
dimished even faster. As Phos' power decreased, the Stone's increased.
The pulsing rock began to heave with powers it was never meant to
contain. A crack formed around its base where Phos' head had met it in
a downward stroke, and a brilliant light began emanating from it. The
air was pierced by a shattering sound, purple light filled the room,
and fragments of stone exploded into the confines of the mystical
circle.
When Goren regained his sight, and his sense of feeling, the
trickling wetness in his left thigh caught his attention. A shard of
the Stone had plunged deep into his leg, searing his skin upon
entrance. His leg was nearly useless. As he felt about the rest of his
body, noting only minor cuts through his armor, he heard Ne'on's weak
groan.
Ne'on lay in a pool of blood. Not having worn any armor, his body
was pierced numerous times by stone fragments, the worst of which
being a long, thin shard in his right eye. The blood oozing from his
wounds was slow, partially cauterized by the hot stone, and Ne'on's
death was a painful, slow one. He reached out toward Goren, trying to
touch his brother's arm, but his hand fell short and dropped to the
ground.
Goren wasn't sure if Ne'on even saw his brother, or if it was the
memory of Goren's position which had caused him to reach. He watched
while Ne'on's blood coagulated, the body trying desperately to heal
itself even after the life had gone from it. Goren might have closed
his eyes, if he could think about it, but the image was commanding,
not letting him look away until the blood had stopped.
A footstep, some hands grabbing him and pulling him out of the
room. Someone was talking to him, but he couldn't hear the words.
"Ne'on's taken care of," was all he could say.
It was several menes before he was aware of his new surroundings.
Marcus had brought him into the hall, and was feeding him mutton and
wine, trying to get Goren to feed himself. The hall was filled with
officers from Gateway's garrison, and from what was left of Morion's
troops. Morion himself was sitting two chairs down from Goren,
concern, exhaustion, and regret etched in his face.
Goren started when he saw everyone staring at him. He didn't know
what to say, but when Marcus offered him more food, he declined. "I
don't think I want to eat, right now, thank you Marcus. I feel very
strange. I watched my brother die. I did the right thing, and he still
died. I don't know what to do."
"Well, Lord Keeper," Morion started in before Marcus could say
anything, "if it's not too much trouble, you could start by taking
command of this keep. There's work to be done, strategies to be worked
on. I don't know what kind of ordeal you went through in there, but
the situation has only slightly improved out here. There's twenty-four
Beinison regiments outside trying to get into Gateway, and only just
over three of ours holding them there. The siege engines will be
arriving in a day or two, and if we don't get reinforcements, we're
all going to be dead no matter how many right things we do."
Goren looked blankly at Morion. "I don't know that much about
strategy. I didn't realize Gateway was under siege, when I started out
from Magnus. The King himself, to the best of my knowledge, doesn't
even know the problem. I spoke with him six days ago."
Morion swore. "Well, we sent out messengers last week, and the
week before that. Most recently, we sent one out two days ago, telling
Haralan - the King, excuse me - where we stood, which was outside
Gateway, looking like easy killing."
Goren looked to Marcus. "You sent the archers out to help them?"
Marcus nodded. "Aye, boy. Lord Keeper. Sorry, but to me you'll
always be the son of my best friend." He paused, cursing himself for
having brought up Kald's death at a time like this. "Anyway, I knew
the squirmin' Benosians were pressing Morion hard in his retreat - and
I must say, your lordship, your troops are in need of training if they
ever want to try a retreat, again - so I commanded the companies
myself. We had a full two hundred archers on horseback, riding about
one hundred feet in front of Morion, and we showered the Beinisons
enough to slow them down while Morion made his way in. I hope to
bloody Saren some two or three companies went down in the hail we sent
them."
"I doubt it was that much, but it was greatly appreciated,
Castellan." Morion said. "I lost some fine troops of my own, trying to
organize that mess when the gates opened."
"So, here we are," Goren finished. "Bottled up in Gateway and no
help in sight."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 (C) Copyright February, 1994, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd
<White@DUVM.BitNet>. 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.