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DargonZine Volume 16 Issue 05
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DargonZine Distributed: 12/18/2003
Volume 16, Number 5 Circulation: 649
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Knight of Castigale 1 Dave Fallon Yule 28, 1018
The Ballad of the Potter Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Melrin 3-4, 1018
and the Horse Thief
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc.,
a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondence to <dargon@dargonzine.org> or visit
us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site
at ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 16-5, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright December, 2003 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@cox.net>.
DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-
NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute
unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions
of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to
Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@rcn.com>
I usually end each year with a retrospective of the past twelve
months, celebrating our accomplishments and putting the year into
perspective in our history. However, as I wrote this, I realized that if
I were to do that for 2003, I would be duplicating much of what I shared
with you in the Editorial for DargonZine 16-2 this past September. The
extended dry spell that resulted in our only producing one issue in the
first eight months of the year was by far the most prominent event of
2003. So instead of looking back at the well-documented difficulties we
struggled with this year, I'll give you our current outlook, on the
threshold of our 20th year providing you with free fantasy fiction on
the Internet.
After spending most of '03 looking for new stories to print, the
first item I'd like to highlight is how many new works we have in the
pipeline. This is now our fourth issue in as many months, and with the
contents of our next three issues almost done, we should have no problem
continuing to send issues out monthly. The year will get off to a very
memorable start with the final three chapters of Dafydd's four-year
Talisman saga.
It's a little more difficult to see the future beyond April, but
our top priority is to start printing the two dozen stories that have
come out of the common story arc that we began writing at the 2003
Dargon Summit last April. Our contributing authors are well on the way
to getting everything written, and we're rapidly approaching 100,000
words. With an exciting series of stories, and enough material to fill
an entire year of issues, the story arc is clearly our biggest, most
visible, and most important goal for 2004. Everyone is excited at the
prospect of seeing it in print, so much so that in November, for the
first time in Dargon Project history, seven of our writers locked
themselves in a chat room for an entire weekend to make a concerted push
to move their stories forward.
Beyond the story arc, we have a whole stable of new writers who are
anxious to make their first appearances in DargonZine next year, and we
expect to be welcoming back some of our alumni who have been on hiatus.
And, of course, as 2004 draws to a close we will be celebrating the 20th
anniversary of FSFnet/DargonZine's founding, an achievement that no
other Internet-based magazine can claim, and a testament to how much our
many readers and writers have valued DargonZine and what it does.
I hope you'll stick around for it, because between the conclusion
of the Talisman epic, the publication of our huge story arc, the
appearance of more new writers as well as returning veterans, and of
course our upcoming 20th anniversary, I think 2004 is going to be the
best year we've ever had.
But right now we need to cap off 2003 with this final issue of the
year. We begin with the first chapter in Dave Fallon's "Knight of
Castigale" series, which, as its name states, follows the story of a
knight in the service of the Barony of Castigale, which is embroiled in
political intrigue and an ongoing feud with a neighboring barony. Part
two will continue this tale in our next issue, DargonZine 17-1.
The rest of this issue is devoted to Dafydd's second standalone
short story in as many issues. As mentioned in the Editorial to
DargonZine 16-4, Dafydd's natural inclination is more toward novella-
and novel-length works, rather than short stories, so this is a
particular treat. However, his newfound conciseness is absent from the
story's lengthy title. In "The Ballad of the Potter and the Horse
Thief", which was also formerly known as "A Riff on Childe #81", Dafydd
serves up a goulash of several folk tales, served with his own
particular garnish.
I hope you've enjoyed these and the other great tales we've been
able to give you this year, and I look forward to sharing 2004's very
promising crop of stories with you, beginning just about a month from
now.
========================================================================
Knight of Castigale
Part 1: The Squire's Honor
by Dave Fallon
<dfallon23@yahoo.com>
Yule 28, 1018
At the sound, Sir Maligard DuVania looked up. Behind him the brush
rustled as some creature made its way through the growth to the small
cliff-side clearing, known as Aspegad Tor, where he crouched watching
the pass below. He turned to peer through the trees, cursing himself for
neglecting to bring a sword. On this lonely cliff high in the wilds of
the Darst Range, he hadn't expected to face outlaws or enemy soldiers,
but a bear or mountain cat could be just as deadly if it caught him
unprepared.
"Sir?" came the questing voice from somewhere down the path.
"Taela," DuVania identified his squire's voice. He felt a wave of
relief and hastily hid it. "I'm here," he called back, keeping his voice
firm. He had learned long ago that a knight could not openly display
emotion, even to his trusted squire. His role in the military was too
important to let something as fickle as feelings show. A proper knight
was as hard as the armor he wore.
Turning back to view the pass once more, DuVania narrowed his eyes
and tried to pick out the group of travelers he had been observing. The
sun was quickly nearing the horizon, bringing the slanting shadows of
the western mountains almost completely over the pass. Squinting and
staring, the knight was finally able to pick out the dark shapes moving
in the darker shade of the few trees that grew in the rocky vale called
Arvre's Coombe. The group of twenty black-cloaked figures marched east
on foot, out of Gribbane Barony, which sat in the mountainous eastern
edge of Narragan, and into his own: Castigale Barony, which occupied the
western hills of Asbridge just south of Nulain.
In times past, DuVania would not only have been suspicious of
people trespassing from his lord's most hated enemy's lands; he would
have immediately saddled to meet the potential foes. But times were
changing. With the marriage of Baron Kelleman Castigale's daughter,
Evelain, to a nephew of Baroness Veronie Gribbane, the longtime feud
between the baronies was likely at an end. So, DuVania merely watched as
the group made its way into the forested eastern part of the pass,
entering Castigale without challenge.
Behind him the rustling grew louder. He turned to see Taela appear
between two birch boles. Her face was narrow and full of angular shapes
unlike his own, which, apart from his high cheekbones and pointed
mustache and goatee, was mostly round. As customary in informal
situations, his squire wore a tabard with the red and gray Castigale
colors over a sleeveless tunic. Her thin arms belied the strength he
knew she possessed as she pulled herself up onto the rocky platform.
"A message just arrived for you," she said when she stood before
him. DuVania saw that she had slung a light sack over one shoulder. She
opened it and took out a sealed scroll.
DuVania frowned. "Couldn't it wait until tomorrow?" He was in one
of his rare melancholy moods this evening and had come to Aspegad Tor
partially to be alone, away from the soldiers he led and the hired
workers that they were escorting. In coming sennights, after the workers
had finished building a barracks in the only village in the area,
Parsain's Peak, the soldiers stationed there would be performing this
watch.
Taela looked uncomfortable for a moment, her normally bright and
defiant brown eyes shifted to one side and she pursed her lips. "The
messenger nearly killed her horse to bring this message to you tonight.
She only left from Castigale Keep last night. I decided it should be
brought to you right away."
"From Castigale Keep? That journey is more than a day-and-a-half by
anyone sensible." The knight arched one eyebrow with partial surprise
and took a closer look at the scroll Taela held. The seal was the
official seal of Castigale, usually reserved for military orders. He was
about to take the scroll, but then decided it wasn't necessary. It was
probably just some proclamation about the coming alliance with Gribbane.
He turned back to the view and gestured over his shoulder. "Go
ahead and read it to me."
Taela broke the seal on the note. "Sir Maligard DuVania," she read.
"His lordship Baron Kelleman Castigale of Asbridge regrets to inform you
of the passage of his beloved daughter, the fair Evelain Castigale."
DuVania whirled around to face Taela. She met his gaze, her eyes wide.
"Read on," the knight said.
"In respect to your current assignment, Baron Kelleman nevertheless
requests that you make haste to bring your soldiers to Castigale Keep
immediately." Taela looked up again. "It is signed in Captain Dagny
Ludoran's own hand."
"Damn me," the knight swore. "We must return to the camp and rouse
the soldiers immediately. We've only a few bells of riding we can make
today before it becomes too dark." He stepped past Taela. The trail back
to Parsain's Peak was almost as steep as the cliff face that overlooked
the coombe, so he turned back to her to use both hands and feet on the
slope.
"By the time we're ready to move, it will be dark," Taela said
quickly. "When the messenger arrived, many of the men were passing
around a jug of ale. Surely Dagny didn't mean we should leave this very
moment ..."
DuVania looked at her sharply. "Dagny meant what she wrote in the
note, Taela. I'm a knight, and when given an order I don't question it,
I just obey. You should learn that yourself." Taela held his eye for a
moment then dropped her gaze to the ground.
"It could be that Baron Kelleman wants to announce his loss with
all of his knights present," she persisted. "The note doesn't even say
how Evelain died. Is there really call for us to begin travel tonight?"
"It also does not give mention to the wedding or Gribbane's
reaction to the tragedy," he said. "Read between the lines, Taela.
Evelain's death was no accident; the baron suspects murder."
Taela looked about to protest again but DuVania held up a hand.
"Any other soldier who questions my orders would get a fortnight's worth
of cleaning stables, Taela. I respect you and your opinion; you're
closer to me than any mere soldier." She looked up at that, a peculiar
expression on her face that DuVania could not read.
He continued, "But in this my decision is final. We rouse the men
now and tie them to their saddles if we have to. I want to be in the
valley before we rest, and it will be an early rise tomorrow to finish
the journey." He did not shout his reprimand as he would at any soldier,
but was kind and almost fatherly to his squire. For a moment he wondered
at his own lenience. Ever since Taela had come into his service, he had
given her more patience and kindness than he gave even to his wife or
daughter. He occasionally thought that he spoiled her; but, for all the
lack of angry discipline she received from him, she continued to be the
best squire he had ever had. So he dismissed his attitude towards her as
only fitting for one who had earned his respect through years of dutiful
service.
He turned his attention away from her and back to climbing down the
path when she said, "I have to talk to you." DuVania looked up at her,
surprised not by her request to talk, but by the absence of his honorary
"sir", which she almost always used when she addressed him.
"Yes?" he asked. "Talk as we climb. I'd like to get the troops up
and riding before they're too full of ale."
"I've been your squire for four years now," Taela began, pausing
occasionally while she grappled with handholds on the steep path. "I was
with you through the Beinison War and countless other quests." Taela's
voice was flat and serious. One of the things DuVania liked most about
his squire was that she kept her emotions completely in check. However,
he could still detect some carefully hidden sentiment behind her words.
He had reached a more level ground where he could walk upright, but he
looked over his shoulder at her. She kept her eyes lowered. He watched
her face as she continued, "Next spring, I will be eighteen years old
and would like to apply for full knighthood at the year's Castigale
conclave." She finally looked up at him.
DuVania blinked as her eyes met his. He felt a quick response jump
to his lips but fought it back. Her unexpected announcement confused and
annoyed him such that he wanted to carefully screen what he said.
Conscious that his thoughts might be clear on his face, he turned away
and increased his pace.
Keeping his back to her, he said over his shoulder, "Of course,
Taela. You have been the best of squires and will have my sponsorship at
the conclave." He thought his own voice sounded a little overly leaden
and took a breath. Damn emotions! Why should he feel this sense of loss
at the natural course of things? A squire should become a knight when
she was ready, and Taela was more than ready.
The silence after he had spoken stretched uncomfortably and DuVania
said, "I knew you would make a great knight someday. I'm happy I've had
the honor of instructing you."
She still did not speak as they made their way down another steep
descent. Then she said, "Will you choose another squire?" Her question
was softer than usual: her flat, business-like tone replaced by one that
sounded almost pitying.
Gritting his teeth, he stopped and turned to face her, his eyes now
hard as steel. He was surprised to find her eyes downcast, but his voice
was still curt as he said, "Squires in Castigale are usually picked for
a knight by his liege lord. It is rare for a knight to express a
preference and have it granted."
"You chose me," Taela countered, coming to a stop before him.
DuVania's annoyance was beginning to grow into anger, but he hid it
in the same place he held his other feelings. He regarded his squire for
a moment and tried to consider her words and situation rationally. She
had only spoken the truth, of course; he had told the late Baron Tilber
Castigale he wished Taela as his squire four years ago, and the baron
had immediately accepted.
He had seen her then as a scrawny page, obeying the shouted orders
of ranking soldiers, and he had been impressed with her determination
and endurance. Though less than half the size and weight of some of the
other pages in Castigale Keep, she had held her own without complaint,
tirelessly lugging heavy armor, leading stubborn mounts, and caring for
playful hounds: duties that exhausted or bored the larger and stronger
boys and girls.
Remembering Taela when he first saw her brought back the feelings
of impending loss more strongly than before. Struggling to maintain
equanimity, he said, "I don't know if I will pick a squire or have one
assigned to me. I don't even know what pages there are at Castigale Keep
this year."
Taela still didn't look up. Finally, DuVania said, "I will sponsor
you at the conclave. What more do you want?"
"I didn't ask to talk to you to see if you would sponsor me," Taela
said. "What I wanted to ask is how you feel about me leaving."
"Feel?" DuVania's anger burst forth and he spoke in a choking
shout. "What do feelings have to do with anything? I thought you
understood this one aspect of being a knight, Taela, and I'm
disappointed that you ask about feelings. A knight has duty, honor,
chivalry, compassion, and bravery, but he has no room for feelings.
"On the field, how would your soldiers react if they thought you
were making decisions based on feelings? How would your enemies? How can
anyone be a proper knight if they trust in such things?" Taela looked up
finally. Her eyes were as hard as his. She took his censure as she did
all other things: with stoic acceptance and soldierly endurance.
DuVania was partially ashamed that he should be so obviously angry
with his squire while she maintained a calm bordering on indifference.
He turned away from her. "Come, there is nothing more to talk about on
this subject." Grunting, he scrambled down the path while Taela,
unmoving, watched him. He did not turn to see if she followed.
Assigning two of his ten soldiers to stay with the workers at
Parsain's Peak, DuVania left with the rest of his small company that
evening, much to the dismay of the men. They rode hard until it was too
dark to see, then made camp by the side of the road.
The sun had not crested the hills before them when DuVania roused
his soldiers. They ate a hasty meal and mounted up for a long day of
travel. DuVania saw little need to have anyone wear full armor in the
mid-summer heat while riding through their own lands. He wore
comfortable riding clothes himself, his shield stowed behind his saddle
where it would not bump him as he rode. Beside him, Taela sat on her own
horse, engrossed in thought.
He had avoided her for the most part of the previous night's march,
and as far as he could tell she did her part by staying out of his way.
They had not spoken to each other except for when DuVania gave orders to
everyone, including his squire.
He was not mad at her, nor was he particularly upset by the fact
that she wanted to leave his service to become a knight herself. The
previous evening he had been surprised by the idea, but after having
thought it over he felt more and more comfortable with the fact. What
bothered him was that Taela had asked about his feelings. He had thought
both of them knew their roles together, and feelings had no place
therein. But now he wasn't sure what she thought of him, nor did he like
the fact that it should matter to him what she thought.
He was musing over this when Taela said, "Sir?"
He nodded mutely, not meeting her eyes, and she said in a lower
voice, "I apologize for questioning you last night, sir. I should not
have spoken after you gave me an order."
DuVania frowned and looked at her. "Think nothing of it," he said,
softening his features with effort. "You should know that I respect your
opinion and admire your boldness in speaking it."
Taela's features were unreadable, so he went on, "Besides, you were
right. The note did not mention how Evelain died. But the very omission
of that fact speaks much more plainly than a simple explanation would
have."
"What do you mean?"
"Baron Kelleman would want to put his soldiers at ease and would
quickly state any clear cause such as sickness or accident. The fact
that he did not shows that he at least suspects foul play. What's more,
the fact that her death has come during the same sennight that she was
due to be married to Lord Sagrie Gribbane tells me that we may be headed
for another war."
"A war between baronies?" Taela asked.
"It has happened before, and more often than you may think." The
knight became pensive for a moment. "Did you know that I had received an
invitation to the party at Evelain's dower-house four days ago? I could
have been there ..." He clenched his jaw and grunted. "If my duties had
not kept me in Parsain's Peak I could have been helping by now."
"Your duties didn't keep you there," Taela said after a moment's
hesitation. "We were on more of an honor mission than anything else. The
workers didn't need a full ten soldiers and a knight to guard them." He
shrugged and didn't answer her. She took a breath and said, "Besides,
your wife would have been glad to see you, I'm sure."
At the mention of his spouse, DuVania's lips pursed. This was
another subject he had little wish to discuss with his squire. It was no
secret among his men that he didn't get along with his wife. He took
every opportunity to avoid her, and many guessed that he had volunteered
for this mission as just one more excuse to be away from home.
He wasn't one to openly announce his domestic disputes to his
subordinates. Still, he felt comfortable enough with Taela to let a
little sarcasm through. "Yes, I'm sure she would have delighted in my
company," he said sourly. "I can just hear her nagging about every
ignoble detail of my attire, manners, posture, and pronunciation."
"Sorry, sir," Taela said.
Taela's expression did not change, but she did look away. Thinking
of his wife, DuVania wondered what she would have done if she said
something that offended him. She would not have dropped the subject as
Taela had. No, she would have kept pushing it on him, grinding it like a
torturer rubbing salt into wounds. Where Taela was bold but respectful,
his wife was bold and belligerent.
Realizing that he had been mentally comparing his squire to his
wife, DuVania felt a moment of embarrassment and self-reproach. He was a
knight, and should act like it even in his thoughts. There was an
awkward moment of silence when both knight and squire seemed equally
alone in their thoughts, then Taela said loudly, "Sir, a plume." She
pointed above the trees in the distance.
DuVania squinted in the evening sun. They had just crested a steep
hill and could see some distance. There, rising several leagues ahead
from behind the next hill was a plume of black smoke. DuVania frowned
and called back towards his troops, "Lieutenant! What village lies
there?" He pointed toward the smoke.
Lieutenant Sern spurred his horse forward and imitated the knight's
squinting glare. "I believe that's Dalper's Dell, sir. Little more than
a hamlet, though. Damned if that be quite a bit o' smoke for mid-day."
His voice was gravelly and he scratched his shaggy gray hair as he
spoke. His eyebrows almost hid his beady eyes as he squinted. "Something
ain't right," he added with a frown.
DuVania nodded to him and they continued to lead the column down
the hill until the trees were too high to see the smoke. After several
menes of riding, he turned again to Sern. "How far off our track is
Dalper's Dell?"
"About a ha'bell, sir. We'd just turn right at the next fork and
continue up for nigh ten menes."
"Straight, then," DuVania said with a nod. "We'll stop briefly in
Dalper's Dell to make sure all's right. I'd like to hear what news they
have before we reach Castigale Keep anyway."
"Stevene's Light!"
Lieutenant Sern's oath echoed in the clearing around which the
buildings that made up Dalper's Dell still smoldered. DuVania's troops
had smelled the thick smoke as they had descended the path and the
knight had called for them to speed up. Now they stood at the edge of
the small community, staring at the destruction.
In the wagon-tracked center of the clearing, two bodies lay in
pools of blood. Crows had landed and begun investigating them, cackling
to each other as they worked. Around the clearing, six meager but sturdy
buildings had stood. Most were utterly destroyed, charred beams jutting
up from under collapsed roofs and walls. The only one still standing was
also the largest, which, apart from the soot stains that showed arson
had been attempted, bore relatively little damage.
No one spoke for another moment before DuVania turned to Sern.
"Have the men dismount and draw arms," he said in a voice strained with
anger. "I want two groups scouting the woods around the dell in opposite
directions."
As Sern began shouting orders and his troops scrambled to follow
them, DuVania got off his horse. He marched across the clearing and
scattered the crows with a clap of his hands. When he reached the
center, he knelt down to examine the bodies.
They belonged to two men, one of whom held an axe handle and the
other a rusty dagger. Both were dressed in simple tunics of rough wool
and worn trousers, but the knight noticed that one man's fabric was dyed
a deep blue with light blue stitching, at least suggesting that the man
was a landowner or of some influence. Both men had died of slash wounds
to their chests, now crusted with blood dried black.
DuVania turned the men over to lie respectfully on their backs. A
shadow fell upon them and he heard Taela's voice behind him. "Brigands,
do you think, sir?"
The knight straightened up. His jaw was clenched in anger but he
forced himself to be calm. He glanced around the clearing and answered
without looking at his squire, "It's impossible to say for certain. But
for brigands, those who attacked here were very bold to sack a hamlet."
He knelt again and finished arranging the bodies so that their
hands lay crossed over their chests. In death, their muscles had
stiffened and the task was not easy, but he was determined and forced
the arms into the right position. "These men deserve to be buried. Do we
have any cloth with the supplies?"
"None but our cloaks, sir."
"Straight, then. Go to that house, the large one, and see if there
is some cloth. If I meet my guess, one or both of these men were the
former occupants, and they'd thank us for pilfering their belongings to
bury them."
While Taela turned to obey, he strode back to the ring of horses
being corralled by two of the younger soldiers. Fury burned behind his
carefully controlled features. This kind of destruction should not occur
in civil lands. Though his duty demanded that he bring the villains to
his lord to be justly tried, he felt that nothing short of a violent
death would serve as justice for those who had burned this hamlet.
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a shout. He turned just
in time to see the door of the remaining building burst open and an old
man run out, followed closely by Taela. The man seemed confused by the
horses and soldiers outside, and in his moment of hesitation the squire
grabbed him. The old man emitted a strangled squawk and tried to pull
away from her.
DuVania trudged over to the struggling pair. "You there, old man!
Be still!" he said.
At the knight's command, the man instantly dropped to his knees.
"Oh, thank the Stevene!" he moaned. "Oh, but my lord has sent law back
to this savage land!"
"He was filling a sack in one of the rooms," Taela said with a
sharp glare at the man.
DuVania accepted this with a nod. The man continued to grovel at
his feet, ignoring Taela's accusations. "What's your name, old man?" the
knight asked sternly but with less force than before.
"Marrus, am I called," the man said.
"On your feet then, Marrus," DuVania commanded.
As the old man climbed laboriously back to his feet, the knight
watched him carefully. His head was bald but for a ring of gray hair
that clung to his cranium like shrubs around a windy hilltop. His bushy
eyebrows hovered too close to his narrowed eyes and his lips trembled
over the toothless gap that was his mouth. He was dressed in a heavy
shirt and trousers that seemed more patches and rips than actual fabric.
"Did you live in Dalper's Dell, Marrus?" the knight asked when the
man was finally upright.
Marrus did not look at DuVania as he spoke, but instead his eyes
shifted around the hamlet. "Aye," he said, then looked confused. "I
mean, nay, sir, nay. I live but a short walk north of here."
"In another village?"
Marrus looked even more nervous and began rubbing his hands
together obsessively as he answered, "Nay, sir, nay. I'm an eremite,
sir. Recluse from the ways of folk. I'm seeking Stevene in solitude."
The knight clenched his jaw again. "And since when does a devout
follower of the Stevene go about looting? Isn't there enough misfortune
here without you pilfering the dead?"
Marrus began crying pitifully and almost fell back to his knees,
but the knight grabbed his arm and held him up. "Nay, sir!" he wailed.
"I'd not seek possessions but to keep the Light, sir!"
"What do you mean by that?" DuVania asked.
The hermit regained some of his composure, wiping his eyes on his
filthy sleeves. "As I said, sir, this is a savage land, far from the
ways of law. The way I sees it, those who sacked this place can't be in
Stevene's Light, and they'll take what they want for their troubles. If
I takes it and hides it in my home, then they can't find it, and I've
kept what're a good man's possessions from falling into the hands of
evil." At this he looked up hopefully at the looming knight.
"Blasphemer," DuVania growled, his rage slipping through. "How can
you call yourself a man of god and then blame him for your depravity?"
Marrus had begun blubbering and crying again and this time did fall
to his knees. DuVania felt an urge to hit him, but controlled it with
considerable effort and said, "Enough of this, Marrus. Tell me what you
know of what happened here."
The knight waited patiently as Marrus took a few deep breaths to
calm himself. "It happened a bell or two after dusk yestereve," he said.
"I was washing in the stream near my home when I heard screams and
shouts carried on the evening wind like ghosts." The old man's eyes had
taken on a theatrical light, widening with not quite fear, but
definitely sincerity.
"I dressed up and headed off to see what I could do to help. The
sounds stopped, but I saw the red of flames in the horizon rising up
'gainst the gathering dark. It happened fast, sir, so fast that the
shouts began and ended and the buildings burned before I had taken two
steps from my home, within a handful of menes at the most."
"Did you see anything at all of the people who did this?" the
knight asked, grinding his teeth in fury.
"Aye, sir, aye. Even in the dark, I headed towards Dalper's Dell,
all thinking of the good people who dwelt here and fearing what might
have occurred. Then there was a ramble of voices and footsteps in the
dark. So I stopped and hid. And that's when I saw them, sir."
The hermit paused, as if for dramatic effect, and DuVania snapped,
"Well? Out with it, old man! What did you see?"
If Marrus was cowed by DuVania's words, this time he didn't show
it. "Twenty-odd men in clothed in black, even their cloaks. They were
marching afoot like demons in the night. Two columns of ten, well armed
with steel and carrying torches. They spoke to one another easily
enough, joking and jostling. There was one who led them, who was always
silent."
"Twenty men?" the knight said in astonishment. He abruptly
remembered the group of travelers he had seen passing from Gribbane
lands into Castigale.
"As I live and breathe, sir," Marrus said. His voice raised
angrily. "I swear it on the Stevene!"
"That is the last blasphemy I'll hear from you, knave!" DuVania
shouted. He grabbed the hermit under his forearm and propelled him into
a stumbling roll back towards the road. "Get back to your prayers, old
man, if you at all value your soul!"
Marrus hobbled away quickly, disappearing into the forest beyond
the boundaries of the hamlet in a blink.
"Sir?" came a voice behind the knight. He whirled around with a
snarl, ready to answer anyone who questioned him. Lieutenant Sern, who
had spoken, stood next to Taela with several other soldiers. Some of
them were carrying bodies, which they laid next to the two DuVania had
arranged.
"What did you find?" DuVania asked, smoothing his riding vest and
getting a grasp on himself again.
"Several more bodies in the woods, sir," Sern reported. "Seems the
people here tried to run. Most were chased and cut down from behind. If
there were any survivors, there's no sign."
DuVania nodded mutely and watched as the soldiers laid the bodies
side by side and arranged the arms similarly. "Taela, bring whatever
cloth you found. Sern, divide up any tools we have and get the men
digging. We'll give these people a proper burial before we move on."
The hole took a full bell to dig, during which Taela and a few of
the soldiers prepared the bodies. Using water from the well, they
cleaned the chest of each of the victims, so that their souls might more
easily fly to heaven. Then they wrapped the heads of the dead in cloth
so that the souls would not be reminded of their corporeal life should
they look back. Finally, the hands were tied around the throats in a
representation of the Stevene's own execution. When all was ready, the
soldiers carefully lifted and reverently laid each body in the hole
before it was filled in.
The entire company stood silently in a ring around the grave for a
mene to show their respect, then they dispersed and began to ready their
horses to depart. The knight stood staring at the broken earth when
Taela approached him. "What of the house, sir?"
DuVania looked up and at the remaining building. "Whatever Marrus'
motivations, he was right about one thing: looters will come. It seems
that is the natural progression of things when this happens." He thought
back to the pickers who waded through the battlefields after the
Beinison War and searched the dead soldiers for valuables. "Whether the
looters are men of Stevene or not, it matters little in the end."
The knight sighed and turned his gaze towards Taela. "Did you
notice anything that would pass as an heirloom within the house?"
"There was a statuette on the mantle," Taela said, after a moment's
consideration. "And a coat of arms on one wall."
DuVania nodded. "Take them, then. Maybe at Castigale Keep the
scribes can find a relation to Dalper to receive them." He turned one
last time to look at the house, then said, "Burn the rest. We'll at
least grant the departed that no one other than themselves will find joy
in their possessions."
He was about to march back to his horse when Sern cleared his
throat nervously. "Ah, sir?" he said, scratching his head. "Where will
we head now?"
"Marrus said he passed the marauders as he made south from his
home, so they were heading north," the knight mused.
"Aye, sir," Sern said hesitantly. "Are we to chase them, then?"
"Dagny's letter said to return to Castigale Keep at once," Taela
ventured from where she still stood. DuVania frowned but did not argue.
In the silence while DuVania thought, Sern added, "Marrus also said
he counted twenty men, sir. We have only eight soldiers apart from
ourselves. I'm sure we could defeat mere brigands, were we to chase
them, but shouldn't we gather more men from Castigale Keep first?"
"No," DuVania said suddenly and forcefully. "Those who attacked
Dalper's Dell were not mere brigands, Sern. Marrus said they marched in
two rows of ten, like soldiers. They wore all black; they carried steel
weapons. Those men were trained and supported."
He turned to Taela. "Yes, we were ordered to return to Castigale
Keep, but I'm a knight first, and my duty is to all of the king's
people. These men did not attack for spoils, nor out of desperation.
They attacked merely to destroy, and now they are heading north through
Castigale lands. They are a danger to the people whom I am here to
protect.
"Sern, order the men to don armor and keep their arms at ready.
Taela, see to setting that house alight. We leave immediately."
Sern saluted smartly and turned to carry out his orders. When he
left, Taela said, "Do you suspect Gribbane, sir?"
DuVania cast a warning glance at his squire. "I'll have no one
think that until we know for certain, Taela. What I said to you of my
suspicion about a coming war is for no one else to hear. All we know
about this enemy is that they are trained and dangerous. Trained by whom
and for what purpose is not ours to decipher, at least not right yet."
The column of soldiers rode north the rest of that day. The tracks
of the marauders were not hard to follow; for all their apparent
soldierly training they lacked much in woodskill, leaving a clear trail
of broken branches, trampled brush, and disturbed earth in their wake.
By late afternoon, however, the forest grew sparser and the terrain
more rocky. DuVania, being himself no expert in tracking, finally lost
the track when there was no longer brush to trample or branches to
break. However, by this point the destination had become obvious, a
prosperous village that Sern identified as Aerberry.
They had ridden about twenty menes after losing the trail when
DuVania noticed a plume of smoke rising in the north. Spurring his horse
to the top of the hill, he saw the village at the bottom of the slope.
Round huts rested like eggs in a nest, standing amidst acres of muddy
farmland. Just north of the dwellings, the southern edge of another
forest loomed. A narrow brook wound from past the hills to the west,
around the village, and into the forest.
The light of the day was beginning to wane, but DuVania's sharp
eyes could still make out the events transpiring below. The black-clad
men were ravaging the village. Several villagers were resisting, but
their meager work hammers and ploughshares were of little comparison to
the steel swords and maces that the marauders wielded. While they fought
in tight knots, other men in black cloaks ran through the streets
tossing burning brands onto the thatched roofs, which caught fire
immediately.
Amidst the battle, a single man walked calmly through the chaos
that surrounded him. He was a full head taller than any of the other
marauders and carried a stout, iron tipped spear. As DuVania watched
impatiently, waiting for his troops to catch up, a screaming woman burst
in a panic from one of the burning buildings and crossed the tall man's
path. Without a change to his stoic expression, he thrust the butt-end
of his spear out, tripping the woman, then trod upon her back as if she
were dirt. The knight could hear her groan of pain even from where he
stood.
Hearing his troops crest the hill next to him, he said savagely,
"Show them no mercy." Then, drawing his sword, he bellowed, "Charge!"
and then he was moving.
For an instant he and his horse were one, their movements fluid.
DuVania deftly steered around the gaunt trees and clumps of rocks or
shrubbery without losing speed. The wind whipped through his hair,
fanning it out behind his head.
By the time he and his troops reached the edge of the farmlands,
the brigands had realized the coming attack and turned to meet the
riders. Most of the peasants who had been fighting with them scurried
out of the way.
DuVania chose his target and angled his horse to the right so that
he would approach the man on the same side that he held his shield. The
man was a slight thing: skinny and short. He looked barely past his
twentieth year. He held his sword adeptly, though, and his eyes were
narrowed and determined under yellow locks.
As DuVania swept past him, he brought his sword down like a smith
upon glowing steel. The man blocked the attack skillfully, but the
strength with which it was delivered must have stunned him. He hesitated
rather than riposting, and DuVania turned his horse and struck again.
This time the man's guard came up too late, and the knight's sword
slashed through his chest and into his heart. The man fell in a spray of
red blood.
DuVania turned away from the gore and stood high in his stirrups,
breathing heavy. All around him his soldiers were fighting earnestly
with the marauders. Though they were outnumbered more than two-to-one,
they had the advantage of horses and armor. He spotted Taela being
flanked by two men a short way off. He was about to ride to her aid when
she struck out and severed the arm from one of her two assailants.
DuVania smiled at her humorlessly even though she didn't look up. She
could take care of herself.
As he continued to scan the battle, his eyes came upon the
strangely silent leader of the bandits. One of DuVania's soldiers swung
at him while riding by, but the large man was quick. He blocked the
attack with his spear, then turned the blade up for a quick thrust. The
guard barely dodged the blow as his horse continued to run, carrying him
back towards another group of combatants.
DuVania opened his mouth and bellowed out a wordless war cry,
spurring his mount in the same instant towards the leader. When the
marauder saw the advancing knight, his lips peeled back into a vicious
snarl and he stood his ground. DuVania drew back his arm for the strike
but the man braced his spear against one foot and pushed it forward into
the neck of the knight's horse.
Time seemed to slow down and DuVania saw what was happening with
maddening clarity. He even flashed back to his own lessons as a squire
in which his lord had told him of the terrible dishonor of killing an
opponent's mount. Then the world became a crazy blur again as he found
himself flying off the back of his bucking horse, then crashing to the
ground. Though the fall was enough to take his breath away, instinct and
battle training made him roll away to prevent from being crushed. He
quickly regained control of his breathing and surged to his feet.
Furious at the leader's ignominious tactic, DuVania whirled around,
intent on making him pay. But he was nowhere in sight; only his spear
jutting out from the still struggling horse showed that he had ever been
there at all.
Frustrated, the knight turned his attention back to the battle
behind him. Most of the marauders had been killed. The three that
remained fought back to back against Sern and four other soldiers. He
started towards them but the battle was over before he arrived, the
marauders cut down by the fury of the soldiers.
Sern saluted when DuVania reached them. "Are you wounded, sir?" he
asked.
"No." DuVania frowned. "Have you seen their leader? He killed my
horse, then ran off."
Sern was about to answer when one of the other soldiers shouted and
pointed off to the other side of the village. Three men in black cloaks
were running across the field. The tall one was unmistakably the man who
had killed DuVania's horse.
DuVania cursed. "Get them!" he shouted to his soldiers. "Take them
alive if possible but don't let them get away!"
"Would you like my horse, sir?" Sern said hesitantly.
"It'll take too long. Just get them!"
Sern nodded and, calling to his troops, charged off to where the
three men had just disappeared into the forest.
DuVania was about to call for Taela when he felt a hand on his arm.
He looked down and a pudgy, balding man flinched away from him.
"Oh, great knight!" he said. "Glory to Stevene that he would send a
hero to save us! I am the eldest in this village and --"
"Your houses are still burning, man." DuVania interrupted. "Get
together all who can carry buckets and form a line from the brook to
bring water. Get those who remain to separate the dead from the
injured." The man hesitated and DuVania barked, "Now!"
The elder jumped and ran towards some of the houses, crying for
people to get buckets. The knight was about to go help when he noticed
that some of the bodies in the street wore the red and gray colors of
Castigale soldiers.
Frowning, he moved closer to one of the fallen soldiers and pulled
the helmet off, then gasped. It was Taela.
DuVania froze. He felt as if he were fighting to breathe while a
sense of panic threatened to overwhelm him. He fell to his knees before
her body and reached for one of her hands. It was cold and heavy. Her
eyes were closed and her cheeks had lost all color, but she still had
the resolute expression that she so often wore when he would ask her to
ready his armor or wake the troops.
He continued to kneel as the activities of the villagers seemed to
swirl around him like wind-tossed leaves. He dropped the cold hand but
continued to stare at the pale face. Within, he felt emotions warring;
feelings he had long ago learned to control and suppress threatened to
explode. The knight threw his might into that internal struggle, forcing
emotions down, willing his breath to come normally and his heart to beat
softer, commanding his fists and jaw to unclench. But his own mind was
his enemy, and his thoughts scattered every time he rallied them to
sustain another assault by his heart.
Throughout the internal chaos, bits of odd memories came to him as
clearly as if he were watching them through a window in his mind. He
remembered seeing friends and soldiers dead after the battle of Gateway.
They had been dear to him, but he had shrugged off mourning, saving it
for after the war was done. He remembered seeing Taela fighting two of
the marauders and how he was proud of her, certain that she could handle
herself such that he even smiled at her and turned away. He remembered
the fight he had with her the previous night.
What had they fought about? What was it that made him angry? He
couldn't remember and the whole idea of fighting with her seemed so
worthless now it stung him. He did remember how he felt then, and it was
the same feeling of panic and loss that he felt now. But then he had
only wished Taela would stop talking about feelings, now he only wanted
her death to be a lie.
The knight took a great shuddering breath. The world still seemed
distant around him, but his sense of reason was finally winning over his
guilt and remorse. He hadn't killed Taela; she died bravely and
heroically by the hands of a cowardly bandit. But there was a reason
that the bandits attacked; someone sent them or led them to destroy and
to kill. That leader was his enemy.
Silently and mournfully, DuVania murmured over the body of his
fallen squire: "He will die. I will not rest nor take another squire
until then, Taela."
========================================================================
The Ballad of the Potter and the Horse Thief
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Melrin 3-4, 1018
Maurev's hands closed on the smooth, cool surface of the clay. He
lifted the sculpture from its plinth and turned it to better admire its
lush curvaceousness and the artful blending of the glazes across the
object. A surge of loud conversation to his left, from which he only
caught the word "child", startled him and made him clutch at the statue.
A fraction of a moment later he felt a blow to his back that made him
stagger forward. If he hadn't been gripping the statue tightly it would
have crashed to the ground with disastrous results.
Wild thoughts dashed through his head as his heart hammered in his
chest. He had been admiring the statue with a professional's interest;
Maurev was a newly elevated journeyrank potter at the Corathin Pottery.
He was anxious to prove that his rapid advancement was warranted, and
hoped to produce something as good as the sculpture himself after the
Melrin festival was over and the pottery opened again. He wasn't at all
sure, though, that he'd have been able to replace the object if it had
smashed.
Maurev whirled around, statue still gripped in his hands, to see
who or what had knocked into him. He found himself staring into the
smirking face and squinting brown eyes of Haian.
Haian had never been Maurev's friend even while they worked side by
side as apprentices at the pottery. The obvious reason was the five year
difference in their ages; Maurev knew of no other reason for the man to
dislike him. Haian's unfriendly demeanor had turned decidedly nasty
since Maurev's elevation. The new journeyrank recalled the spoiled
formwork that had forced him to miss most of the first day of Melrin,
and was sure that Haian's metaphorical hand print was all over the
accident.
"So sorry, Maurev," Haian murmured, though Maurev could see no
contrition evident. "You should watch yourself, though. Big crowds this
year." With an impenetrable glare, Haian turned and walked away, quickly
becoming lost in the Melrin crowd.
Maurev stared after the man, knowing that the bump had been no
accident. The teachers at Corathin would brook no fighting between
apprentices, or any other ranks, but who could prove Haian's intentions?
Maurev ran his hands unconsciously across the smooth glaze of the
sculpture, its rounded contours, and felt himself calm down. Music
filled the air, snatches of songs drifting by. He looked back at the
pottery between his hands and let the melody that accompanied the words
"... move the rolling ..." ease the rest of the tension away.
Maurev took a deep breath and held it for a beat or two, letting
the ambiance of the festival relax him further. A different group of
singers penetrated the background noise, their energy propelling the
fragment "... ship, the black ..." to his ears as he exhaled, calmer,
and turned to put the statue back on its stand. The proprietor of the
small stall was on its other side, engaged in selling some plates, and
had never noticed the near disaster. Maurev looked a final time at the
sensuous lines of the sculpture sitting amid mundane plates and mugs and
wondered where the seller had gotten such a masterpiece. He was sure
that it hadn't come from his own employer.
Maurev continued his stroll along the main street of Hartim, the
seat of the Barony of Madenee on the east coast of the Duchy of Dargon.
Melrin had brought everyone from the surrounding countryside into the
town, and the street was lined with stalls and thronged with people.
Street corners hummed with musicians playing wildly different styles of
music that still blended into a harmonious whole. Small eddies in the
current of people betrayed the locations of players: puppeteers,
jugglers, or prestidigitators, whose pretend magic was often more
amazing than the real thing. Maurev wandered, savoring the sights and
sounds, examining the wares for sale with fingers as well as eyes. He
spent his Bits extravagantly on sweets and trinkets, knowing that he
would now be getting piece-prices as well as his small wage from the
pottery. He couldn't remember Melrin ever having been so festive and
amazing, not even five years ago when he had been apprenticed at eleven
years old into the one trade he'd always dreamed of learning.
Maurev's ambling eventually led him past the boundary of the town
and into the fairgrounds that had been set up to the south of Hartim,
adjacent to its meager docks. He skirted the horse pens, hearing the
auctioneer calling out "number 81" as he passed. He slipped into an ale
tent, where the patrons were busily drowning out the band on the tiny
stage next to the bar. The place was far too crowded for Maurev's taste,
and he could only hear a snippet of the heavily rhythmic tune the band
was performing, which sounded like "... head. Tucked. Underneath ...",
before he decided to try somewhere quieter.
He smiled as he passed the large tent housing the wares of the
Corathin Pottery and heard faint whisper of song from within: "... what
care I for my house ...". None of his wares were displayed in that tent,
but come next Melrin he intended to be a featured artist. To be exact,
his work was in there, but as an apprentice he had only executed the
designs of his superiors, though not always his betters. Form work,
by-rote shapings, nothing but craftings, without any creativity at all
and almost no art: that was the way apprenticeship worked, and Maurev
understood and accepted it. Next year, though, it would be different.
He continued his wandering, enjoying the reduced congestion on the
fringes of the fairgrounds. He followed his nose, and some enticing
scents led him to a food vendor with an almost empty tent. He splurged
on a meal large enough for two. As he sat at the rough wood table and
savored the excellent cooking, he wished that he could share the fair
with Saunt immediately, instead of waiting until the cowherd returned
from his duties. Saunt was a tall young man of eighteen years, with
golden hair and fair skin despite his constant exposure to weather out
in the pastures. He was also Maurev's best friend. He had promised to
spend Melrin with Maurev, but the baron had chosen Saunt, along with two
other cowherds, to attend him while he brought the yearlings home.
Maurev hadn't even been able to tell his friend about his promotion, as
the baron's party had left on the 28th of Naia.
Maurev was rehearsing how he would tell Saunt about the excitement
of the past few days when he felt the heat of the afternoon sun on his
back vanish. Realizing that someone had to be standing behind him, he
turned ... and found himself confronted with an overabundance of
barely-bound breasts.
He stared at the red velvet bodice that squeezed the breasts
together and up, but mostly he stared at the whiteness that bulged above
the red. His mouth hung open and he could feel his tongue drying out.
His eye for detail noted the exquisite embroidery that edged the red
velvet, and if the jewels that dotted that stitching weren't real, they
sure glittered as if they were.
A laugh came from above his line of sight, sounding like tinkling
crystal. A beringed hand reached down and cupped his chin, and he
automatically noticed that the fingers were soft and the palm smooth as
his gaze was lifted above the canyon and the mountains.
Maurev gasped when he saw the face of Cheyon, Baroness Madenee. She
was a beautiful woman with dark hair, stormy blue eyes, and a full,
expressive mouth. She was almost as much younger than Daniled, her
husband, as she was older than Maurev, which was at least ten years.
Maurev was mortified; he had been staring at the ample charms of his
baroness! He tried to say something, but his dry tongue refused to
cooperate. He closed his mouth and his eyes, and tried to turn his head
aside as he wetted his tongue as fast as he could. The crystalline laugh
came again, and the fingers didn't leave his chin.
Finally he was able to stutter out, "Y-y-your excellency! I
ap-p-pologize ..."
Cheyon let his chin go and said, "Had I been offended, little
Maurev, I would not have let you stare so long." The smile was evident
in her voice, and Maurev opened his eyes to confirm its presence.
"You ... you know my name, your excellency?"
"Please, Maurev, call me Cheyon, at least when we are alone like
this. And yes, I know your name. My husband and I are patrons of the
arts, and we take an interest in promising youths such as yourself. I've
heard you've been elevated to journeyrank and came to offer my
congratulations."
Maurev blushed at the praise, and lowered his gaze quickly past
Cheyon's bodice and down to his own feet. He mumbled, "Thank you, your
-- Cheyon, ma'am." He found himself staring again; her feet were clad in
sandals, and she had rings on every toe, and an anklet dripping with
more sparkly jewels.
Cheyon said, "I was wondering whether you could do me a favor,
little Maurev?" He watched her step closer to him, her foot coming to
rest between his. He lifted his gaze back to her face as she continued,
"I'd like to be your very personal patron. I'd like you to create a
statue of me. In the nude."
Maurev could feel the heat from her body even through the rising
heat in his own. The inane question, "And what will you be wearing?"
flashed through his mind, but he knew what she'd meant. He debated the
proprieties of sculpting his baroness naked, but couldn't deny that he
wanted to try it. He wondered what Saunt would think, and then wondered
why he felt slightly ashamed of that thought, as if this was something
he shouldn't share with Saunt.
"I ... ah, I think I would be honored, Cheyon, ma'am. When do you
think ...? We could use one of the studios in the pottery ..."
Cheyon put her hand on Maurev's shoulder. He could smell a faint
perfume rising from her and it made his skin tingle. She said, "I don't
see any need to wait, little Maurev. It's Melrin, so you have no duties,
and my duties for the day are complete. Why don't you come home with me
and do it tonight? I'm sure we can be ... finished ... before morning's
light."
Maurev suddenly found it hard to breathe. He gasped a few times,
which only seemed to amuse Cheyon. Her giggle brought him around, and he
took a few deep breaths. Trying to be adult about the situation,
thinking of nothing but the sculpting, he said, "Do you have everything
I'll need at the manor?"
"Oh yes, Maurev. Absolutely everything."
"Then I, ah ..." he said, trying to think of a reason not to go
with the baroness. Failing, he said, "Then let's be about it."
Cheyon's crystal laughter rang out, and she turned. Blushing
furiously, Maurev stood and followed her away.
Haian stalked away from his not-so-chance encounter with Maurev,
his frown so fierce it made his forehead hurt. "The little rat-turd," he
thought, "He didn't even drop the tupping statue!"
The crowd got in the way no matter where Haian tried to go, and the
music was so raucous that it made his ears hurt. A red haze formed
around the edges of Haian's vision as he desperately sought a way out of
the press of people and away from the noise. He darted between two
stalls, and then through a door. He ignored the startled yelps of the
people whose home he had invaded, and drove straight through it and out
the back.
The alley behind the house was quieter, but it was also short, the
respite it provided brief. As Haian dodged and
darted his way through
alleys and side streets, getting lost over and over again, the
apprentice cursed the day his father had sold him to the Corathin
Pottery. Haian hated clay, but his father'd had dreams that his coin
didn't stretch to. Thinking to do his son a favor, he'd apprenticed the
thirteen year old with the best potters in the Duchy of Dargon. Haian
hadn't had a good day since he'd left the city of Dargon with the
pot-seller eight years ago. He knew he wouldn't have one, either, until
he attained journeyrank and was free of his apprenticeship bond, or he
decided to run away from that bond. He hadn't reached a low enough point
yet to break his word.
Haian eventually found himself among the tents of the fairgrounds
south of Hartim. His body unclenched slowly as the noise and the crowds
both thinned out. He found his way to the horse pens, where he stood for
a while watching the animals being led away, the gate wardens carefully
checking tail tags against receipts. Haian idly marked who'd had a good
day at the auction by the worthiness of the horseflesh they now owned.
He had grown up around animals on the farm where his family worked. He'd
been grooming horses since he could stand, riding them for almost as
long as he'd been able to walk. He'd milked cows, slopped pigs, and
collected eggs for most of his childhood. He had come to understand
animals. He knew how to care for them, how to work them, get benefit
from them. He didn't know how to make clay work, how to make it benefit
him. Clay had no spirit, no life. Haian just didn't comprehend the
stuff.
He found his thoughts turning inevitably back to the new rankings
that had been announced on the last day of Naia, just before the
beginning of the mid-year Melrin festival. Haian hadn't expected to be
journeyed, but he had hoped. At twenty-one, he wasn't the oldest
apprentice at the pottery, but he had been there longer than anyone who
had any intention of advancing. Haian wasn't going to work as a potter,
ever, but he would never be anything else until he advanced out of his
apprenticeship.
Maurev's grinning image came to mind, accepting his journeyrank
along with three other apprentices who were all Haian's age or older.
Haian had no friends at the pottery, but he now had an enemy. Maurev
didn't deserve advancement. Haian couldn't see any difference between
the work Maurev did and his own efforts, nor that of the other three new
journeyranks, either. He had thought it would all come down to a matter
of age and opportunity, until Maurev had stolen his spot among the
journeyranks well out of turn.
At sixteen, Maurev was clearly too young to be a journeyrank. It
galled Haian no end that the child's backroom activities with the clay
masters had been rewarded while Haian's attempts at the same had all
been rebuffed. His thoughts turned to Master Pretya, the youngest and
prettiest of the three master potters at Corathin. Haian had given her
countless presents, praised her work effusively, intimated his interest
in taking private lessons from her. She always took his advances at face
value, never acknowledging the subtext Haian knew she had to have seen.
Yet she was always at Maurev's side, praising his work, giving him the
'private lessons' Haian wanted. No, Haian had never been allowed the
liberties that Maurev must have taken to receive his advancement so
young. Haian vowed he'd get even with the little scut.
The ache in his ears and forehead finally eased as Haian continued
wandering. He hated the town of Hartim as much as he hated clay, finding
no way to favorably compare it to Dargon itself, but the Melrin festival
made up for many of its shortcomings. The dreadful small sameness of the
town was mitigated by the influx of people and the traders who came to
sell to them. Haian perused the goods, finding nothing worth his Bits
but happy to have something besides Maurev and clay to think about.
A short while later, Haian found himself near the edge of the
fairgrounds. He made for his favorite food vendor, but when he got close
his forehead started to hurt again; he saw Maurev sitting at one of the
tables by himself, eating. Haian examined the situation, but saw no
opportunity to bother the boy beyond direct confrontation. As much as he
would have liked that, he needed to avoid it at all costs thanks to the
pottery's rules. Instead, he slipped behind an awning pole across a
pathway from the eatery to wait for his enemy's departure.
Haian fumed as he watched the boy eat, a stupid grin on his baby
face. Maurev had wheat-brown hair and green eyes, handsome features and
strong limbs. Haian compared his own coarse looks, his mud-brown hair
and dirt-brown eyes, and felt rage begin to build again. The kid had
every advantage, while Haian had none. It just wasn't fair!
Haian indulged himself with a small fantasy. He imagined Maurev
getting older, his hair falling out, his eyes dulling, his face and
limbs collecting the clay-dust of the pottery and never coming clean.
And then Haian involuntarily imagined the pretend-old Maurev standing
there, a master's medallion around his neck. His unruly imagination
portrayed this master Maurev giving a journeyrank to someone standing
next to a still-apprenticed, old Haian. He cursed, and slammed his fist
against the awning pole. Pain in his hand joined the pain in his
forehead, and he cursed again.
Haian missed Baroness Cheyon Madenee entering the eatery. By the
time his attention returned to reality, the boy was staring at her
cleavage. Haian watched avidly as that stare went on for an insultingly
long time. But Maurev's luck held and the baroness took no offense that
Haian could see, instead taking hold of Maurev's chin and gently lifting
his gaze away from her breasts. They spoke, Maurev blushing, mild, the
baroness bold, amused, perhaps even flirtatious. Haian forgot to frown
as he concentrated on the inaudible exchange between the woman and the
boy. He needed to know more about what was going on.
The pair in the eatery were intent upon each other, and the food
seller was nowhere in sight. Haian slipped around the awning pole,
across the path, and into the growing shadow next to a wall of the
eatery's tent.
Haian was in time to overhear the baroness saying, "I'm sure we can
be ... finished ... before morning's light."
There was a pause before Maurev's thin voice, childish to Haian's
ears, said, "Do you have everything I'll need at the manor?"
"Oh yes, Maurev. Absolutely everything," was the overheard reply.
Maurev stuttered, "Then I, ah ... Then let's be about it."
The baroness laughed and turned to go. When Maurev stood and
followed her, Haian almost laughed as well.
"This is perfect!" Haian thought. "Maybe Maurev didn't do the
seducing, but the baron doesn't need to hear that. I'm going to make
sure that he knows what's going on at the manor before the sun sets!"
Every year, regular as Melrin itself, Baron Daniled Madenee took a
handful of people out to his hunting lodge, where, over several days,
his cattle were rounded up and penned to be eventually driven back to
town. Everyone knew about the trip; the baron didn't keep it a secret.
Haian was sure that it wasn't a duty that normally fell to the nobility
-- he couldn't imagine, for example, Duke Clifton going out to bring the
yearlings home himself -- but the baron of Madenee seemed to think that
it made him look like one of his people, instead of above them. Haian
thought it made the baron look like a mud-footed hick. However, since
that was about as highly as he thought of anyone in Madenee, he supposed
that the baron had achieved his goal.
Haian made sure that the illicit pair was out of sight before he
emerged from the shadow. He reviewed his options, swiftly discarding
them one by one. The hunting lodge was too far to walk to quickly, so he
would need transportation. Asking to borrow a horse would take too long,
with the added wrinkle that he really didn't know anyone who would lend
him one without a great deal of convincing. Then he recalled the horse
pens in the auction yard.
He dashed across the fairgrounds even as he gave a thought to the
consequences of what he planned. Stealing horses was punishable by
death, but Haian had no intention of keeping the horse. He was only
borrowing one for long enough to inform the baron of an injustice being
perpetrated on him. Surely the baron would pardon his offense?
The horse pens were empty of people. Two of the corrals were empty
of horses as well, but the third and fourth gave him a wealth to choose
from. His hard-earned childhood skills served him well. He spotted a
likely runner and called it over. Accepting the risk of mounting the
strange animal without any tack, he climbed over the railings and onto
the horse's back. It didn't try to buck him off, and responded well to
his direction. He trotted it over to the gate and let them out, closing
and latching it after. He used his feet in its ribs and his hands on its
neck to guide it out of the fairgrounds. As soon as they were clear of
the tents, he kicked the horse to a gallop, and held on as his hopes of
a runner were borne out.
Haian raced with the sun across the fields around Hartim, gripping
the horse's mane in his fists and leaning close to the neck. He
rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say to the baron, how he was
going to dramatically expose Maurev's perfidy in sleeping with his wife.
Along the way he felt the pain in his forehead ease, to be replaced with
a very strange sensation in his cheeks. He eventually realized he was
grinning fiercely, and he didn't know whether it was because of his
impending revenge on Maurev, or because he was enjoying the gallop.
When he came to the Yentz river, however, he forgot all about
grinning. He cursed for a solid spring mene as he pranced his borrowed
horse along the edge of the washed-out bridge, a product of the rains at
the beginning of the season. He knew there must be another bridge or
ford somewhere, since the baron was at his lodge on the other side of
the Yentz and not at home, but Haian didn't know where it might be.
Determined not to break his vow to himself, he took another chance.
He turned the horse from the road and directed it down to the river
bank. He continued into the water, and soon the horse was swimming
across the river. The water was uncomfortably cold on Haian's legs, and
he spared a moment's habitual thought for the welfare of his steed. He
hoped that neither of them would be in the water dangerously long. He
had a tense moment when the current and the horse's own efforts brought
them to an unclimbable section of the far bank, but they quickly came to
a more suitable landing point and the horse scrambled out of the river.
Haian dug in his heels again. The rushing wind of his passage soon had
his pant legs dry.
The sun was on the horizon when Haian rode up to the baron's
hunting lodge. The small manor house was an impressive structure, but
Haian paid no attention to the stone construction, the deep porches, or
the slate roof. He slid, somewhat painfully, to be sure, off his horse's
back and strode over to the imposing door. He took hold of the bell-pull
and yanked it. He was startled by the tinny jangling he got in response,
having expected a more resounding result.
The door opened quickly, but instead of the baron standing there,
Haian saw a stooped, older man in patchy leather and over-the-knee
boots. "Can I help you?" the man asked in a quavering voice.
"Who are you?" Haian said.
"I'm Baron Madenee's huntsman. Can I help you?"
"Ah, is the baron here?" said Haian, wondering what the geezer was
fit to hunt.
"Yes, he --" started the old man.
"Who is it, Ned?" interrupted someone from within. Haian pushed
past the old man to find the source of the voice, which he recognized as
the baron's.
He stalked intently down the dark hallway, ignoring the feeble
calls of the huntsman behind him. Only one door was open, light spilling
through it, and he entered the room beyond, full of confidence. Knowing
he was intruding on the baron's privacy but buoyed by his mission, he
called out, "Your excellency, I bring news from Hartim!" before he took
the time to look around.
The room was small and cozy. Wood covered the walls and ceiling,
and a stone fireplace filled one corner. Four men sat around a low table
with cards in their hands. Most of them were dressed casually in tunics
and pants, though one of them was barechested despite the slightly
chilly air. Two taller, narrower tables stood on opposite sides of the
low table; one had mugs and several decanters on it, the other held
bread, cheese, sliced meats, and small bowls of condiments. Next to the
cards on the low table were several leftwiches with bites taken out of
them.
The largest and oldest of the four men in the room stood and turned
toward Haian. Baron Daniled was over forty, with broad shoulders and
long, red hair. A full beard cloaked his mouth and chin, but Haian could
tell that those lips were not smiling.
In a voice that matched his body, a rich baritone with occasional
deeper bass rumblings, Daniled said, "What ho, my good man? News, you
say? News you bring from Hartim? Has a tent in the fairgrounds caught
fire? Bandits, perhaps? Or maybe the Beinison army has ventured this far
north once again and taken my manor house for part of their empire?"
The baron's tone of voice was playful, but the storm in his eyes
convinced Haian that he was not joking about having his privacy invaded.
Setting aside his ulterior motives for the moment, he delivered his news
in as respectful and sorrowful a manner as he was able. "Your
excellency, I regret to inform you that you are betrayed. Maurev the
clay-boy is bedding your wife as we speak."
Gasps came from the still seated men, but Daniled didn't react. He
waited a moment, then said, "You are sure of this, young man?"
"I'm Haian, your excellency, and I saw it myself."
"You were at the manor house to witness this act?"
"No, your excellency," said Haian.
The baron frowned, and said, "Then how do you know what my wife is
doing?"
"I did not see the bedding, but I saw the seduction," Haian said,
getting exasperated and forgetting to whom he was speaking.
"And there can be no mistake?" said Daniled. "Think carefully, for
you accuse my wife and this Maurev with your words."
"I saw what I saw," said Haian, almost shouting. His forehead was
starting to hurt again from frowning. Couldn't this clod of a baron
understand the obvious? "I saw them leave the fairgrounds together."
"Perhaps they were simply walking in the same direction."
"I heard them speaking of going to the manor and spending the night
there!"
"Perhaps ..." the baron began, but he didn't continue. He bowed his
head, and Haian saw him clenching his fists. The baron paused for so
long that Haian wondered just exactly what he was thinking.
Finally Daniled said, "We must ride back, then, with all haste." He
glanced over at the men around the table and said, "Saunt, put your
tunic back on. Everyone, go get the horses ready. We're going back to
Hartim."
Haian suppressed his grin, though he still wondered at the lack of
passion in the baron's voice. The other three men rose and slipped out
of the room, leaving Haian alone with Daniled. The baron just stared at
Haian, his face unreadable. Haian started getting nervous, and he almost
jumped when the baron shouted, "Ned! Get the grey saddled!"
A moment later, the shuffling old man poked his head into the room
and said, "Your pardon, my lord, but the grey is lamed."
Something flickered in the baron's eyes, but Haian couldn't
decipher it. Daniled said, "The black, then." Ned shook his head. "The
chestnut!" ordered the baron.
Ned said, "My lord, Tan and Ebin have the black and the chestnut,
and they're out in the far pastures gathering the herd. I'm sorry, we've
no horses to spare beyond the four you rode in on."
Daniled sighed in resignation, making Haian wonder why the baron
needed an extra horse. The baron said, "I remember now, Ned. I'll just
have to ..." Daniled's voice trailed off, confusing Haian further.
"Very good, my lord," Ned said before leaving.
Haian remembered about his 'borrowed' horse, and he decided to get
his pardon before any more time had passed. "Forgive me, your
excellency?"
"What?" barked Daniled.
There was such anger in that single word that Haian decided not to
bring up any further wrongdoing. He fumbled for a response, and then hit
upon something that actually made sense in context.
"Ah, in my haste to carry my news," Haian said, "I didn't have time
to dress my horse. If you've got spare tack?"
The baron narrowed his eyes, then turned away. "Of course, of
course," he said in a grudging tone. "In the stables out back. Help
yourself, but hurry."
Saunt felt a trickle of something at the corner of his mouth. He
brushed at it with a finger, and realized that it was blood; he had
bitten his lip in his nervousness. He looked around guiltily, but no one
else in the small group who were riding through the night to return to
the baron's manor was paying any attention to him.
He wasn't nervous about the ride itself, but rather the reason for
the journey. When the brown-haired, scowling man had barged into the
hunting lodge, Saunt hadn't recognized him. Once he had named himself
Haian, though, Saunt had realized who he was from Maurev's description.
When the man had announced his news, naming Maurev, Saunt had been hard
pressed not to cry out in surprise. He knew Maurev well and he found it
difficult to believe that the handsome lad would ever take up with any
woman, much less the baroness.
The small company rode in silence for the most part, allowing Saunt
plenty of time to worry. Most of the conversation consisted of Haian
urging Baron Daniled to go faster, which was ironic since the moderate
pace had been set due to Haian's delicate anatomy upon remounting his
horse. The accuser had also grumbled rather loudly when the group had
detoured to the ford across the Yentz instead of swimming their horses
across it near the broken bridge. So loud had Haian become that the
baron had finally shouted at him to remain silent.
Thanks to the time it had taken to get everyone ahorse and away,
their pace on the road, and the detour to the ford, the faint light of
dawn was brightening the horizon when Saunt saw the first hint of
Hartim, still some distance away. He recalled the words the baron had
taken him aside to deliver. He lifted his horn to his lips and blew as
loud and strong as he was able, shattering the silence of the night with
the carrying noise.
Three faces turned to him in shock, and Haian's shout joined the
echoes of the horn in disturbing the nocturnal peace. Only the baron
didn't turn his head or react in any other way.
Saunt ignored the looks his cowherd friends gave him, just as he
ignored the insults that Haian shouted. He let the horn fall back to his
side, his part played. He only hoped he hadn't sounded too early.
Maurev came awake slowly, hearing a faint horn blowing that bridged
his dream and reality. The oddness of the sound in the pervasive silence
was what had roused him, but it was his strange surroundings that
startled him fully awake.
Soft sheets over him felt like velvet to skin used to rough
homespun. The plush softness of a featherbed beneath him felt like a
cloud to one accustomed to a straw-padded pallet which, often enough,
lacked the straw. Most strange, however, was the warmth of the body
behind him that felt like nothing he'd ever experienced before.
He thought about the sensations surrounding him, and could find no
danger in them. He considered the strange horn, and realized it couldn't
have meant anything. He settled back into the softness below and the
warmth behind him, and tried to go back to sleep.
There was a stirring next to him, and a warm voice said, "What
wakes you, little Maurev?"
The previous evening came back to the journeyrank potter in a rush
that made him grin from ear to ear. "Nothing, Cheyon, ma'am. Just a horn
blowing in the night."
The baroness sat up, pulling the sheet away from Maurev. "A horn,
you say?"
Confused, Maurev rolled over and looked up at Cheyon's concerned
face. "Yes, I'm pretty sure it was a horn. But it was probably just a
shepherd gathering his flock, straight?"
Cheyon shook her head sadly. "No, I don't think so, Maurev." She
looked down at him, her face serious and intent. "I don't think so at
all."
Baron Daniled Madenee heaved himself rather ponderously off the
back of his horse in the courtyard in front of his manor house just as
the sun poked up over the horizon behind him. From the clattering to his
rear, the rest of his small group of riders were following his lead.
Daniled allowed himself a brief grin as Lenna and Rall, his ostler
and butler, appeared at the front door unsummoned, despite the time.
Lenna stepped forward and took charge of all of the mounts, having no
trouble keeping all five in line despite her diminutive stature. Rall
looked around at the group gathered before the house and looked at the
baron, shaking his head just a tiny bit.
Daniled wiped his grin away and signaled with his hand that Rall
need not be worried. He turned to the three cowherds and the apprentice
potter and said, "Thank you for accompanying me back. You may go and
find your rest, now; the night's ride has been long."
No one moved. The baron looked at the four faces and saw from their
different expressions that they were very much against leaving, though
for mixed reasons. Daniled mentally shrugged, and said, "But if you have
the stamina to see this through, then follow me."
He walked toward the door, and Rall said, "My lord, there was news
from town while you were away. Last night, someone stole a horse from
the auction yard. There hasn't been time to investigate thoroughly as
yet."
"I'll take that up later, Rall. This is more important."
"Very good, my lord," said the butler as he stood aside to let
Daniled enter the manor.
The baron strode through the front hall and climbed the stairs, the
other four trooping loudly up behind him. He turned right at the top of
the stair and slammed through first one door and then another before
reaching his own bedroom. He could feel Haian almost stepping on his
heels, and found it difficult not to backhand the little weasel where he
stood.
The tableau he found in his bedroom didn't surprise him. He locked
eyes with his wife and returned her nod. He glanced at the boy next to
her, covered to his neck by the sheet; Maurev looked frightened, but he
nodded, too.
Daniled paused a moment, letting the four behind him file in and
arrange themselves. He then stormed across the room and stood at the
foot of his bed.
"So," he said, "I see my featherbed is not being wasted while I'm
away. It seems that Haian here tells truth as he tale-tattles. Are my
sheets to your liking, young man? My pillow? My wife?"
Maurev blinked a few times, and said, "Yes, your excellency, they
are, thank you." The boy's voice was none too steady, but he was putting
on bravado rather well.
Daniled said, "Get up then, young man, and get dressed. We've got
honor to serve here, and I'll not duel a naked man."
"No, your excellency, I don't think I should do that," said Maurev.
"You're armed, after all, and I ..." He paused, lifted the sheet, looked
under it, and let it fall. "I don't even have a pocket to hide a knife."
Daniled smiled, knowing only the pair on the bed could see it. He
was about to take the next scripted step when from behind him he heard,
"The baron has two swords, see? One for him and one for the rat in his
bed!" Daniled knew without turning that it was Haian who had spoken just
from the animosity in the voice.
"I was about to say," Daniled said, "that as the challenged, Maurev
gets the choice --"
Haian chimed in with, "Then let him choose which of your swords to
use instead of giving him one!"
Daniled saw the eyes of the pair in the bed widen as the script got
shredded. He turned to glare at Haian, and before he could turn back,
Maurev said hesitantly, "Ah, but I've, well, never even held a sword
before."
Daniled faced the bed again, and he could see the boy's white
knuckles where his fists clenched the sheet. Daniled held his hand up in
front of his chest where it would be hidden from those behind him and
motioned for Maurev to calm down and wait. He took a breath and prepared
to defuse the situation, but once again Haian interrupted.
"Just trade blows then. Let the clay-boy go first to be fair, and
then you, your excellency. Maurev will be dead, and justice will be
served."
Daniled turned his back on the bed and faced the upstart. "Just who
do you think you are, Haian?" he shouted. "This is my barony and justice
is mine to serve out. You overstep your place at every turn. Now, be
silent, or you will reap the trouble you wish to sow!"
The young man opened his mouth and closed it again. Daniled saw
only scorn in Haian's face, though, and his hand fell to the hilt of one
of his swords. Haian opened his mouth once more, and then stepped back,
dropping his gaze to the floor.
Daniled sighed and was ready to start over when the door crashed
open. His eyes went to the entry with everyone else's to see Lenna
standing there. The ostler said, "Your excellency, when I was stabling
the animals I just took from the courtyard, I found that one had an
auction yard tail-tag. The number matches that of the horse stolen last
night."
The baron assessed the situation swiftly. He had let the entire
cavalcade come back to the manor after Haian's accusations in the hope
that he could deal with the problem as he had previously prepared with
his wife, salving honor and quieting the accuser. That man, however,
obviously had blood on his mind, and Daniled was minded to give it to
him.
He drew one of the swords at his waist, took a step forward, and
even as Haian's head came up and his mouth opened, Daniled ran him
through.
Shouts filled the room, Maurev's loudest. The noisy Haian made no
sound as he clutched at the sword that pierced him and sank slowly to
his knees. Daniled laughed at the confusion in the man's face. He said,
"Now is justice served, you tale-tattling horse thief." He pulled his
sword back, and the former apprentice potter toppled to his side, closed
his eyes, and was still.
Silence filled the room. Daniled winced as he saw the Haian's blood
soaking into his favorite carpet. He lifted his gaze from the body and
found that everyone was looking at him, not at the corpse as he'd
supposed.
He put thoughts of the ruined rug from his mind and took charge of
the situation. He said, "Thank you, Lenna, for your timely news. You
two," he said, pointing at two of the cowherds, "help Lenna carry the
rug and the body out of here. Lenna, tell Rall to inform the town guards
that the horse thief has been dealt with, and then ask him to clean up
the rest of this mess."
The three of them lifted the rug, and with it the corpse, and
hustled it out of the room. Daniled took the few steps and closed the
door. He looked around at the remaining people in the room, and said,
"That was not the end I expected, but a better one than I had feared."
Cheyon rose from the bed, gloriously naked, and walked to his side.
Daniled saw Saunt look away from the baroness' charms. He gave the
cowherd a push toward his friend, and watched Saunt gather the staring,
shaking Maurev into his arms.
The baroness kissed Daniled on the cheek, somewhat nervously. He
hugged her tight and kissed her on the lips in return. She said, "We
were lucky today, weren't we?"
"That we were, my dear. But this could all have been avoided if you
had been more discreet."
"Melrin brings out the worst in me, I suppose," Cheyon said. "But I
never saw that rat anywhere near us. He must have been spying from
somewhere."
"Maybe you'll let Lenna, or even Rall, do your procuring next time,
straight?"
"I think I've learned my lesson, love," Cheyon said. She rested her
head on his shoulder and said softly, "I'm sorry."
Silence reigned once again, until Maurev's quavering voice broke
it. "He hated me. He hated me enough to commit a crime to see me
destroyed." The young man leaned against Saunt, and Daniled saw his
inward stare turn outward. Maurev looked up at him and said, "But how
...? Why aren't you angry at me? I mean, Che-- her excellency told me
what to do, how to act, once the horn told her you were coming, but she
didn't tell me why."
Daniled smiled kindly at the very young man and said, "Cheyon and I
have an arrangement, Maurev. You see, I had an accident some time ago
while hunting, and I cannot get her with child. Unfortunately, I hadn't
managed to have any children before the accident. I'm the last Madenee,
and she's from another noble family, with their own lineage to maintain.
If I don't produce an heir, my lands will be ceded to another by the
duke upon my death."
"So," Maurev hesitatingly said, "The baroness did this to get you
an heir, straight?"
Cheyon laughed her crystalline laugh, and Daniled was glad that she
had put the unpleasantness behind her. She said, "That's certainly one
reason, little Maurev. It's also one of the privileges of rank, to do
what you want. I like variety, Maurev, and you are very, very handsome.
I must say that my diversions are not usually so complicated."
Daniled hugged his wife again, and added, "I have other interests
too, Maurev. But the continuation of my line, blood or no, is the
primary justification."
"What about Saunt and the others? They know ..." asked Maurev.
Daniled shook his head. "I think their discretion can be relied on
in this case. There's really no profit to be had here, since my wife had
my consent."
Maurev nodded, but Daniled could tell from the confusion on his
face that he didn't understand. The baron said, "Perhaps Saunt and I
could explain it to you better back at my lodge, if you would care to
join us there?"
Maurev nodded again, his face smoothing out in a smile. Then he
frowned again, lifted his head from Saunt's shoulder, and said, "So, do
I get to do that sculpture of the baroness or not?"
Cleansing laughter filled the room, ending only when a knock came
at the door. Daniled fetched a robe for his wife, and then let Rall in
with a bucket and a mop. As the room was straightened up, he hoped that
the rest of Melrin would not prove so eventful.
========================================================================
