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DargonZine Volume 19 Issue 09
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 9
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DargonZine Distributed: 12/16/06
Volume 19, Number 9 Circulation: 624
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
For Want of a Nail ... Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Mertz 5-Yule, 1018
The Great Houses War 4 Nicholas Wansbutter 12 Firil-30 Sy, 899
========================================================================
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://ftp.dargonzine.org/. Issues and public discussions are posted
to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 19-9, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright December, 2006 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Liam Donahue <bdonahue@fuse.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>
Back in the DargonZine 19-7 Editorial, I told you about Carlo
Samson, one of our most loyal writers, who had recently founded Arcane
Twilight, an electronic magazine he began with another former Dargon
writer, Mark Murray. For many years, Carlo also created original artwork
to illustrate our issues, and without his images over the last year, our
story pages looked pretty bare. As a favor, Carlo agreed to produce the
graphics for DargonZine 19-7 as a one-time thing, but there was no
expectation he'd do anything more.
Well, I'm happy to report that Carlo has agreed to continue
illustrating all our stories for the foreseeable future. So you can look
forward to more colorful visual representations of the people, places,
and things we write about. We're absolutely delighted with Carlo's
return.
But Carlo isn't going to be limited to two or three graphics every
couple months. For years we've wanted to add illustrations to our Online
Glossary pages. Well, over the past month Carlo has cranked out over a
hundred character sketches, and I've added the necessary code to make it
work. There are still plenty of characters and places that don't have
pictures, but now you can go to the Glossary and actually see what major
characters like Clifton Dargon or Sian Allyn or Anarr actually look
like! It's a huge step forward in terms of the Glossary's value as a
tool for both our readers as well as our writers, and it's something
that could never have happened without Carlo's artistic contribution.
In this issue, we bring a very successful year to a close with a
great new standalone story from DargonZine's most dedicated writer,
Dafydd, as well as the fourth installment of Nick Wansbutter's "Great
Houses War".
This year we printed 19 stories by ten writers in nine issues. We
finished the immense Black Idol story arc and began the Great Houses War
series. We moved to a new web hosting company, had our first printed ads
appear in Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine, reorganized our leadership
and roles, drastically changed our new writer mentoring program, added
character sketches to our Online Glossary, and got back in touch with a
number of former writers, many of whom are helping out in various ways.
2006 was a year of change, and those changes will continue to percolate
throughout 2007.
Speaking of which, I want to let you know that we've set the
contents for the first four issues of 2007 already, which you can see if
you visit our Publication Schedule page. Our 23rd year on the
Internet will begin with more of Nick Wansbutter's Great Houses War
series, punctuated with new singleton stories from Liam Donahue, Jim
Owens, and of course Dafydd. So we'll see you next year, and keep an eye
on our What's New page and these editorials for news about more upcoming
enhancements to DargonZine.
========================================================================
For Want of a Nail ...
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Mertz 5 & Yule 12, 1018
Caryle pulled tight the knot holding the last roll of blankets to
the back of his saddle, and stood back to survey his packing job. He
nodded to himself, pleased. The saddlebags bulged with supplies and
there were four rolls of blankets piled on his mount's withers. He was
ready for anything his journey might throw at him; he was sure of it.
The young man drew in a deep breath, filling his nose and chest
with the cold air of early spring in Dargon. A smile lit up his narrow
face; it was great to be following the gypsy roads again. He shrugged
his shoulders, settling his cloak around him more securely, and pulled
on his gloves. He turned to see whether his companion was ready yet, and
the fringe of hair that grew along the left side of his head swung over
his eye for a moment. That fringe, about jaw-length and dropping down
from just above his ear, was the longest of the hair on his head. All of
the rest of the light brown growth was shorn tight to his scalp.
Caryle's companion, the bard Lerillon, was kneeling on the ground,
an open leather bag in front of her. The beautiful woman with the long
raven hair was removing small amulets and carved figurines from that bag
and securing them about her person: looping her neck, wrapping her arm,
hanging on her belt, and hooking into her boot. Caryle watched with
lifted eyebrow as Lerillon spent several menes decorating herself with
all manner of strange jewelry.
She finally finished, closed up her bag, and stood. Her
well-rounded figure, still obvious even though muffled by two heavy
tunics and a good woolen cloak, was now dripping with objects.
Caryle got past his astonishment and walked over to the bard. "When
did you take up wearing enough jewelry for an all-night whore,
Lerillon?"
She turned at his question and laughed, her green eyes sparkling
with pleasure. "This is not jewelry, my handsome merchant's son. It is
insurance. We're one day out from the city of Dargon, and from here to
the interior of the kingdom, nothing is certain. Travel is dangerous,
paths may be dubious, and we will both need all the help we can get if
we want to arrive at our destination." Lerillon slipped her leather bag
into one of the panniers on her horse and proceeded to check over
everything secured to her saddle.
"Are you saying that those are all ...?"
Lerillon turned to him and finished, "Amulets. Talismans. Relics,
charms, fetishes: you name it, I've got at least one. Every kind you've
heard of and three score you haven't. There are all kinds of benefits of
being a bard, love-pup."
Caryle was no novice traveler, despite his tender years. He said,
"You can't be serious. You just can't." He threw his arms wide in
exasperation, spun halfway around and took two steps away. Turning back,
he said, "I've been on ships that have had fewer amulets between all of
the sailors on board! I've been to Sharks' Cove in Kiliaen by sea, and
Port Andestn in Monrodya by land, and never needed a charm or amulet to
get me there. How can you believe in such arrant nonsense in these
modern times?"
Lerillon closed the distance between them and ran an ungloved hand,
fingers chilly, along Caryle's cheek. "Such adult assurances. Such
worldly knowledge!" She laughed as she slipped her arm under his cloak
and around his waist and squeezed him to her briefly, making a type of
heat rise within him that had nothing to do with his protective
clothing.
She kissed him lightly on the tip of his nose and slipped away to
return to her horse. Circling around her mount, Lerillon busied herself
with the headstall straps for a bit before returning her attention to
Caryle over the top of her saddle.
"Modern or not, love-pup, there are things in this world that
neither of us could possibly explain. I've been out and about for some
years longer than you. I've met Sir Morion's Araf wife Kimmentari. I've
heard eyewitness accounts of the magics used in the Beinison War. I
could tell you such stories ..."
Lerillon paused, and Caryle watched her face slowly clear as she
banished her recollections. She looked him in the eye and continued, "I
may not believe in each and every power represented here in wood and
bone, clay and stone, but often enough belief is not required. I would
gladly carry a dozen useless carvings if the one I end up needing was
also present."
She laughed then, bright and dismissive, dispelling the serious
aura that her words had begun to invoke. "Besides," she said as she
circled her horse, "I believe in covering every contingency. This charm
here," she said, pointing to a braided horsehair and brass square tied
to her upper arm, "is to protect you while riding a horse. But that
doesn't mean I'm not going to double check the cinch on the
girth-strap." She suited words to action, pulling up hard on the strap
securing her saddle to the horse's back after giving the beast a knee in
the ribs for extra assurance.
"Nor am I going to neglect checking every knot and buckle twice or
even thrice." When she was finished with that chore, she slipped a
hammer and punch from an external pocket and started checking each of
her horse's hooves. "And I always examine the nails in my horse's shoes
every morning. There's simply no excuse for not being careful."
Caryle watched Lerillon move around her horse with the assurance of
an experienced ostler, tapping at two nails before returning the tools
to their pocket. He couldn't equate the practical woman taking care of
those important chores with the kind of person who would wear a jewelry
shop's worth of amulets. It didn't make any sense to him. He briefly
wondered whether traveling all the way to Magnus with a woman he had
only met a fortnight past was such a good idea. He had only to recall
the previous night's activities under all of those blankets to push any
doubts far, far away.
Lerillon slipped a foot into her stirrup and swung herself into the
saddle. "Come on, love-pup, let's ride. As we go, I'll tell you a
story."
"Will I finally get to hear you sing, Lerri?" asked Caryle as he
swiftly checked his knots and girth-strap, and hopped into his own
saddle.
"No, darling. This isn't a song-story, but a telling story. We
bards have all kinds of stories, and sometimes history is better told
without music."
Caryle said, a joke in his voice, "How come you're a bard and I've
never heard you sing in all the days we've been together?"
"Shut up, love-pup, and listen.
"The project to build the College of Bards in Magnus was begun in
the year 792. A vast lot was purchased and cleared, and ground was
broken for the foundations in 797. By 799 the walls were beginning to
rise above the ground, overseen by the new master stonemason Tarrum, who
had been thrust into this position of importance by the untimely death
of his mentor Moonik before the plans had even been finalized. Tarrum
intended to make the most of the opportunity before him ..."
Tarrum stepped out of his office into the calm weather of a late
spring day. He noted the sun's position on its course to setting, then
stared down at the small shrine that stood next to his door. In the
center of a carefully arranged setting of rune-carved miniature tools
and representations of building materials lay the ritually-prepared
capstone of his current project.
The master stonemason sneered at the round totem, covered with
propitiating symbols to every god and spirit the tradition of his craft
knew of, intended to bless and protect the building rising around him.
Tarrum had been born into the guild, and weaned on the traditions of
stonemasonry, inheriting his great-great-grandfather's trowel upon his
maturity. He had cut stone and laid blocks, carved little details in
windowsills and raised up massive retaining walls, with hands still
calloused from that work even after two years of wearing the
sash-and-baldric of a master. He had stone dust in his veins, but his
mind was not mired in the mortar of his past.
Tarrum was blessed with vision, and at the same time cursed by the
nature of his talents. The Stonemason's Guild was bound by rigid rules
and beset by foolish superstitions. Their construction standards were
based on strict sets of guidelines that were founded more on uniformity
than the actual structural capabilities of the materials involved.
Bridges were supported by arches that were no more than fifteen strides
wide, for example, and columns were required every thirty strides in any
open room. Tarrum saw things differently, however. Stonemasonry came
naturally to him. He had grasped his lessons as an apprentice
instinctively, disdaining the guild rituals that others used to gain
understanding. In the same way, he intuitively knew that bridge supports
could be spaced wider if the right materials were used, and the same
applied to columns. The lack of support for his views had only soured
him to the petrified nature of the guild, and had driven him to search
for vindication. He had found it, and he intended to prove his
revolutionary ideas sound today.
Tarrum set off across the construction site clutching a roll of
parchment under his arm. His robes billowed around his thin body and
long legs as he hurried to the location of the demonstration, determined
not to be late. His workers acknowledged him as he passed; he knew that
they easily recognized his unruly mop of brown hair and naturally gaunt
face. He also knew that their regard came from respect and not
requirement. He never wore his badges of rank on site so that they never
had to genuflect to some scraps of cloth, and he always treated his
workers as he wished to be treated, with due consideration for their
skills and abilities.
The stonemason reached the area that would someday be the dining
hall of the College of Bards and found that he was the last to arrive.
Seventh bell hadn't yet rung out over the city of Magnus, so he strode
into the space confidently, knowing he wasn't late but that they had
been early. He knew that their eager anticipation would be rewarded.
Tarrum reached the large table in the center of the area and
slapped the roll of parchment down. He unrolled the stack of sheets with
long fingers, holding the curling edges flat with thin hands for a
moment before straightening up, glad of the calm weather. He looked
briefly at the top sheet where blue lines on bleached parchment
represented the topmost floor plan of the project. The sheets beneath
plotted out the successively lower floors down to the deepest of the
basements. Having discharged his responsibilities, he said to the
assembled bardic officials, "These are the latest plans, containing all
of my improvements and proposals." He turned to his partner in the
demonstration, the white-haired man standing to his right, and
continued, "Are you ready for your part, Sarian?"
The gentleman nodded and approached the table, accompanied by four
others. Tarrum watched the wizard and his apprentices unload their
pockets onto the building plans. Tiny piles of dust were poured out,
composed of stone, mortar, brick, wood, and, from Sarian's pockets
alone, diamond. The more mundane dust had come from the very materials
that were being used to construct the college. The earliest experiments
he and Sarian had conducted had used quartz dust to bind and blend all
of the sample elements together and make them receptive to the magics
used. Tarrum didn't know why the wizard had switched to diamond,
escalating the cost of the demonstration, nor did he understand how the
diamonds he had provided had been powdered. When asked, Sarian had only
winked and said, "You and your guild have your secrets: the composition
of that blue ink you draw your plans with, for example. Suffice it to
say, I do too."
Metal shavings and miniature tools joined the piles of dust on the
parchment as the five wizards completed their preparations. The bell in
the tower two blocks to the east began to toll as Sarian straightened up
from his labors and looked toward Tarrum. The stonemason waited for the
echoes of the seventh clang to fade before he said, "Please begin the
demonstration, Sarian."
The wizard said, "If everyone could take a step back from the
table? My thanks. This will take a mene or three; please be patient."
Sarian and his helpers remained around the table, kneeling and
placing their hands on the tabletop, fingertips touching the parchment.
Tarrum heard no signal, saw no sign given, but all five pairs of hands
began to glow at the same moment. He looked at the kneeling people and
saw that the apprentices, two men and two women, had their heads bowed,
while Sarian's gaze was directed at the parchment.
Nothing more happened for what seemed a long time. Tarrum had seen
this demonstration before, so he had no trouble heeding Sarian's plea
for patience. Some of the bards had also seen it, and they reassured
their fellows when quiet questions began to stir. Then silence returned,
for something was happening on the table.
The blue-inked plans were rising from the parchment as miniature
walls of light before everyone's eyes as the dust and tools vanished.
Tarrum watched the under-vaults form, and then the cellars above them.
The ground floor's walls rose up, forming the central rooms and
passages, the wings leading off the great atrium, and the portico with
its intricate mechanisms. A second floor formed, and over two wings a
third. The roofing filled in, complete with ornamentation, as did the
windows, and, where one could see within, even some furniture filled the
rooms. The model was complete. Tarrum looked at the magnificence of his
design of the College of Bards and was pleased.
Sarian stood but his hands remained on the table, and his helpers
stayed on their knees, heads bowed and eyes closed. The wizard looked at
the stonemason, and Tarrum said, "Honored guests, this demonstration was
not put on just to show you what your future home will look like. Had
that been our only intent, we could have built you a wooden model at far
less expense!" He chuckled, and a few of the bards joined in. The rest
were staring at the building of light on the table with amazed looks on
their faces.
Tarrum continued, "No, this demonstration has a more important
purpose. This model is not just an image of how the college will look;
it is an exact duplicate of the future finished product. The materials
consumed represent the actual materials that are being used in the walls
that stand about you now. By wizardly arts that I do not understand but
believe in, this model will prove that my construction methods and
design choices are sound. You will have a building like no other when
your college is finished."
On cue, Sarian lifted his glowing hands and began to make passes
with them. His mellifluous voice accompanied his actions, explaining the
tests he was putting the model through. The audience watched as
simulated weight was applied to the roofs and walls, demonstrating that
the large spans were structurally sound, and that the buttresses used,
uncommonly small, were only needed as the decoration they were intended
to be, though they also served to reassure people who expected to see
them used in grand buildings. Miniature storms battered the walls, rain
hammering and lightning flashing, wind blowing and hail crashing. The
table top heaved in a pretend earthquake, and a tiny army attempted to
force the doors of the portico as a tiny bard stood on the locking plate
with impunity. Everyone laughed at that, since they were watching the
tiny bard through large cutaways in the walls that would have made far
easier ingress than the locked door had they been actual architectural
features.
Tarrum watched as his design passed the tests Sarian set one by
one. The display was fascinating not only visually but in what it
represented. He remembered when the wizard had first come to him years
ago with the idea of building models out of magic that exactly
represented the finished structure in every respect. Tarrum had seen in
the proposal the solution he had always searched for, but he hadn't
immediately accepted Sarian's claims. It had taken months of
experimentation before he felt confident that the idea was sound. The
stone mason had first used Sarian's model-magic to save costs in
building materials by proving what kinds of loads different types and
configurations of stone could bear. The resulting material requirements
always ended up being significantly less than the guild's normal
recommendations even after factoring in a safety margin. Then, in the
last project he had overseen, he had used Sarian's wizardry to prove
that he could span a space more than five paces larger than the guild
guidelines stated. He was very proud of the resulting annex to Lord
Charil's estate, but he knew that the college would be a masterpiece.
Finally the demonstrations were over, and the model college stood
without sign of wear. The bards applauded wildly, evidently convinced,
as Tarrum had known they would be. Sarian's hands returned to the table
top, rejoining those of the apprentices that had never left, and all
five sets of hands stopped glowing at the same time. The model vanished,
leaving behind only the table: the plans had been consumed along with
the other sundry objects placed upon it.
The bards swarmed over the wizards as well as Tarrum,
congratulating everyone equally. Sarian and his helpers were persuaded
into a round of drinks at a nearby tavern, and soon only two people
remained in the dining hall.
Tarrum shook the hand of master bard Wernivel solemnly.
"Impressive," said the bard. "I admit that I had reservations about your
design, though I gave you the benefit of the doubt based on your
previous work, and the glowing reports your mentor Moonik gave of you.
Construction may proceed as planned, Tarrum, and congratulations. Your
work is groundbreaking, forgive the pun!" Wernivel slapped Tarrum on the
back and walked away, leaving Tarrum rubbing his shoulder and feeling
very proud of himself. This project would prove to everyone that the
guild's building restrictions were meaningless!
Tarrum sat at his desk going over his delivery ledgers in the
lowering sunlight and cooling breezes of a late summer afternoon. A
shadow fell over the sheets in front of him, and he looked up to find a
man standing in the doorway to his shack of an office. The newcomer was
tall and broad, filling the opening, his bald head just below the
lintel, his muscled arms brushing the edges. He was dressed as a laborer
in a sleeveless jerkin and rough leather pants, but the lack of stone
dust on his clothes and the gold sash around his thick middle revealed
that he was of some rank in the guild of masons.
Tarrum stood, a broad smile on his face. He walked around his desk
to greet the man, saying, "Welcome, Roshen, welcome! I've been waiting
for you to arrive; I've needed someone to delegate some of these tasks
to for a month, and it's only going to get worse when we start closing
in the ground floor in a sennight or two. How's it been with you? What
took you so long?"
It wasn't until he got close enough to clasp wrists with Roshen
that Tarrum saw the look of concern on his friend's face. "I would have
been here sooner," Roshen said, "but something happened. I've tried to
work out an easy way to tell you, Tarrum, but there isn't one. The annex
you built for Lord Charil last year collapsed just before Melrin."
Tarrum gasped, his hand falling limply to his side. He said, "What?
How? But ... Oh gods!" He felt himself reeling in shock, and sagged
against the edge of his desk. If the annex had collapsed then something
had gone wrong, but what? He tried to review the entire project in an
instant to find fault, but there was one obvious possibility: Sarian's
spell had been wrong, and that magic was what had earned his plans for
the Bardic College their approval!
"The preliminary finding is materials failure, aided by willful
destruction. Your design wasn't part of the investigation." Roshen
reached out and clasped Tarrum's shoulder. "Personally, I think Lord
Charil must have made some vengeful spirit angry, and it drove him mad."
Tarrum said, "So, then, the extended span ...?"
"Had nothing to do with it," said Roshen. "The word I've heard is
that Lord Charil demolished the annex himself. Not purposeful, but the
damage he did caused the collapse."
"Damage? What do you mean?"
"All I've got is rumors, but they all agree that Charil went crazy
and took a pickax to the walls. He eventually did so much damage that
the whole thing collapsed. The cause was so obvious that the
investigation has been focused there, and nowhere else."
Tarrum breathed a sigh of relief, and he felt a weight lift from
his shoulders. Lord Charil's annex was the first building that he had
designed incorporating his innovations, and Sarian's magical model had
proved the feasibility of his vision. Lord Charil had been pleased to
fund the tests required, since the resulting annex ended up being the
largest open internal space anyone had ever built. Tarrum had never
noticed any incipient madness while dealing with the man, except perhaps
for his willingness to spend that much for an extra set of rooms. Then
again, maybe that had just been pride.
Tarrum said, "How bad was it? Was anyone hurt?"
Roshen replied, "The only thing left standing was the intersection
with the old house. Four people were killed, including Lord Charil. Ten
others were wounded.
"The local guild hall investigated immediately. Even so, it took a
month for their preliminary report to reach the central hall here in
Magnus, and they've just sent their own investigators. You and the rest
of the builders will be investigated, but no censure has yet been lodged
against you. The final ruling won't be made for a few more months."
Tarrum nodded, his thoughts returning to the construction of the
annex and whether he had really done nothing wrong. He couldn't see how
the deliberate application of a pickax could have been something he'd
caused, but there was still a thread of doubt in his mind. Silence
stretched between the two as the sun neared the horizon. Finally, Roshen
cleared his throat and said, "So, if I'm going to be the new foreman,
I'll need to know my way around the work site. You going to show me now,
or tomorrow morning?"
"Sorry, Roshen." Tarrum gladly let his duties push aside his
worries and continued, "Come on, let's get you ready for a full day
tomorrow."
The two of them stood, and Tarrum led the way out of the office. He
glanced at the capstone in its shrine by the door through narrowed eyes.
He hadn't even prepared a capstone at Lord Charil's building site,
knowing it wouldn't be necessary. The guild's close presence here in the
city hadn't let him get away with not preparing one for the Bardic
College, but he had no intention of installing it, even with Roshen's
news still fresh in his mind. He saw no reason to set aside his
convictions.
He led his friend around the building site. The outer walls had
grown to head height, and the non-load-bearing internal walls were
already starting to divide the space up. Roshen was suitably impressed
with the growing structure, marveling at the size of some of the
internal spaces. Tarrum let himself be cheered up by his friend's
appreciation. He needed to finish this job, and he couldn't let thoughts
of the annex interfere.
At one end of the site was a large storage area. As Tarrum showed
Roshen how it was organized, he was interrupted by a late delivery. He
let Roshen take charge of comparing the manifest against the contents of
the wagons as they were unloaded, glad that he could finally shift that
responsibility to someone else. He was a little surprised at the number
of people it took to unload each wagon until he realized that only three
quarters of them were actually moving the stones. The other quarter were
pacing around the growing stacks on the ground, waving their hands and
chanting. Tarrum shook his head and muttered imprecations at yet another
guild practice that was more ritualistic than practical. Then he paused;
he hadn't had any blessers at the Charil annex site.
Tarrum waited until the unloading was complete and countersigned
the manifest, trusting Roshen's count was accurate. He said, "That's all
for today, Roshen. Do you have time for a drink? The Oily Octant has a
particularly fine brew."
Roshen said, "I'm dyin' thirsty, Tarrum. Lead on."
"I just need to put this away," Tarrum said, indicating the
manifest. "Follow me. The pub's on the other side of my office anyway."
The two stonemasons strode back across the construction site as
ninth bell rang out. Tarrum found his thoughts returning to Roshen's
news, his mood again growing as dark as the approaching night. His
greatest creation to date had been destroyed by a crazy man. It didn't
seem fair that a structure of sturdy stone could be demolished so easily
by a mere weak mortal. How had Charil done it? Could he have made the
addition safe against madmen? Maybe he would ask Roshen for more details
over some Oily Octant ale, even though he knew he should just let the
matter lie. He consoled himself with the knowledge that one man could
not knock down the Bardic College, no matter how big a pick he might
wield.
Tarrum hurried into the Justice Hall and found a seat on one of the
uncomfortable stone benches that lined the semicircular half of the
room. The droning voice of the guild's secretary was already filling the
space, which eased Tarrum's worries. He had received an official summons
to the reading of the findings of the Charil annex accident
investigation, even though he had never been interviewed by the guild's
examiners. His lateness hadn't been a reason to keep the proceedings
from starting, which meant that there would be no surprises for him
today.
Tarrum looked down at the floor of the hall. A low dais in the
center of the back was surrounded by empty chairs and benches where the
participants would sit if this was an actual judicial investigation,
instead of just a reading. On the dais was a podium, behind which stood
the guild's secretary, a nice-looking young woman with a voice that
could put a rushing river to sleep. Tarrum knew that she wasn't just
being staid for the sake of the formal proceedings either; her voice was
like that all the time. At the back of the dais were two chairs. On the
left, officiating for the guild itself, sat the personal assistant of
the master of the guild. On the right sat the king's justiciar,
officiating for the crown. Both men seemed attentive, but the
proceedings were just beginning.
The droning voice was in the midst of recounting the physical
findings of the investigators, so Tarrum's attention wandered to the
rest of the room. The Justice Hall was like the rest of the buildings
belonging to the stonemason's guild: a monument to the craft. Tarrum,
however, found that its grand design was claustrophobic rather than
uplifting. It felt closed in and confined to him, chiefly because he
knew he could build walls both taller and farther apart. A great deal of
skill and artistry had gone into the construction of the building, but
it was mired in the past, limited by design parameters that had been set
hundreds of years ago and never tested since. It was a monument to
stagnation as far as Tarrum was concerned.
The grey Ober day visible outside the grand windows did nothing to
brighten the stone-colored room. The guild had determined not to
decorate their building with anything not created by their members, and
Tarrum felt that the monochrome results made the room even gloomier. He
thought about the frieze being carved into the central atrium of the
college which would be painted to enhance the carver's skill, and wished
yet again that tradition wasn't so heavy within his guild.
"The guild investigators concluded," said the secretary, reclaiming
Tarrum's attention, "that despite the material deficiency found in the
southeast buttresses, it was primarily the damage inflicted by Lord
Charil's fancies that caused the accidental collapse of the structure.
Close examination of the remains showed that the weakened state of that
portion of the annex was not of sufficient magnitude to have failed on
its own."
Tarrum winced at that pronouncement. Those buttresses had been
sufficiently strong enough to support the annex, for all that their
measurements were well below the guild guidelines. "Weakened state" was
just them covering their own ignorance!
"Ordinarily," the secretary continued, "the investigation would
have ended there, but certain accusations by survivors of the accident
prompted further questioning." Tarrum had an idea of what those
questions were, thanks to Roshen, but his foreman had not been able to
provide all of the answers, so Tarrum listened closely.
"While Lord Charil's behavior was the direct cause of the accident,
the reason for that behavior was unexplained. Witness testimony
indicates that he exhibited none of his subsequent quirks prior to a
point four months before the collapse. These quirks included insisting
that he could hear the windows and their frames cracking, though no
evidence of damage could be seen. He then reportedly began attacking the
walls, supposedly chasing rats. He took a pick to the paneling, and when
the scratchings didn't stop, he is said to have smashed holes right
through the east and west walls. Eventually it was this structural
damage that caused the annex to collapse."
Tarrum was astonished at the extent of Lord Charil's madness. He
also wondered why the guild, chiefly concerned with stone and
architecture, had inquired into the client's sanity.
"The evidence is clear," intoned the secretary, "that Lord Charil
was not in his right mind. No corroborating evidence was found of window
panes or frames splitting; no one ever heard the noises that Charil was
after even as he was chasing them. The matter would have been closed, if
not for the accusation by Wrissa, Lord Charil's lover, that it was the
room that had driven him mad."
The audience gasped. Tarrum would have joined in if he hadn't
already heard of it from Roshen. The accusation bothered him, but he
couldn't believe in it. Buildings didn't drive people insane; it just
wasn't possible.
"That, too, would have been ignored," the secretary said with a
stony face, "if not for the testimony of four more people who also
reported strange goings-on."
This time Tarrum gasped along with everyone else. The secretary
paused, letting quiet return, before continuing, "Lords Miriki and
Prenhad, both friends of Lord Charil and frequent visitors, reported
fluttering wall tapestries even when there was no breeze evident. This
happened several times, and each saw it independently of the other,
though never at the same times.
"Baron Jothrak, a one-time visitor and a stranger to the region and
the owner, swore that he saw the ceiling rise and fall like the roof of
a tent in a windstorm. And Jentol, one of the journeyrank stonemasons
who worked on the project, gave evidence saying that he saw the columns
along the walls bowing outward and inward several times as construction
was nearing completion."
Another gasp filled the room, followed by a low murmur. Tarrum
hadn't heard about any of these other strange happenings, and they
increased his uneasiness. One man going crazy was the kind of isolated
incident that really could be assigned to bad luck. Four other people
seeing strange things, however, might well turn bad luck into something
else.
He had a thought, and glanced around to see Jentol seated off to
his left. His former employee had a resolute look on his face, and
Tarrum wondered why the young man hadn't reported his observation to
him.
"None of these reports were able to be corroborated even though
none of the observers were alone at the time. In answer to the
accusations of Wrissa, the guild investigators brought in diviners and
mages, but no eldritch influences could be found. The only determination
possible was hallucination since no physical or structural evidence of
these aberrations was found.
"In conclusion, the guild has absolved those involved in the
construction of the Charil annex of any culpability in the collapse. No
resolution has been filed in relation to the hallucinations.
"So ends this reading. Thank you all for your patience."
The guild's secretary bowed her head, then turned and left the
room, followed by the guildmaster's assistant and the king's justiciar.
Tarrum rose with the others in the room as the door closed behind the
trio and moved swiftly in Jentol's direction. The young man noticed his
approach and waited for him with a smile on his face. He extended his
hand first and, as they clasped wrists, Jentol said, "Congratulations on
your elevation, Master Tarrum!"
Tarrum wondered whether Jentol had been following his career, but
only briefly; he realized that he was uncharacteristically wearing his
sash-and-baldric of rank to this formal occasion. "Thank you, Jentol.
I'm curious about what you said about the annex. You never came to me
about seeing strange things. Why?"
Jentol was silent for a moment, then said, "My eyes may have been
playing tricks on me, sir; that's why I didn't tell you about it. I
wouldn't have told them guild snoops about it if others hadn't told
their eye-tricks too."
"Did the room seem strange to you somehow, Jentol? Odd or wrong?"
Jentol's eyes flicked upward for a moment. Tarrum glanced in the
same direction, and saw the Justice Hall's capstone up in the corner of
wall and ceiling. Jentol shrugged and said, "Every once in a while, sir,
yes. I mean, I was proud of the job we all did, and that huge space
under a roof, without any columns getting in the way of all that floor,
it was amazing. But every once in a while, sir, it seemed ... well, too
big, if you catch my drift."
Tarrum didn't. It didn't make any sense. Needing time to think, he
said, "Thank you, Jentol. Fare well." He turned away and left the hall,
but not before glancing up at the capstone one more time.
Tarrum walked slowly, turning this new information over in his
mind. He made his way across the city and back to the construction site.
Most of the ground floor had been roofed in, save where the space was
intended to span more than one floor, but Tarrum didn't even notice the
progress on the College of Bards.
His feet took him to his office, and he stopped just outside the
door. He stood for a long time, staring at the capstone sitting there in
its shrine. His thoughts had nothing to do with guideline-expanding
theories or magically-tested construction techniques.
He had already dismissed Lord Charil's actions as those of a madman
whose problems had no connection to the room he had destroyed. The other
hallucinations, however, were not so easily rejected. They all shared a
common link in that they had concerned the annex's construction, which
bothered him most of all. He had never heard of such a concentration of
strangeness connected to any other newly-built structure, which forced
him to consider whether or not the room had really had something wrong
with it.
Was his vision incomplete? Were the guild's strictures more than
baseless superstitions? Had he and Sarian failed to take the capstone
into consideration when modeling the annex and the college? Was there
some other force at work which couldn't be encompassed by a simple
stress versus load experiment?
Did he have the right to take the same chance with the College of
Bards that he had with Lord Charil's annex?
Caryle followed the bard Lerillon into the great atrium in the
College of Bards in Magnus. He gazed in wonder at the huge, open,
soaring space, filled with light and even planted with trees, that was
the center of the large building. Lerillon's story back in Mertz about
the stonemason Tarrum had not exaggerated his skill if he had really
created the idea for this magnificent building all on his own.
Lerillon slipped one arm around Caryle's waist and said, "Look up
there, lover."
He followed her upward-pointed arm with his gaze, smiling in
pleasure at the more heartfelt nickname than the teasing "love-pup" she
had formerly used. He squinted in the bright mid-Yule sunlight that
flooded into the atrium through the sweeping windows. "What?" he asked.
"Where?"
"Right in the center," she said, pulling him closer and resting her
cheek against his as if to guide his eyes to the right point with her
own.
"Whe-- Oh, I see it!" Caryle finally saw the disk set at the center
of the domed ceiling where the delicate ribs came together. He dropped
his gaze back to Lerillon's beautiful face and asked, "Is that ...?"
"Yes," the bard said. "The stories say he debated right up until
the ceremony itself, but in the end, he decided that he had to install
it."
Caryle shook his head. "Amazing. Just like this building." He let
Lerillon lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room, and
they settled into its leaf-shrouded confines and snuggled close
together. "So, if this building was a success," Caryle said, resting his
head on the bard's shoulder, "why aren't there more like it?"
"The main reason was Sarian. Once the college was complete, Sarian
set sail across the Valenfaer Ocean and never returned. Without the
mage's knowledge of the proper spells for testing the model, Tarrum was
once again limited to the time-tested strictures of the guild's building
parameters. They also say that he never tried to exceed those
restrictions again."
Lerillon paused for a moment, then said, "Rumor has it that Sarian
sailed away with a vast sum of money. It is also said that those
diamonds he 'required' for his experiments were the source of that
money. Fortunately for Tarrum's reputation, no one has ever proved those
rumors."
Caryle kissed Lerillon's neck, then said, "There's another rumor
that I wonder the truth of."
"Oh?" answered the bard.
"Yes," Caryle said with a grin. "I've heard that some bards are
actually accomplished singers, though I've seen no proof these last few
months."
"Truly?" Lerillon said. "Well, I could show you the truth of that
rumor right here." She took a deep breath, opened her mouth, then closed
it again. "Or," she continued, "we could go back to our room and find
something else to concentrate on. Your choice, lover, song or room?"
Caryle grinned wider. "Fair enough. Sssss--" He laughed when her
eyes widened, and he finished, "--so, I choose the room." He jumped to
his feet and said, "Last one there is on the bottom!" Her shriek of mock
outrage followed him only a moment before her footsteps did as he dashed
through Tarrum's magnificent atrium, laughing wildly.
========================================================================
The Great Houses War
Part 4: The Empress of Beinison
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<NWansbutterEsq@gmail.com>
12 Firil - 30 Sy, 899
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-6
Part 3 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-8
Aendasia, Empress of Beinison, Duchess of Northfield, and Queen of
Baranur rode west along the King's Road at the head of her army. Her
title of empress was merely a formality since her son actually ruled
Beinison, but the title Queen of Baranur held real power. She had
succeeded her great uncle King Stefan II upon his death, according to
his wishes.
A short distance ahead stood Woldarun, a village under her rule,
the last along the road before she would reach mighty Magnus. Caeron
Tallirhan, her cousin and grandson of Stefan II, who had stolen the
Baranurian crown while she was still in Beinison, had been killed
outside the walls of Magnus in Deber, more than four months ago. Despite
this, she did not hold the capital, for its citizens had stubbornly
refused to surrender it and instead proclaimed Caeron's widow, Dara, to
be their ruler.
When two of her armies had been wiped out in Quinnat trying to
capture "Queen" Dara, Aendasia had been forced to lift the siege she had
levied against Magnus the previous year and wait until spring to resume
her campaign. Now that the trees were in full bloom and the land was
green once again, she marched towards Magnus.
Behind her, a force thousands strong stretched far down the road.
It was comprised of professional Beinison soldiers and the citizen
levies from duchies that recognised her as queen. The largest contingent
was from Equiville, and Aendasia thought it very fitting that their
livery colours were white, which to her mind represented the purity and
truth of her claim on the Baranurian throne.
As she neared Woldarun, the town did not seem as joyful at their
liberation as she expected. Yes, people lined the streets to greet her,
but their faces betrayed unhappiness. They bowed only grudgingly when
she rode past them, raising the ire of her battle captain, Raimundo
Quikuches, Viscount of Marolleris.
"Exalted one," he said, "we should teach these peasants proper
respect for not only their queen, but an empress of mighty Beinison."
"They will learn respect," Aendasia said. She was sure of it.
Caeron had been a powerful and charismatic speaker -- she could not deny
him that -- and he had worked his magic on these poor, ignorant
villagers. It would wear off eventually, though, now that he was gone.
As Aendasia scanned the crowd, her eyes came to rest on a youth
with dirty matted hair, whose features smouldered with anger. He did not
bow at all, and instead shouted, "Blortnikson! We bow only to house
Tallirhan!"
Aendasia gasped. Such audacity! She couldn't believe that she had
actually heard the boy say that to her face. Wearing her
diamond-encrusted imperial crown, she had thought she would overawe
these peasants.
"King Caeron is our rightful ruler!" a villager out of view cried.
A few others seemed to take courage from this and added their voices to
his.
"Caeron is dead!" she shouted back at the villagers. The calls died
down and the peasants became quiet. A small group nearby applauded. The
voice of the angry, dirty young man reproached them.
"Don't cheer for that Beinisonian witch!"
Duke Baldwin Equiville drew his sword. "Who called my lady queen a
witch? By Nehru's blood I'll have you --"
"Exalted one, this is intolerable!" Raimundo Quikuches pulled his
battle axe from his back and summoned the master drummer to his side
with it. "We should kill these insolent dogs! Sound 'to arms'."
The master drummer beat out a tune on his large drum and his
underlings echoed him. The deep, rich sound of the Beinisonian drums
reverberated between the buildings of the small town. The army came to
an abrupt halt and the clicking of hundreds of weapons being lowered
from shoulders filled the air.
The villagers were now completely silent. They stared fearfully at
the weapons arrayed against them. Everything was suddenly silent, until
Aendasia shouted, "No! I will not have this. These are my people. As
queen, I am their mother and I will not see them harmed, even for their
show of disrespect."
In truth, Aendasia would have been perfectly content to stay in
Beinison, where she'd lived since she was wed to the Beinisonian emperor
Alejandro VII at the age of ten, over a quarter of a century earlier.
Baranur was a strange land to her after all these years, its people not
nearly as disciplined as the militaristic Beinisonians. She had loved
her uncle dearly, though, and she would see his wishes fulfilled. He
wanted her to rule Baranur, so when she was widowed and her son rose to
the Beinisonian throne, King Stefan had arranged for her to marry the
Duke of Northfield, ruler of perhaps the most powerful of the Great
Houses of Baranur. He had intended for her to rule, and rule she would.
It hurt her that she should leave her adoptive homeland for these people
and they rebuked her.
"Exalted one --" Raimundo protested.
"I said 'no', and I meant it!" The words were curt, but she
intended them to be. No one who was weak-willed could last long in the
Beinisonian imperial court. "Now continue the advance."
Drummers pounded out the order and presently the column was moving
once again. It was only a few bells later that Aendasia could see the
mighty walls of Magnus, just beyond the fast-flowing Laraka. They were a
magnificent sight, she thought, even to a jaded eye that had seen the
marvels of Cabildo, seat of the Beinisonian emperors, with its tall,
dark spires and extravagant temples guarded by stone dragons and
gargoyles. Even the massive slums of the city were impressive in their
magnitude.
The army broke from its marching formation and began the process of
blockading the city. They did not cross the Laraka however, for Aendasia
expected her husband to arrive from Northfield within a day to cover the
west bank of the river. Magnus' gatehouses, castles unto themselves, had
already been sealed tightly. Kheva's Bridge and everything else linking
the east bank of the Laraka to the west had been razed. The siege
machines that had been left behind when Aendasia retired for the winter
were nowhere to be seen, presumably looted for firewood by the peasants
of Magnus. She ordered Raimundo Quikuches to oversee the construction of
a new bridge to span the Laraka, as well as siege towers and ladders.
With most of the city's defenders being untrained city folk, she felt
sure an assault would be the fastest way to bring the royal city under
her control. After that, Crown Castle could only hold out for a few
months, she wagered.
"Baldwin," she said, turning in her saddle to look at the
middle-aged Duke of Equiville.
"Your majesty?" he replied, ever ready to take orders. His was
among the houses which had immediately recognised Aendasia's claim on
the throne, unlike Arvalia and Monrodya who had only seen the truth when
Caeron had insisted on being crowned by the Master Priest of the
Stevenic High Church, or Asbridge and Othuldane who had only joined her
in protest of Caeron's legal reforms.
"I would like you to bring my terms for surrender to the people of
Magnus and the castellan of Crown Castle. Sir Geoffrey Delborne, I
believe his name is."
"It would be my pleasure, you majesty," Baldwin said, bowing his
head.
"They are the same as in the winter. If they yield the city to me,
I will spare it the ravages of Lord Quikuches' Knights of the Dragon.
Also, the castle garrison will be spared." Aendasia had to keep her face
rigidly still lest she betray any emotion. The Order of the Dragon was
made up of capable warriors who did not wish to be burdened by the rigid
obligations of knighthood. She had made the same offer to Pyridain City,
and, when the duke had refused, she had been forced to make good on her
threat. She could still hear the screams and the crackling flames of the
city as her army had raped and pillaged their way through the streets.
It made her sick to think of, but she did not dare to show any lack of
resolve or strength. Curse Caeron; if he had never stolen her crown,
none of it would be necessary.
Duke Equiville was now out of sight, riding off to commandeer a
boat that would take him across the river. Aendasia remained astride her
horse, just off the King's Road, watching her army move past. Presently,
the baggage train rattled into view. It carried with it enough supplies
to keep the army fed for many months, tools for building war machines
and fortifications, even large pots to boil traitors in, following the
preferred Beinisonian method. It also transported Aendasia's bathtub and
other imperial necessities.
The most important item in the baggage train was a locked horse
litter that carried High Mage Isidoro Mon-Orthanier, the only one of
Aendasia's sorcerers who had survived the battle outside Magnus earlier
in the year. Nima Jaleit, youngest daughter of the loyal Baroness
Jaleit, who was charged with defending the baggage train, rode up to
Aendasia and bowed in the saddle.
"Your majesty, have you selected a position for your command tent?"
"The position it held in Janis will suffice," she replied. "But
first I wish to consult the High Mage."
Nima Jaleit hesitated for a moment before answering. "As you wish,
your majesty." She dismounted and strode over to the horse litter.
Several archers scurried to her side as she took a ring of keys from her
belt and opened the heavy lock holding the doors of the litter shut.
High Mage Mon-Orthanier leapt out as soon as the doors were open
and started to thrash about on the ground. The stench of faeces emerged
with him; he had soiled himself yet again. He shouted a few
incomprehensible words, then seemed to grow calm. The guards rushed up
to him and took hold of his arms. He mumbled, but made no move to escape
them.
"He is still possessed, your majesty," Nima Jaleit said. "Likely he
is still battling the High Mage Milverri Rhihosh inside his ravaged
skull."
Aendasia shook her head. Isidoro Mon-Orthanier had been one of the
most powerful wielders of magic on Makdiar when he had left with her
from Beinison. He had been a wise advisor and loyal subject, staying by
her side even when her first husband, Alejandro, had died and Aendasia's
first-born took the throne. But at the Battle of Magnus, the Baranurian
High Mage, who had allied herself with Caeron, unleashed a powerful
spell that had destroyed all of the other Beinisonian mages. Had
Mon-Orthanier not been so mighty himself, he would have likely shared
their fate. Instead, he was now possessed, often violently so, and had
to be locked inside the horse litter. Even so, he could still be called
upon to scry with telmatie blooms and give Aendasia valuable insight
into the future.
He looked up at Aendasia, his eyes surprisingly clear. "E-exalted
one, what do you desire of your servant-t-t?" He then descended into
more babble and struck himself on the head several times.
"I require an augury for the future, High Mage," Aendasia replied.
He nodded, mumbled some more, then shouted, "Telmatie! Bring it to
me. And a leaf ... the visions are clearer on a leaf ..."
One of the archers wearing the livery of Barony Jaleit brandished a
mortar and pestle, along with several dark purple flowers.
Mon-Orthanier, still being restrained by other soldiers, took the mortar
and pestle and began grinding the blossoms, producing a black paste. He
then took a large oak leaf and spread the paste over it. He stared
intently at the smeared black mush and mumbled to himself. Finally he
looked up and spoke, but the words were incoherent. He cursed and
started to struggle with his guards, yelling gibberish words. He broke
free and stumbled towards Aendasia, clutching her leg.
Nima Jaleit and several of her soldiers drew swords and daggers,
but Aendasia gestured for them to keep their distance.
"S-Spear ... from the sumiggen ..." His words again became
impossible to understand. He paused and Aendasia could hear him grinding
his teeth together. When he looked up at her, tears were welling up in
his eyes and his brow was furrowed. More jumbled words spilled out of
his mouth, then he managed, "Spear from the n-north ... beware ...
destroy her and victory will be yours!"
He fell to the ground, apparently exhausted. The Jaleit soldiers
grabbed his cloak and quickly pulled him a safe distance from their
queen and empress. Nima Jaleit looked up at Aendasia.
"Did you understand any of that, you majesty?"
"I believe I did," Aendasia said. Divination of the future was an
unreliable art at best, owing much to the scryer's interpretation of
what they saw, but Mon-Orthanier had been renowned for his abilities in
the craft and, even in his deranged state, she had an idea of what he
had said. "Spear ... I think he meant Welspeare, for it is known that
Duchess Welspeare commands a formidable army. She will try to break our
siege, and if I destroy her army, then the crown will be mine, for no
army will be left to defeat me."
Nima Jaleit nodded. "Mayhap, your majesty. We shall have to be
ready for an attack from the north, then."
"Your majesty?" Aendasia turned to see Duke Baldwin Equiville. His
face was red and he looked very unhappy. "They would not even open the
gates to allow me inside the city. I did not speak to the castellan, but
the mayor was quite disrespectful. And the justiciar --"
"Surrender, traitorous one!" in the distance a booming voice
intoned. Aendasia looked to see amidst the city defenders a man dressed
in the red robes of the King's Bench standing on the battlements. "I
have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of high treason, Duchess
Aendasia of Northfield!"
Aendasia stared in dismay. She was impressed that the city's
justiciar was able to shout loud enough for her to hear him at this
distance, from the other side of the mighty Laraka, but his statement
was no less ludicrous for its volume.
"If anything," Duke Equiville sighed. "The people of Magnus are
even more belligerent than those in the rest of the duchy."
Aendasia could only shake her head in confusion. Why did these
people resent her so? She was their rightful queen. Should they not hate
Caeron and Dara, who continued his legacy, as thieves?
"Archers!" Duke Equiville shouted, then galloped off towards the
nearest contingent of such soldiers.
"Pay them no heed, majesty," Nima Jaleit said. "Those walls and the
river they hide behind will not shield them forever, and then they will
know justice!"
Aendasia could feel her lip start to quiver and bit down on it
hastily. Then putting
on the best air of indifference that she could,
she ordered her command tent be erected. She supervised the army as it
established the siege.
Archers fired volleys at the wall's defenders, forcing them to hide
behind the stone ramparts. Occasionally, one of them emerged long enough
to send an arrow towards the besiegers' lines. Turning her attention
from the archers, Aendasia could see a group of two olive-skinned
Beinisonian soldiers chopping down a tree. When it toppled over, they
hacked off the branches and another band of dark Beinisonians, stripped
to the waist, attached chains to the log and dragged it towards where
the tools had been dropped by the Jaleit troops. Beside those tools a
trio of soldiers wearing the white and black of Equiville were pulling
the ropes of a tent tight and securing them with wooden pegs. It was
almost dark when Aendasia made her way to the hill where her pavilion
had been set up. Her ladies-in-waiting and other servants had emerged
from the carriage they'd ridden in and were busy preparing things for
their empress' stay.
Aendasia dismounted and handed the reins of her horse to a short,
dark-haired squire. She strode stiffly towards the tent; it had been a
long day. She ordered some of the servants to start a fire and begin
heating water for her to bathe in. She then entered the pavilion itself,
where Jacinda was waiting. Jacinda had been Aendasia's personal
attendant since she had been sent to Beinison as a child bride many
years earlier. The middle-aged woman bowed as Aendasia entered.
"Exalted one," she said in Beinisonian.
"I think I will have a bath and early to bed," Aendasia replied in
the same tongue. Now, in the inner sanctum of her tent, she could
finally remove the mask of a hard, strong ruler. Jacinda was the only
person with whom she could trust her true self.
She slumped down on the bed that had already been set out and
buried her face in her hands. Tears began to trickle out from between
tightly closed eyelids.
"Why do they hate me, Jacinda?" she sobbed. "It hurts me so, that
they would prefer the wife of a dead pretender to me, my uncle Stefan's
appointed heir. I don't even want to be here; I'd rather be back in
Cabildo. Why am I doing all of this for them?"
"Shush, my lady," Jacinda said soothingly, sitting down on the bed
next to Aendasia. "Here, let me get that heavy crown off your head."
She lifted the diamond and platinum crown and placed it carefully
on a waiting pedestal. Aendasia felt instant relief as the weight was
removed, for it was a formidable piece of jewellery to wear on one's
head. It was intended to be worn only on formal occasions, and even
then, only for a few bells at a time, not a whole day. A full suit of
chain mail did not ease the burden any.
"Now I'll hear no more defeatist talk," Jacinda said softly. Though
the words were harsh, her tone was soft and gentle, like a mother's.
Indeed, Jacinda had been the closest thing to a mother Aendasia had
known since the age of ten. The maid dabbed at Aendasia's tears with a
cloth.
"I loved my uncle so," Aendasia said. "I must fulfil his last
request, that I be queen. Ah, curse that thieving Caeron and his greedy
wife who will not give up the crown even now."
"Here, let me help you remove your armour, exalted one," Jacinda
said softly, pulling the surcoat bearing the Blortnikson coat of arms
over Aendasia's head. "The people will learn to accept your rule, in
time. Truth is truth, and they must see that eventually."
"They hate me because I am a Beinisonian," Aendasia said.
"Beinisonian, Baranurian, Comarrian, Lederian ... It matters not;
you are their queen. They cannot hold true to a usurper for long;
Ascendere will not allow it."
Aendasia nodded. "You are right; I must keep faith. If Ascendere
could place the stars, he will certainly come to my aid." Jacinda pulled
the heavy chain hauberk off and Aendasia suddenly felt as if she might
float up off the bed. "Oh, Jacinda, I feel so much better just having
that armour off."
"Your majesty!" a female voice invaded the tent.
Aendasia ground her teeth at the breach in protocol. She could hear
Jacinda gasp in disapproval as well. She thought she recognised the
girl's voice as one of her husband's squires. Aendasia purposely kept
her back to the pavilion's entrance.
"What is it?" She made her voice as cold as she could.
"Forgive me, your majesty," the squire panted, "but my Lord
Northfield has just arrived, and he commanded that I inform you
immediately. I swam the Laraka --"
"Inform my lord husband that I will call on him on the morrow,"
Aendasia said icily. She could not see Valeran with her eyes puffy from
tears. Furthermore, as an empress, she could make her husband wait if
she wanted to. She was always in charge of their marriage and kept
things that way with small acts such as this one. That her husband had
ordered his squire to swim the river showed how anxious he was to see
her. It was not that she did not want to see him. Indeed, she likely
craved his warmth in her bed more than he desired her, but keeping him
waiting would ensure he never forgot that she was not at his beck and
call. It was another tactic she had learned from her experience as wife
to a Beinisonian emperor.
When the squire did not leave right away, Aendasia snapped, "What
are you waiting for? Bring my message to Duke Northfield."
"Y-yes, your majesty." The squire darted out of the tent and
presumably back to the Laraka River.
It was late the next day before Aendasia deigned to commandeer a
local fishing boat and cross the river to meet with her husband. When
she arrived on the west bank, blue-clad soldiers were waiting for her
with one of the duke's horses. She mounted and rode casually through the
camp. She was pleased to note that the Northfield army was well set up
and Magnus surrounded. Several ballistae were being built to the north
and would soon ensure that no ship could pass by unless it was loyal to
Aendasia.
It was not long before she found her husband, astride his
chestnut-coloured horse on a low hill, supervising his part of the
siege. His copper-coloured, shoulder-length hair blew gently in the
wind. She was happy to see that he was not wearing armour, for that
would have taken several long moments to remove. She was almost beside
him before he noticed her.
"Das-- exalted wife." He corrected himself at the last moment. He
had almost called her by her pet name in public. Such a breach in
protocol might have given him frostbite. Aendasia couldn't help a little
up-turning of the corner of her lip at that thought. She had him well
trained.
"My lord husband." She extended her hand and he kissed it. In the
past he had complained that even Caeron Tallirhan "the pure" had kissed
his wife fully on the mouth in public. Aendasia was still a Beinisonian
empress, however.
"As always, it has been too long," Valeran said. Indeed, they had
not seen each other for several months while he was raising levies and
calling on his vassals to reconstitute his army after the winter repose.
"But as you can see, I was successful in gathering a substantial army.
On the move north, I was able to 'convince' Piet Durening to finally
surrender Beid Castle to me. After a winter under siege, I suppose he
gave up on anyone coming to his aid. I was also able to take the Abbess
Matilda of Shaddir and several knights captive in the deal."
"An excellent bit of negotiation, my husband," Aendasia said,
allowing her formal imperial mask to crack just enough to show a smile.
"Yes, that is most excellent, indeed. Duchess Welspeare has no more
vassals to call upon now that the last of her castles has fallen. That
is how I will gain such a victory as Mon-Orthanier said, if I can crush
her army."
"Isidoro Mon-Orthanier?" Valeran said. "But isn't he --?"
"Never mind that. We must discuss some strategic matters. Your tent
should be a suitable place."
She gave Valeran a look that made perspiration break out on his
forehead. "Uh, y-yes of course. It will be fine."
He spurred his horse off towards his pavilion at the canter, but
Aendasia followed at a much slower pace. She had no trouble finding his
tent, for of all the blue ones present, his was the only one that flew
the blazon of a white falcon above it. As she neared the tent, she
caught the last of Valeran's instructions to one of his male squires.
"... Ol's balls, if anyone interrupts the empress and I during
discussions, and I mean anyone, I'll cut *your* balls off!"
The boy went white and nodded frantically. Then he noticed Aendasia
and dashed over to take the reins of her horse as she dismounted. He
bowed his head and mumbled a quick "Your majesty". She ignored the
squire and strode into the tent where Valeran was waiting. She carefully
closed the flap behind her and they were alone.
"Ah, Dasia, I've missed you!"
"I know you have," she said with a smile, turning her back to
Valeran so that he could untie the lacing of her gown. He fumbled with
it, but finally got the dress off. As she slipped the rest of her
undergarments off, he took in a sharp breath of air.
"Shilsara's bed, you're beautiful!"
Some wives might have been insulted if their husband invoked the
name of the Olean goddess of lust, but Aendasia rather enjoyed it. She
had a firm body from years training for war, since a Beinisonian ruler
also had to be a warrior. She also had long blonde hair that was almost
white, a rare prize in Beinison, where most were dark. She was pleased
that Valeran recognised and appreciated that.
As he frantically tried to pull off his pants, she pushed him down
onto the cot and straddled him. As wife to Alejandro VII, a cruel and
abusive man, she had been subject to her husband's every will. Sometimes
that meant beatings, sometimes worse, but with her duke of Northfield
she was the dominant one. She would never let a man treat her like a
belonging again.
17 Firil, 899
As the siege continued, the citizens of Magnus seemed to grow
braver and braver. They started showing themselves on the walls more
often, usually to curse Aendasia. This day, Aendasia sat on her horse
next to Valeran and her battle captains to the north of the city, on the
west bank of the Laraka. After Mon-Orthanier's prediction, she had
always observed the siege from a northern position so that she could
lead her army into battle when the Duchess of Welspeare arrived.
At the moment, they happened to be fairly close to the walls of
Magnus. Aendasia noticed there were quite a few townspeople without
uniform on the walls. One of them, a butcher judging by his
blood-stained leather apron, pointed her direction and shouted, "There's
the Duchess of Northfield!" Many peasants wearing shades of brown and
grey started filling the ramparts, pointing and waving their hands.
"Beinisonian whore!" one of them screamed.
"Why don't you go back to Cabildo so you can squirm with your
Beinisonian cuckolds, queenie!"
"Erida curse their graves!" She felt the insults strike like arrows
in her heart.
"You codless vermin!" Duke Equiville shouted back at them.
"Save your breath, Baldwin," Valeran said.
Several of the townsfolk dropped their pants or lifted their
skirts. Some showed their bare buttocks; others faced forward. More
cries of "queenie", "whore", and worse rained down on Aendasia from the
battlements. Duke Equiville snatched a crossbow from a nearby soldier
and fired it at one of the men waving his penis in Aendasia's direction.
The bolt missed, but the man did lower his tunic and duck as the missile
whistled through the air scant fingers away.
Aendasia balled her hands into fists. Never had she been subject to
such ridicule, and this from her own subjects! She could take no more.
"Assault the walls! By Gow, I want those knaves swinging by the end of
the day!"
"No one is happier than I to see that Ascendere, the Lord of
Justice, has shown you what these scum truly deserve, exalted one,"
Raimundo Quikuches said. "But we are not ready. None of the siege towers
are complete; we have but a few ladder--"
"I don't care!" Aendasia slammed a mailed fist down on her thigh.
"I ordered an assault, and we will take those walls. I don't care if I
have to climb a ladder and seize them myself!"
"Dasia --"
"Give the order, Raimundo." Aendasia cut her husband off with an
icy glare.
"As you command, exalted one," Raimundo replied. He barked orders
and soon the deep resonance of Beinisonian drums could be heard
throughout the plains surrounding Magnus.
Aendasia summoned the squire that carried her war sceptre and took
the two-handed mace from the girl. "Valeran, go to the south and order
your siege crews to launch burning tar from the mangonels. I want the
south side of Magnus aflame while we attack! And," she grabbed her
husband by his chain mail gorget and pulled him close so she could
whisper in his ear. "If you ever call me 'Dasia' or question my
authority in front of my battle commanders again, I'll cut your cod
off."
"Yes, exalted wife," he stammered. "Forgive me."
"Of course," she whispered, then planted a kiss on his cheek. She
did not particularly enjoy being so harsh with him, but then he had
never struck her, as her first husband had, so it was worth being hard.
Valeran galloped off to the south. By now, the army camp was in
disarray as soldiers hurriedly doused fires, pulled mail hauberks over
their heads, and readied weapons. Aendasia rode to the Westgate to
address her troops before the battle, since that was the most formidable
obstacle they faced.
She made a customary speech, reviling the enemy and predicting
victory, for their cause was just, but she also added a few comments she
felt sure would stir her troops to righteous hatred.
"Will you let these butchers and carpenters and smiths curse and
taunt your empress from the safety of their battlements? Will you stand
by while they call your queen a whore and a queenie? If not, then take
those ramparts for me and let them taste justice! Gow and Nehru will
guide you against such vile scoundrels!"
The troops let out a loud cry and as one charged the walls of
Magnus, carrying ladders over their heads or waving their weapons in the
air. The battering ram trundled towards the gates behind them, guided by
several stout Beinisonians. Aendasia rode to take her place with her
bodyguard of Knights of the Star, warriors who wished to prove their
worth on the battlefield. It was customary for them to accompany the
ruler of Beinison into the worst of the fighting.
Aendasia watched with pride as her loyal soldiers thundered towards
the castle walls. A few arrows flew from the battlements, but the
townspeople of Magnus had too few to do serious damage. Soon, the first
ladder was secured and a white-clad man-at-arms of Equiville scurried up
it, brandishing a mace.
The defenders were ready, however. They had made many poles to push
the ladders off the wall. That first ladder was also the first to fall
victim to the poles, and the maceman tumbled from the ladder and knocked
over a few of his fellows when he plunged to the earth. His ladder sent
more bodies flying as it crashed to the ground. A short distance down
the wall, Aendasia saw a large cauldron with steam billowing from it
emerge above the ramparts. It tipped over and a stream of yellowish
boiling oil rained down on the soldiers below. Screams of pain roiled up
from the attackers' lines as men and women were scorched by the deadly
liquid. A man-at-arms wearing the red and grey Tallirhan colours pushed
a damaged piece of wall over the edge of the ramparts and it thundered
to the ground, crushing several soldiers and smashing the leg of a
downed ladder. Aendasia even saw a burning wagon wheel and a lit lantern
fly down from the walls.
Her soldiers were brave, but Aendasia could see the attack was
faltering only a bell into the assault. A Knight of the Dragon, his
chainmail flashing in the sun, made it onto the ramparts, but the ladder
he'd come up on was thrown away from the wall by a pair of townsfolk
with their pole. As the knight turned and hacked at them with his sword,
a bald man with a heavy blacksmith's hammer approached from behind. He
smashed the Beinisonian warrior over the head, and the knight
disappeared behind the ramparts. An Equiville soldier was able to grasp
the wall and prevent his ladder being pushed back, but then had his
skull opened by a carpenter's hammer and he and his ladder collapsed.
Even when the battering ram finally made it to the gates, it and its
crew were doused in boiling pitch. Burning torches were then thrown down
onto the ram and it burst into flames so hot that no one could approach
it until it was no more than a pile of smouldering ash.
Even Valeran's attacks from the south failed, for a strong
northerly wind suddenly picked up, extinguishing many of the fires and
blowing the smoke back towards the Northfield army's lines.
Finally, Aendasia realised that the walls would not be taken this
day, and staying in the fight would only result in more casualties.
"Sound the retreat," she ordered the master drummer who stood to her
right.
She gritted her teeth and turned a baleful stare towards Magnus and
its spiteful inhabitants, who were now cheering and showing their
behinds once again as her loyal troops staggered away from the city
walls. She would not allow herself to be humiliated thus again, and she
swore that when she did take Magnus, it would pay the price.
As sennights gave way to months, Aendasia realised that the siege
of Magnus was going to take a long time, possibly even years, and with
no certainty of success. Given the breadth of the Laraka, ships were
able to bring occasional supplies despite the ballistae and catapults
set up along the banks. Even if she were to breach the city's formidable
walls that were a good seven feet thick and twenty-six feet high, Crown
Castle was nearly impregnable, with a keep high enough to scrape the sky
and double walls, encircled by a deep ditch and perched on a hill.
She soon grew restless, then discouraged, and by mid-Yuli decided
that Magnus could wait. Abandoning the siege, she sought to cut off
Magnus' lifeline, the Laraka, by taking Irskin Castle, which had been
held by Tallirhan vassals. She then turned her eyes towards Port Sevlyn.
The previous year, forces loyal to Aendasia had besieged the ducal seat
of Quinnat, but that siege had been lifted when the army was lured into
a trap while attempting to capture Queen Dara. It seemed fitting to
Aendasia, then, that a part of her revenge on the wife of he who had
usurped her crown would be there.
29 Sy, 899
The sky above Port Sevlyn was a bleached blue-white colour that
shimmered with heat, bereft of any clouds, for Sy had been a month of
drought and dust. Aendasia was sweating heavily beneath her chain mail
gambeson and surcoat bearing the arms of her adopted family, the
Blortniksons. Her stallion, too, was lathered in sweat and pawing the
ground.
Her troops waited all around her, hunkered down in the shadows of
the houses that lined the street. The city walls had fallen to
Aendasia's initial assault three sennights ago. The castle, however, had
repelled her attackss thus far, and Duchess Annora Quinnat had remained
defiant, scorning all demands for surrender.
This day the outlaw duchess would regret her obstinacy. Over the
past month, Isidoro Mon-Orthanier had recovered somewhat and Aendasia
was ready to put his powers to the test once more.
Her husband moved close on his horse and whispered, "Dasia, are you
sure this is a good idea? I think Mon-Orthanier is still possessed. Can
we trust his magic?"
"I tire of waiting to starve these traitors out of their castles,"
Aendasia replied, "and Isidoro Mon-Orthanier is one of the most powerful
sorcerers in Beinison, in all of Makdiar, even. If he says he is ready,
he is ready. But enough talk; my decision has already been made."
"As you command," Valeran said, "exalted wife."
Aendasia signalled for one of her squires to bring forth her war
sceptre; the time was almost nigh when the attack would begin. She could
see the sorcerer Mon-Orthanier standing a short distance away, no longer
restrained by Nima Jaleit's troops. He raised his arms, and began to
chant in a loud, deep voice. At hearing that, Aendasia felt any
uneasiness she might have had melt away.
A low rumbling filled Aendasia's ears. At first, she thought it was
merely the Laraka, on whose banks Port Sevlyn was perched, but the
thunder got progressively louder, until she felt as if she were in the
middle of a mighty storm. The sky remained clear, however.
Three ear-shattering cracks rang out and Aendasia's horse reared as
the earth beneath it began to shake. She could hear Valeran curse behind
her as he struggled to keep his mount under control. A villager darted
out of her house and tried to move through the soldiers, screaming that
she didn't want to die. They pushed her back into her home, however.
Aendasia looked over at Mon-Orthanier, who had fallen to his knees. He
was still making signs in the air with his hands, but the motions were
not smooth. His arms jerked as if some invisible opponent were trying to
restrain him.
Again, a loud crack, and Aendasia looked up to see part of the
castle walls buck as the ground directly beneath it heaved upwards.
Stones toppled from the wall and timbers splintered. Aendasia watched in
awe as her surroundings grew silent. Then Isidoro Mon-Orthanier let out
a mighty cry and the house he was standing next to burst into flames.
Horses whinnied loudly and soldiers cried out in alarm as flames
appeared on the keep's ramparts, and more of the buildings around them
were ignited without any apparent cause. Aendasia could sense that her
own army was on the verge of panic, but so too must Quinnat Keep's
defenders have been. There was a breach in the wall from the tremor in
the earth, and more masonry was tumbling to the ground each moment.
She didn't know whether the effects she was seeing were by design,
or whether the sorcerer's spell had escaped his control, but she
couldn't allow this chance to pass. Waving her imperial war sceptre in
the air, she spurred her horse forward and ploughed through the infantry
in front of her.
"With me, to the castle!" she shouted.
"For the empress!" Valeran cried behind her.
With her Knights of the Star around her, she charged towards the
gap in the wall. She realised as she was almost at the walls that she
had not yet donned her helmet, having wanted to wait until the last
possible moment before putting it on. No matter; it was too late now.
She could see out of the corner of her eye that Raimundo Quikuches was
leading his Knights of the Dragon on the attack as well.
Aendasia could feel her horse shy away from the flames, but she
forced it onwards and jumped over the last bit of wall that lay before
her. Then she was in the castle bailey. Soldiers wearing the green and
blue of Quinnat swarmed around her, fleeing towards the safety of the
keep.
She swung her giant mace downwards, smashing through the helmet of
a soldier beside her. The man toppled to the ground and Aendasia wound
up for another swing. Her knights surged into the crowded bailey,
hacking and slashing about them, the Quinnat soldiers falling to their
blades like sheaves of wheat.
The events of the next few bells dissolved into confusion and fear
for Aendasia, and she didn't remember much of it later. She could recall
only certain images: the keep's stables bursting into flames and the
screaming horses inside desperately trying to escape, a young soldier
pinned to the ground by a lance, and other troops being crushed as a
part of the castle walls collapsed on them.
The keep was quickly overtaken and its occupants surrendered within
a few bells. All told, the assault on the castle, the culmination of a
three-sennight siege, lasted but three bells.
30 Sy, 899
Aendasia's triumph proved to be less than complete. A thorough
search of the castle revealed a frustrating fact: Duchess Annora Quinnat
had somehow managed to flee the city. Whether she had made good her
escape during the three sennights of siege, or in the confusion of the
battle, Aendasia would likely never know. To make matters worse, her
most prized ally, the sorcerer Isidoro Mon-Orthanier, had disappeared
also. Raimundo Quikuches and his Knights of the Dragon were scouring
Port Sevlyn in search of the possessed mage, but Aendasia had little
hope that Mon-Orthanier would be found, even if he were still alive.
And so, Aendasia was in a foul mood, despite the capture of a
strategically important city, as she sat in the sweltering great hall of
Quinnat Keep. She squirmed uncomfortably in her chair as a group of
dishevelled prisoners were dragged before her. The duchess' uncle, Sir
Arnulf Bankroft, had stayed behind, and now stood in front of the
rightful queen.
His thinning hair was matted, his eyes bloodshot, and his cheeks
and beard darkened by soot and dried blood. Shackles, which he seemed to
wear as a badge of honour, bound his wrists, and he held his chin high
as the guards forced him to his knees.
"I am here, my lady," he said. "Do with me as you will."
"You will address her majesty by her proper title!" Baldwin
Equiville made as if to strike Bankroft across the face, but Aendasia
stopped him with a raised hand.
"One might think you the loyalist here, rather than the miserable
wretch of a rebel you are, scapegoat of your craven niece who fled
rather than face me herself."
"My niece is no coward!" Sir Arnulf barked. "In fact, we had to
force her to leave ere you took the castle, knowing she'd be of no use
to Queen Dara in one of your dungeons."
"How dare you speak to me so?" Aendasia said, careful to keep her
voice icy. "How dare you come before me in chains and boast loyalty to
that unworthy woman, who isn't even a Tallirhan by blood, that pretender
wife of a dead traitor? I am the last surviving Tallirhan!"
Aendasia could feel rage bubbling up in her, like a cauldron
boiling over a fire that burned too hot. Tears seared her eyes and heat
rose in her cheeks. The impotent anger that had seethed inside her since
the commoners of Magnus had taunted her threatened to break free, there
in the great hall of Quinnat Keep.
"By the gods!" She gripped the arm of her chair tightly. She spoke
strongly, but without raising her voice. "I was named the rightful heir
to the throne of Baranur by King Stefan, my uncle. He wanted me to rule,
so I left my adopted homeland to come here, to fulfil your dead king's
last wish. Think you that I do this for my own selfish gain? No, it is
for King Stefan, and how am I repaid? How, I ask? My cousin steals the
throne from me, and even when justice prevails and he dies, still you
follow his illegitimate line!"
She looked around the hall, still strewn with the debris of the
previous day's fighting, the walls blackened from flames. Her dukes and
barons were huddled close to the dais, intent on her every word.
"Ascendere, King of the Star Placers and Lord of Justice, told the
prophets the terrible price of the most mortal of sins: treachery," she
said slowly, for her throat was suddenly tight and raw. "Death is the
wage of treachery. And so, Sir Arnulf Bankroft will boil alive in the
cauldron as traitors to Beinison rulers have for centuries!"
Aendasia swallowed with effort. Arnulf Bankroft's jaw hung open as
the colour drained out of his face. She heard Duke Baldwin Equiville
gasp as he stared wide-eyed at her. Her husband whispered an oath under
his breath. The rest of her barons just looked on in disbelief. Aendasia
could feel her fingernails digging into the palm of her hand. She would
see how defiant the rebel lords would be after this.
"Hang the garrison as well. Hang them all! Let them know what it
means to swear fealty to a usurper."
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