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DargonZine Volume 20 Issue 03
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 20
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 3
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DargonZine Distributed: 09/02/07
Volume 20, Number 3 Circulation: 628
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Liam Donahue
Twist Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Seber 17-18, 1018
Sea-Eyes Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Seber 17, 1018
The Great Houses War 7 Nicholas Wansbutter Firil 28-30, 902
========================================================================
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 20-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright July, 2007 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 Liam Donahue
<bdonahue@fuse.net>
Here it is, Dargonzine 20-3, right on schedule. Oh, wait, is it
September already?
So it would seem. Yes, it's been four months since our last issue.
Frankly, it's my fault. Ornoth Liscomb, our leader for most of the life
of the Dargon Project and on back to the original FSFNet, the true
beginning of the zine, decided to turn over the reins of leadership
about a year ago. Somehow, I managed to get elected to replace him.
Okay, actually, it has taken a team of us to replace him, and I'm the
leader of that team. So far, I've figured out that means I get to keep
the project members organized, which I would liken to herding cats
(because sometimes even trite metaphors are apt). It also means that I
get to learn the work necessary to publish the zine. At the 2007 Summit
Orn and I agreed that I would do that by publishing this issue.
It was challenging to say the least. I always knew a lot of work
went into issue production, but I had no idea how much. Apart from the
volume of work, I had to learn to use no less than a half-dozen
different software applications, not to mention all of Ornoth's helpful
macros and programs that went with them. The zine almost died a few
times in the process. Okay, that's an exaggeration, or at least artistic
license, but I was pretty sure at times that I was going to have to find
someone far more web- and code-savvy than me to produce the issues.
Through it all, though, I had the Voice of Ornoth to guide me. He
actually recorded something like five hours of screen video with
voiceover on all of the issue production steps. It was very helpful.
Sadly, though, Ornoth tends to talk in great detail about things that
are intuitively obvious to me (like how to decide which stories to
publish), but he blazes through the stuff that I have no idea about
(like the keyboard shortcuts for Unix), but which are intuitively
obvious to him. Also, Ornoth's helpful macros are only helpful if you
understand what they are supposed to do.
Orn got to suffer through it a bit, too, like the Sunday afternoon
when I called him for help right after he finished his 200 mile bike
ride for the Pan-Mass Challenge, through which he raised over
$9,000 for the Jimmy Fund this year alone. Instead of resting and
basking in the glory of another successful ride and fundraising effort,
he had to help me figure out why one of his helpful programs wasn't
helping me.
But we got through it all, and here it is at last, DargonZine 20-3.
We won't have a long delay like that again due to my learning curve. In
fact, I am already hard at work on DargonZine 20-4, which will be
published in early October. If you listen closely, you will no doubt
hear me cursing at my screen.
I do hope you think that the stories in this issue were worth the
wait. We have three stories for you: two enjoyable tales by Dafydd
Cyhoeddwr, our most productive writer by a huge margin, and the
seventh installment of Nick Wansbutters' fantastic Great Houses
War, the second largest single-writer effort in the history of the zine
(the largest belongs to the aforementioned Dafydd).
Enjoy.
========================================================================
Twist
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Seber 17-18, 1018
Ista finished changing out of her rough work clothes by pulling on
her soft blue tunic over her best leggings, sure of her privacy in the
small storage shed on the barge where she worked. She brushed out her
long, brown hair and then tied it back while she contemplated how she
would spend her free days in Dargon. Ista knew that once the barge
docked, which would be in about half a bell, she would be heading as
fast as she could across the city to the Lulling District. An
anticipatory smile spread across her face as she thought about the
delights available at places like the Lederian Carpet. The barge would
be returning to Kenna in three days, and she knew she just might spend
all of them in the Carpet's basement.
There was another reason besides privacy that Ista had decided to
change her clothes in that shed, one that would increase her enjoyment
of her first day in Dargon. She turned her attention to the small chest
that rested on a short stack of crates against the shack's back wall.
Burned into its lid was a circle that was only three-quarters complete
with a chevron in the center of it, crossed by a horizontal line with a
circle on each end. She didn't know what it meant, but she didn't really
care, either. She was far more interested in what it held.
She opened the lid to reveal the strange contents. The small chest
was filled with little twists of what looked like thin parchment wrapped
around a hard lump. If the chest had been sealed, she never would have
opened it the first time, back near the start of the trip down river,
and if there hadn't been so many twists just lying there she never would
have tried one then, either. She had heard of the new drug which was
just beginning to be available, and hadn't been able to resist sneaking
a free sample.
Ista plucked out another little packet and closed the lid. She put
the twist into her mouth, parchment-stuff and all, where it began to
dissolve. She wondered what the stuff was that wrapped the twists as she
walked out of the storage shed into the lowering dusk of the fall day.
In about a bell, well after the barge was docked and she was making her
way across the city, she would feel the same happy effects of the twist
that she had the first time. She knew that this was going to be a
memorable visit to Dargon.
Darrow opened the door to his room and found his friend Murlak
rushing around, stuffing things with cheerful abandon into the rucksack
hanging from his shoulder. Darrow took a bite of the meat pastie in his
hand and watched as the last of Murlak's possessions vanished from the
room.
The tall, redheaded Murlak finally turned toward the door and said,
"Oh, hey there, Darrow."
"Hello, Murlak," Darrow said, stepping into the room and closing
the door behind him. "Ready for work?"
Murlak grinned and said, "Of course I'll be there. Eventually."
Darrow's fists clenched in anger, the remains of the meat pastie
making a mess as it was crushed. He was sick and tired of Murlak's
irresponsibility. He shouted, "You're going to be late again? You've
been late almost every day since Sferina got us these jobs. You won't be
able to count on her favor forever, you know."
Murlak shook his head, still grinning, which only made Darrow even
madder. "I won't be very late. Just gotta run an errand for Narok first,
then take my things over to Joden's. I'm gonna stay with him for a
while."
Darrow's anger vanished under growing concern. "Why are you having
anything to do with someone like Narok?"
"What do you mean? There's nothing wrong with Narok."
Darrow shook his head sadly at the so very Murlak-like statement.
"He runs a whorehouse, Murlak, among other things. He's not the kind of
person who is likely to do you any good in the long run." He winced at
the trite phrase, but it was the way he felt.
Murlak's cheerful grin turned into a frown. "I don't much care
about the long run, Darrow. He pays me to do errands for him and he
doesn't mind that I do them in my own time. I'm tired of having to be
where someone else wants me to be when they want me to be there. Narok
says he'll be able to hire me on full time soon, and then I won't have
to worry about whether Sferina likes me or not!"
"But you've only had this job for a month!" Darrow stepped aside as
Murlak stalked over to the door and put his hand on the latch. He
sighed, and continued, "Who's this Joden you're moving in with?"
Murlak turned and said, "He's one of Narok's workers. His place is
bigger than this one, and besides, he doesn't snore. He doesn't act like
he's my older brother, either."
Darrow thought that someone needed to be responsible for Murlak,
since his friend wouldn't do it for himself. He tried to reason with
Murlak one more time. "You've got to grow up sometime, Murlak. You have
a steady job in Sferina's warehouse, with good pay. Don't waste this
opportunity on the likes of Narok and his type."
Murlak pulled open the door and said, "That's what I mean," before
slamming it shut behind him.
Murlak clattered down the stairs of Darrow's rooming house and
slammed out the front door. He stopped there for a moment and wished he
hadn't gotten so mad at his friend. He felt strange, itchy and twitchy
inside, and he wanted to run and run until the twitching and itching
stopped.
He looked across the swamp in front of Darrow's place to the ruined
causeway and remembered the crash a month ago, and falling into the
water, and struggling to save himself from the wreckage and the Coldwell
itself. He'd had a lot of time to think, walking around Sferina's
warehouse every night since then. When he and Darrow had surrendered the
black statue to that guard, Edmond, just after removing their contraband
from it, Edmond had been shocked and stunned and ... scared, he thought.
Murlak had talked to Darrow about it, and about the plague of bad luck
that had first followed the barge, and then had overtaken the city
itself for a few days. His friend had made the connection first, but
Murlak seemed to have taken it to heart: somehow, maybe, the statue had
caused the bad luck, and their meddling had let it do so.
Murlak looked at the causeway again, and the itchy twitchiness
grew. He turned away, but there were still signs of the mishaps and
disasters everywhere around him. He gave in to the feeling, and started
to run.
As his feet pounded on the stones of the road, sounds echoed in his
head. Re. Spon. Si. Bil. I. Ty. A word he had only just learned, a word
he was trying hard to run away from. Responsibility. Running from
Darrow's grown-up ways, running from Sferina's job, running from the
misfortune he had helped cause.
He ran and ran, but Dock Street and the barge wharves weren't
nearly far enough away from the rooming house to give him time to work
out all of the itchy twitchiness. There was only one barge tied up there
when he arrived at the docks after tenth bell had rung. Murlak walked
over to the person directing the unloading work and said "I'm here for
Narok's cargo."
The tall, thin man looked Murlak over, frowned, and held out his
hand. Murlak's first thought was that he wanted some kind of bribe.
Then, remembering his instructions, Murlak fished the folded parchment
Narok had given him out of his belt pouch and handed it to the man.
The tall, thin man unfolded the parchment, read it over carefully,
looking up at Murlak and back down at the parchment several times.
Finally, he shrugged, turned, and called out, "Ista! Bring out the small
chest at the back of the shed!"
Murlak looked around, and saw a young woman with long brown hair
and wearing a blue tunic come out of the single shed on the barge's
deck. She was carrying a small chest that was maybe as long as a
forearm, half that wide, and a hand deep.
Murlak held out his hands as she walked over. Ista looked at the
foreman, who nodded, then handed the chest to Murlak. He noticed as she
did so that there was a streak of blood on her forearm. He took the
chest and glanced at her other arm in time to see some blood just appear
there and start to flow. His eyes widened in surprise, and he glanced to
her face. She was just starting to frown, and blood was starting to
appear on her cheek, her jaw, and at the corner of her eye.
Murlak backed away, clutching the chest. Ista stepped back as well,
blood flowing from more and more points, her tunic and leggings
beginning to darken, even her hair beginning to streak. Murlak couldn't
see any actual wounds, even though she looked like she had been the
target of a dozen or more arrows. She gasped when she looked at herself,
then her eyes rolled up and her lids closed. She screamed next, blood
oozing faster and faster, painting her red all over.
Murlak had backed all the way to the road. When Ista screamed again
and opened her eyes, she launched herself at the foreman, tackling him
and flailing at him with her fists and feet. Ista's first scream had
attracted the attention of everyone around, and when she attacked the
foreman, everyone but Murlak charged in to help.
The screaming continued and blood got everywhere. The other
bargefolk and dock workers were trying to restrain Ista, while she was
attacking anyone who came near. Murlak saw that as more and more blood
ran, coating the woman from head to toe, or so it seemed, she lashed out
more and more slowly.
Finally, the screaming stopped. Slowly, the others moved away and
stood up, streaked with blood. Ista alone didn't follow suit. She lay on
the dock, very still. Blood still oozed from her, pooling on the wood.
Murlak was sure she was dead.
Murlak turned from the spectacle and walked away. He wondered what
had just happened, and then quickly decided that he didn't want to know.
It was none of his business, after all. He was glad he hadn't
joined in with the others, though. He knew that blood would have ruined
his tunic, and it was his favorite.
Joden was expecting the knock even though it was after the first
bell of night. He said, "Yeah?" When his new roommate walked in, he
said, "Hi there, Murlak."
The red-haired young newcomer set his rucksack down by the door and
carried a small chest over to where Joden was lounging on his bed.
"Where can I put this until I get back from the warehouse?" Murlak
asked.
"Just set it in the corner," Joden said, waving in that direction.
"It'll be fine there. Is that the shipment Narok is waiting for?"
Murlak set the chest in the corner, then said, "Yes. Should I take
it to him before going to work?"
Joden snorted, and said, "Nah, not if he didn't ask you to rush it
over. Narok doesn't expect people to guess what he wants, so if he
didn't say it, you don't need to imagine he might have. Besides, he's
not running short of twist."
"Twist?"
Joden stood and walked over to Murlak and the chest. "You've never
tried it?" He opened the chest and plucked out two of the tiny twisted
packets. He straightened up, letting the lid fall closed, and handed one
to Murlak, then popped the other into his mouth.
The redhead looked at the drug in his hand with trepidation. "Go
ahead," urged Joden, "try it. It'll make you feel really good. Just put
it in your mouth. That's not parchment it's wrapped in, so it will
dissolve just fine." Murlak lifted his hand to his mouth and closed his
lips around the packet.
Joden continued, "It will take a while to start working, but you'll
know when it does. This is the first shipment from Narok's new supplier.
I hope they're as good as the others I've had." He knew that Narok was
paying less for this new drug, so it had better work or his boss was
going to be unhappy. Narok would be able to undercut the competition
because of the new pricing, but if it didn't work, no one would want to
buy it.
Murlak drew Joden's attention by saying, "Thanks for looking after
the chest, Joden. I'd better get going."
"No trouble at all, Murlak. See you later." He didn't see his new
roommate leave because he was staring at the chest. He debated the
wisdom of taking another twist against the opportunity in front of him.
He made his decision, and returned to his bed with a few more twists in
his hand. He didn't have anything else planned for the evening, and he
didn't think that Narok would miss them. And he had always wanted to
know what a double dose of twist would feel like.
Birds chirping in anticipation of dawn accompanied Murlak as he
headed back to his new home after work dragging his feet and not feeling
a bit like running. The night hadn't begun well, what with Darrow
yelling at him for being a bell late, but that was normal. Shortly after
that the dose of twist had begun to work and everything had gotten
bright and sharp and clear, and nothing, not even the boredom of
patrolling Sferina's warehouse, could keep him from being very happy for
almost half the night. He had even laughed at the rats scurrying out of
the crate of tubers, though he had gone back later in the night to make
sure they were all gone.
After the twist had worn off, though, things had only gotten worse.
He had gone from stupidly happy to inconsolably sad, and
remembering the previous good feelings had only made him feel sadder,
and stupid on top of it. Who laughs at rats, after all? He decided that
he never wanted another dose of twist, and couldn't understand the
attraction of the drug in the first place.
He didn't bother knocking when he got to Joden's, figuring that his
new friend was probably asleep. He opened the door and gasped at the
scene of chaos he found.
Blood was everywhere, not least covering his roommate, who was
laying on the floor, red from head to toe with it. The bed was torn up,
the single chair and the small table were smashed, and the remains of
those, as well as the walls and floor, were streaked with blood. Murlak
saw that Joden's dead finger pointed to a dose of twist lying next to
the wrecked bed.
Murlak knew he wasn't as bright as Darrow, or as good at business
as Narok, but he had some street smarts from his days as a shadow boy,
and he didn't believe in coincidences. Ista from the barge had died
covered in blood after delivering the chest of twist to him. Joden had
also died covered in blood with that same chest in his room. Murlak had
never heard of anyone dying like that before, and yet in one day he had
seen it twice, and both had to be connected to the twist drug from the
chest.
He took a step back and closed the door, thinking as hard as he
ever had. He remembered how many little twist packets had been in the
chest, and he knew that it contained a lot of death. He had to do
something about it, and his first impulse was to let someone else take
care of it. The chest belonged to Narok, so it was Narok's problem.
Murlak decided to let the whorehouse owner know about the poisoned drug,
because after all, who would knowingly sell death to his customers?
Narok was having a bad day, and first bell had only just rung. Two
of his whores were ill and the news had gotten around, and the new man
on the late night door was stealing from the till. As he stood in a back
corridor of his whorehouse, the Lederian Carpet, he knew that the two
men in front of him were only going to make his day even worse.
"Boss," said the short, fat, balding one, "I brung Heirk like you
said. He wuz down the docks, lookin' fer a berth."
Narok looked at Heirk, bruised, scared, cowed, being held firmly in
the grip of his much shorter captor. "Trying to run, Heirk?" he asked.
"I loaned you that half-Mark in good faith, and all you had to do was
pay me back a full Mark yesterday. You never showed up, and Tulit
had to chase all over the city to find out why. So, why?"
"I ... I ... I made a, a, a bad ...," Heirk stammered.
"You know," Narok interrupted, "I've decided that I don't really
care. I doubt it would be anything I haven't heard scores of times
before." He stared at the captive man, watching the fear grow in his
eyes, watching the sweat bead up on his forehead and crawl down his
face. It didn't make him feel any better, though, so he finally said,
"Tulit, take Heirk away and kill him. I hate people who break deals."
Heirk squeaked something, but Tulit's hand covered the captive's
mouth before he could really cry out. As the short man started dragging
Heirk away, Narok turned and found the young red-haired friend of
Joden's standing there staring at him wide-eyed. He remembered that he
had sent the young man, Murlak was his name, after the new shipment of
twist yesterday. The boy had nothing in his hands how, which was why he
asked, "Where's the chest?" without even considering what Murlak might
have just witnessed or the image he had been trying to impress on the
redhead to lure him into his employ.
"I ... ah, it's back at Joden's," said Murlak. "I, um, forgot --"
"Well, it had better be at Joden's," Narok said, turning away.
"Because if it isn't, if you've lost it, you're going to owe me quite a
lot of money."
"Owe you?" Murlak squeaked.
Narok's face stretched into a grin that wasn't one of his friendly
expressions. He turned back to the youth and said, "Yes, owe me. You
were sent after the shipment, and that means that you're responsible for
the money it represents to me. So, you either deliver the chest, or you
work off its value." He eyed Murlak up and down, reevaluating the kid's
potential and liking what he saw. "We need more dancers downstairs, and
you, well, you could probably work off the debt in a year, maybe less."
"I ... I'll go get it," said Murlak, then turned and ran.
Narok watched the boy go. He couldn't decide whether he wanted the
chest, or Murlak as an employee. The new shipment of twist was
significantly cheaper than usual, so he stood to make more money off of
it. But once he got Murlak working for him, he was pretty sure that the
boy wouldn't quit after only a year. Well, he won either way, didn't he?
Murlak walked slowly back to Joden's rooming house because it
wasn't far from the Lulling District and he had a decision to make. He
sighed as he walked, thinking that he hadn't gotten away from
responsibility even here.
He now knew that Darrow had been right; Narok wasn't the kind of
man Murlak had thought, and he certainly wasn't likely to do Murlak any
good, long run or short. He could take the chest to the man anyway, but
his newfound sense of responsibility wouldn't let him believe that any
deaths the twist caused wouldn't be his own fault as well as Narok's.
He could tell the man that the drug was poison, but he wasn't at
all sure that Narok didn't already know it, or at least wouldn't make
use of it in a different way, not after seeing that confrontation with
Heirk. If Narok knew that Murlak knew about the poison, he could be in
even bigger trouble. And there was still that responsibility thing to
get around.
He could also get rid of the twist and end up an employee of Narok,
dancing in only a loincloth. He knew from spending time with Joden
around the Lederian Carpet that Narok's employees were not given the
leeway he was able to enjoy at Sferina's warehouse.
He went over his options again and again, but there was really no
way to get away from the obvious. Responsibility would weigh on him
either way, but there was only one way to be able to bear that
responsibility. By the time he reached Joden's door, he had made his
decision.
Third bell was ringing out over the city as Murlak pounded the last
few doses of twist with a rock, powdering the stuff inside. He was
sitting on the rocky shoreline of the promontory that hosted the
Sailors' Shrine, doing what had to be done. He was taking every care he
could, worried about the fact that he had taken one dose himself, but he
didn't seem to be having any reaction to the smashed drug.
The twists were finally mostly flat, and he swept them into his
hand and then dumped them into the water. He watched the strange
parchment-like wrapping dissolve, followed by the powder inside. He
checked the chest one last time, then closed the lid and heaved the
empty thing as far out over the water as he could.
He stood up and watched the floating chest for a while, then turned
back toward the city and started walking. The guard would soon be
dealing with Joden's corpse one way or another, since Murlak had sent a
shadow boy over there with a message after leaving the door open on his
way out. Either the shadow boy or someone else was sure to rob the
place, and eventually Joden's corpse would be reported. That left Murlak
two things to do: tell Narok that he had lost the chest, and ask Darrow
if he could move back in. Truthfully, he wasn't sure which encounter he
dreaded more.
========================================================================
Sea-Eyes
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Seber 17, 1018
"Percantlin!"
I paused halfway out the door onto Division Street and looked over
my shoulder. Tanjural, my son-in-law, was hurrying toward me. I admit, I
sighed a little. The two of us usually ate our lunch together, heading
home at about fifth bell for some of my housekeeper Margat's excellent
cooking. Even though I had come to accept that Tanjural had had nothing
to do with the death of my daughter, Kalibriona, and I had even invited
him into my house, occasionally I just wanted a little time to myself.
The Dusty Reef out on the docks made a fish-cake that Margat just
couldn't duplicate. Then again, perhaps it was just the carefree,
dockside atmosphere of the place that made those cakes and ale taste so
good.
Tanj caught up to me and surprised me by saying, "Percantlin, we
have a problem that's come in with the cargo off the Island Winds. I
thought you should be the one to handle it." Tanj had earned his way in
the past month to be my second-in-command, handling the organizational
duties of the warehouses of the Fifth I Merchants, the company I ran. I
knew that he was competent to handle anything routine, and very likely
many things that were not. Intrigued, I nodded and followed as he set
off.
The Island Winds had arrived that morning, returning from a
six-month journey to far shores. We regularly handled their cargo,
buying the goods we had a use for and brokering their more unique wares
to others. Long haul ships always had a great assortment of freight from
the exotic places they sailed, and the arrival of one was an occasion of
much excitement.
Still, it wasn't likely that Tanj would fetch me just to look at
some strange merchandise or outlandish trinket, at least not in that
tone. We walked briskly across the inner courtyard that the warehouses
faced and came to the loading house, which had doors at both dock and
courtyard ends. The large, long building was well lit from the late
morning light streaming in through both doors, and orderly piles of
goods lined the walls. Nearer the dock end were the stacks of cargo from
the Island Winds. Tanjural led me to one small crate that was situated
by itself a short way from the other freight.
The square box was no more than half-a-man tall and made from
sheets of wood, rather than the more usual planking. The edges were all
covered with a black substance that I confirmed was tar as I got close
enough to smell it. The only marking that I could see was a strange rune
charred into the top. It looked like a circle only three-quarters
complete with a chevron in the center of it, crossed by a horizontal
line with a circle on each end.
The mark was unfamiliar, though it seemed in its isolation to be
some kind of identification, perhaps of the crate's owner. I turned to
Tanjural, and he answered my unasked question.
"This box was found stowed among the crates and barrels belonging
to Frinwalsh and Sons, but it is not listed on their manifest. Nor is it
on any of the cargo manifests the Island Winds took on. No one knows how
the thing got on board, nor do they recognize that mark. I even checked
with the harbormaster, and he has no record of the mark, either.
"But that's not all. Come, look," Tanj said, walking around to the
other side of the box. I followed, and saw that there was a dark spot on
the side of the box. I crouched down and touched the spot, finding that
it was a slightly wet dent in the wood.
I looked up and asked, "How did it get wet?"
Tanj said, "I think that the water is seeping from inside. It's
been dried off several times, but the damp keeps coming back."
I returned my gaze to the crate. "That might explain the tar seal.
But who ships water in a box, when a barrel is designed for the
job?"
"And who does the box belong to?" asked Tanj.
I stood up, my knees protesting only slightly. "Well, we don't know
that, do we? If no one recognizes the box, and no one knows to whom it
belongs, then I say that the box belongs to us. And for all we know,
there might be something alive within, kept so by the briny water that
is seeping out of it. We need to open it up. Perhaps that will tell us
who our mysterious owner is."
Tanjural gestured, and some of the workers laboring at the rest of
the Island Winds' cargo hurried over, pry bars in their hands. They set
to work levering the tar around the top of the box away, and when the
joint was clear, one set the flat end of her tool to it and shoved with
practiced ease.
A booming voice cried out, "No!" as the tool sank in, opening a gap
between the top and side of the box. I looked up to see who had cried
out, and saw a large man standing in the dockside doorway, his face
handsome and weathered and scowling, his wild, long hair streaming black
down his back. I wondered who he might be as he took a step forward,
then glanced back at the box. Suddenly, there was a loud whooshing
sound, and the box blew apart. I thought I saw a geyser of water blow
the lid straight up, and then the sides flattened out. I felt a brief
blast of salty water, and instinctively closed my eyes against it. When
I opened them again, the six planes of wood that had made up the box lay
in disarray on the floor, bone dry every one. I felt my tunic, but it
too was dry. I looked around at the others, but they seemed equally
confused. What had just happened? I wondered whether the strange man
knew, but when I looked, he was no longer standing in the doorway.
Two bells later, I was back in my office with an unsolved puzzle on
my mind and no lunch in my belly. I had helped search the loading house
for anything out of the ordinary, but none of us had found anything. The
six squares of wood, one rune-marked and another dented, all dry, were
all that was left of the box and whatever strangeness had been sealed
inside. No one present had seen anything more definitive than I had, and
no one had any idea what the box had contained.
The search hadn't taken the whole two bells, of course.
Interruptions had been constant; questions put to me because I was
there, not because I was the only one who could answer them, and the
other little daily emergencies that always crop up. Before I knew it,
fifth bell had come and gone, and it was after sixth bell by the time I
had regained my office. I debated whether I should save my appetite for
the evening meal or grab something quick from the Dusty Reef as I
shuffled ledgers on my desk. I finally stood up, decision made, when
Heerans, my assistant, walked in.
"Another emergency in the loading house, Percantlin," he said.
Frowning, I followed him out.
There was a buzz of activity in one corner of the loading house,
behind a pallet of crates, and it drew Heerans and I across the
building. The huddle of Island Winds crew and my own staff parted as we
approached, and I saw that the body of a young man lying on the floor
had been the focus of their attention.
He was sprawled on his back with a slightly sad look on his face,
and he was soaking wet. I bent down next to him, and could smell the
sea, but it was clear from the lack of water on the floor that he hadn't
just dragged himself in here after nearly drowning. There was no sign of
a struggle, either in his splayed limbs, his expression, or the crates
and wall next to him. Was this a new mystery, or did the water link it
to the previous puzzle?
I stood up, and said, "Does anyone know what happened here?"
Sardyee, the supervisor of the loading house, walked over. "No one
knows, Master Percantlin," he said in his mild voice. "Jassin there was
working away one moment, and the next he went missing. We called, then
looked, and finally found him. Don't know how he got that way, though."
There were mutters and whispers as the others who had gathered went
back to work now that the boss was there. Soon it was just Sardyee and
me beside the corpse. I tried to make sense of the situation, and the
only possibility was some kind of complicated murder designed to scare
the workers. I thought I had heard the word "nisheg" among the mutters,
but I honestly didn't believe in water spirits. Along with that, we were
too far from the ocean, even with the docks just through the door, for
any kind of nisheg I'd ever heard about to take up residence here.
"So, Sardyee," I said, "did Jassin have any enemies?"
"What? Why? Ah, well ... that is, I don't think so, Percantlin."
"Fine, fine. Have you, perhaps, heard any rumors of discontent
among the workers? Someone with a grudge, someone with a reason to try
to disrupt the loading house today?"
Sardyee was silent for a moment, and I could see understanding come
to his plain face. His eyes narrowed in concentration, and then he
sighed. "No, sir, nothing like that has come to my ears. No gripes, no
grudges, no reason that I can fathom for anyone to kill someone like
this, much less Jassin."
I sighed in turn. Sardyee worked closely with everyone in the
loading house, and if there was anything to know, he'd know it. Then I
remembered something.
"Just before the box exploded, there was a large, dark-haired man
at the dockside door. He shouted 'no', but I didn't see him afterwards.
Did you happen to notice him, or know who he might be?"
"Didn't see him, Percantlin, and haven't seen anyone like that
since. Should I ask around?"
"Please do," I said. "If he was shouting about the box, then he
might know who it belonged to or what was in it. In the meantime, take
care of Jassin discreetly, and then keep a close watch on things. The
Island Winds doesn't sail until the tide turns late tonight, but we will
still need all of the time between now and then to get her loaded and
ready to sail."
I walked slowly back to my office, contemplating ways to uncover
the secret of Jassin's death. I could have nosed around and asked
questions on my own, but I was worried that my interest would only make
everyone even more nervous. In the end, I decided that it was just one
incident. My workers wouldn't let it stop them from earning their daily
wage.
My attention was diverted from the dual mysteries of the day by the
mundane details of running the Fifth I for the next bell or so. And
then, just as I was beginning to think that the rest of the day would be
uneventful, I was summoned back to the loading house.
The large building looked like a sinking ship with the rats
streaming away from it as I approached: both my own workers and the crew
of the Island Winds were pouring out the doors, crazed looks on their
faces. This time "nisheg" wasn't whispered, but uttered clearly and
fearfully.
Inside, not one, but two bodies awaited me. The scenes were much
like Jassin's had been: each in a secluded section of the building, each
body looking relatively peaceful in death, with a sad, or perhaps
wistful, look on their faces, each soaking wet in the middle of
perfectly dry surroundings. Sardyee met me at the door and led me to
each corpse, relating much the same story as with the first. Both Arland
and Yorssa had wandered away from their work, and then been found
sopping and dead.
"It was one of the Island Winds crew," Sardyee said, "that first
said nisheg out loud, just after Arland was found. No one believed her.
But once poor Yorssa's body turned up, there was no stopping 'em.
They bolted, just 'fore you got here. She was so well liked; it's a
shame."
"I'm sure it was just shock," I said. "Sailors are a superstitious
lot, but us landlubbers are more hardheaded. Nisheg are nothing more
than myth, straight? Nothing more than myth."
I paused for a moment, then said, "Sardyee, go round up our folks
and get them back to work. We need to get this cargo sorted and stowed,
rumors and myths notwithstanding. Tell everyone to pair up and stay
together. So far, the three casualties were alone. That should make them
feel safer. I doubt that you'll get the ship's crew back in here, so
offer a bonus for anyone who stays over shift."
I turned to Heerans and said, "Send a runner to the wizard Cefn;
see if he can come and help. I don't believe that we're dealing with
something magical, and perhaps Cefn can convince everyone else of that,
while exposing the real culprit."
As Sardyee coaxed our workers back into the loading house in twos
and threes and larger groups, I started back toward my office. It wasn't
surprising, I suppose, that sailors, and even dock workers, were
frightened of nisheg. I expect everyone knows at least a story or two
about the mysterious, often alluring, and usually fatal water spirits,
but for those who work on and around water, they probably hold a special
significance.
Nisheg is a general name for a seemingly infinite variety of
strange aquatic phenomenon. Most of the stories detail individual
creatures, rather than types of creatures, with each lake, stream, pond,
rivulet, and even well having its own resident, jealously guarding their
habitats from both despoilers and casual wanderers. There were
horse-like spirits, and monsters of varying descriptions, but most often
the tales concerned women, or female-shaped beings, luring folk into the
depths with false promises. From the fish-tailed mermaids and
fair-songed sirens of the sea, to the lantern-bearing maidens in
fenlands, none of these beings ever had a helpful role in any of the
stories I'd heard. It made me wonder what was so inherently frightening
about water that started all of these strange tales.
It was nearing eighth bell when Ront, the messenger that Heerans
had sent for Cefn, entered my office. "I couldn't find the wizard,
Master Percantlin," he said. "No one answered his door. A neighbor said
he'd gone out early yesterday morning, maybe second bell, and no one's
seen him since."
My door opened again before I could thank Ront, and Sardyee
entered. "Percantlin, sir, I've found out who that man is you were
asking about. Seems as though it was Captain Lar, master of the Island
Winds hisself. Since the second set of deaths, he's recalled all of his
crew and posted guards on the gangplank. Our folk have to hand over the
cargo there; no one but crew gets on the ship."
I was just about to reply to the news of Captain Lar's strange
behavior when the office door opened again. This time, Heerans poked his
head in and said, "Two more dead, Percantlin, and they were together. No
one wants to go back inside the loading house now."
I stood abruptly and said, "Well, it looks like we have a problem
and we are going to have to solve it ourselves. First, we need to know
more about what might be going on. Heerans, Sardyee, gather as many
people together as you can in the main courtyard. Anyone and everyone
who knows a fable or anecdote about any kind of nisheg is invited; pass
the word up and down the docks. If this is a water-sprite problem, we
need to learn as much about them as we can, and as quickly as possible.
"Meanwhile, I will go talk to Captain Lar and see if his strange
behavior this morning means that he knows something relevant about our
problem. Let's go."
We all hurried out of my office, and I headed down the stairs and
out the front door. I turned right toward Commercial Street and the
docks. I had to walk for several blocks along the ocean because the
piers at the Coldwell end of Commercial Street had burned four or so
years ago during the Beinisonian War and had yet to be rebuilt. I was
constantly lobbying for returning the docks to their original purpose,
but it looked like my business was going to have to continue to haul
cargo by wagon to the functioning wharves because the news was that
someone was building a bathhouse across from my warehouses.
I reached the Island Winds' berth and looked her over. The ship was
large, with tall masts bearing furled sails, and sheets crisscrossing
what looked like every open space, forming a webwork cats-cradle above
the decks. She looked big and strong and capable, and even so I had no
desire to experience a moment of time aboard her while she was at sea.
The gangplank was lined with sailors, and they were passing the
last few crates hand-over-hand up to the deck. They then took up
guard-like poses, and I could tell that Sardyee had been right: I wasn't
getting aboard. Instead, I said, "I'd like to speak to the captain,
please."
My request was relayed up the gangplank just as the crates had
been. A few moments later, the large man with black hair that I had seen
earlier strode up to the rail of his ship. "I'm Captain Lar," he said in
his booming voice. "What can I do for you, Master Percantlin?"
"I would like to apologize for the temporary labor problems we're
experiencing, captain. I am working on a solution at this very moment,
and I'm confident that we will be able to resume cargo transfer very
soon."
The captain frowned and said, "Be sure that you do, good sir. The
Island Winds sails with the turn of the tide, and you'll pay the
forfeiture on the contracts if the goods aren't on board."
I knew the penalties involved, and I thought it a little crude of
Captain Lar to state them so confrontationally. Which only made it
easier for me to ask, "You wouldn't know anything about the
circumstances surrounding the problems in the loading house, would you,
captain?"
Lar drew himself up, a look of offended pride on his face. "Of
course not! And I don't have time to stand around trading insults with
you, sir merchant. You have until the sixth bell of the night to
complete your cargo transfer, so perhaps you should go see to it!" With
that, he turned and stomped off.
I turned away too, and as I walked back to the warehouses, I was
sure that Captain Lar's reaction had been a bit too forceful and
outraged to be real.
By the time I got back, the courtyard of the Fifth I warehouses was
crowded with people, more than half of whom were not even employees. I
was glad of their generosity in spending their time to help out.
I climbed into the bed of a wagon that had been set aside as a
makeshift podium and looked out over courtyard. As the noise of idle
chatter died away, I glanced around me to see that the scribes whom
Heerans had assembled were ready with their lapdesks, parchment, ink,
and quills. I raised my hand, and the last few murmurs fell silent.
"Thank you all for coming," I said. "As you've been told, I need
the benefit of your knowledge. I want to know everything you know about
nisheg."
I should probably have expected what happened next, which was a
wave of unintelligible noise as everyone began to speak at once. I
smiled ruefully, and held up my hand again. Gradually, the wave subsided
into silence again.
"Perhaps we need to find a better way of doing this," I said. "The
person I point to will tell what they know. If anyone else has anything
to add to that, they can then speak. Please keep your comments brief;
there are a lot of you and I would like to hear from everyone."
The tale-telling lasted for well over a bell, and I learned a great
deal about nisheg. At first, I thought the cause was hopeless, as every
story was as individual as the person telling it. Gradually, though,
certain similarities began to emerge, sorting the stories into broad
categories. Some nisheg were bound to their bodies of water, while some
could venture away by anything from a few steps to several paces, and
others were bound by nothing. There were water sprites who guarded their
haunts against any and all who came near, while others only bothered
trespassers.
Certain nisheg were merely tricksters, causing mischief and mayhem
but seldom death; some used lethal force to protect that which they
guarded; yet more killed for sport or perhaps livelihood. They were
variously limited to appearing only in the day, or only in the absence
of sunlight; others could only be found at certain times of the year, or
even in specific weather conditions.
In terms of appearance, some resembled horses, some people, some
floating rain clouds or ambulatory rivulets, and many other shapes as
well. Various sorts routinely hid their visage behind illusions, and
some used those illusions as lures for their prey. There existed types
that could be caught or tamed through special means or trickery, though
most were best avoided altogether.
There were few mentions of ways to kill nisheg, but usually the
operative element was something that was inimical to water. One
particularly detailed legend related how a certain group of people would
put together large hunting groups composed of both adults and children,
and it was always the children who were able to fire their arrows and
kill the object of the hunt while it was distracted by the adults in the
band.
As the stories continued to flow, the courtyard slowly emptied out,
those who had given their information wandering away or returning to
their jobs. I believe that every single person who had gathered
contributed something. Finally, the last person remaining stepped over
to the wagon I was standing on. He was a young man, or perhaps an older
boy, dressed in the brief vest and short pants of a cabin boy. His skin
was naturally bronzed, his nose very broad across his face, and his
earlobes were startlingly pendulous.
"I want say," the boy said in a strangely accented, high voice,
"box with broke circle belong to master Captain Lar." He paused, looked
around furtively, then continued, "He meet in secret with ghost-man in
dark cloak. I hear some of deal. Ghost-man mean to get box this morning
before docking, but not happen." He stopped speaking again, looking at
his bare feet for a few moments before raising his gaze again. "Master
very angry when box leave Winds. More angry when he come back without
it, yell about lost money. I come help against master's order. Wish you
luck."
The boy turned and dashed away before I could say anything. I
thought I recognized the high voice and strange accent as the reciter of
some of the stories, though I didn't remember exactly which ones. Maybe
he had helped.
As far as Captain Lar's complicity, it was nice to have it
confirmed, but there wasn't much I could do about it. I had no real
proof, and I was sure that the boy wasn't going to go with me to the
authorities, even if I could contact him again. Lar was completely safe
aboard his ship, and there was nothing I could do to punish him for
whatever damage he had caused.
Back in my office, I went over the sheets of parchment the scribes
had produced, supplementing my memory of the stories that had been
gathered. My next step was to try to extract enough information from
them to produce a solution to the problem in the loading house. The only
thing that bothered me about the task ahead was that I had no idea
whether that solution could, in fact, be gleaned from what we had
collected.
I did the only thing I could: I began making assumptions. The way
the five victims had died -- no struggle, no fright on their faces --
suggested that the nisheg used an illusory lure to snare its victim. It
was a pretty good distance from the water, which meant that it was
probably made of liquid, a supposition which was supported by the way
its victims had been soaked. That suggested that it was killable,
probably by something that was inimical to water. My first thought on
that score was a drying agent like we often used when packing items that
could be ruined by damp. Temkah was the strongest one I knew of; when we
used it, we cut it one to five with corn starch.
Lastly, I wondered how we were going to hunt the thing. I decided
that we needed as many people as we could convince to go back into the
loading house. There were two reasons for that. First, we had already
searched the place several times, but had never seen the water spirit. I
figured what would work would be a sweep search, which would be all the
easier with more people. Second, I was worried about the illusion lure.
The last pair of deaths had happened together, so there was no
requirement that the victim be alone. I could only hope that there was
some kind of limit, and that we could involve enough people to exceed
that limit.
So that was the plan: a sweep search of the loading house with as
many people as I could get, each armed with an arrow coated with uncut
temkah. I hoped that it worked better than it sounded.
I had only been able to convince nine other people to participate
in the hunt, and the ten of us stood in the lengthening shadows of the
last bell of the day in front of the courtyard entrance of the loading
house. All of us were armed with temkah-coated arrows and were ready to
go.
The ten of us, including Tanj, Heerans, Sardyee, and six other
workers, entered the loading house. We searched methodically, making as
much noise as possible, trying to drive the nisheg ahead of us. It was
nerve-wracking, stalking through the piles of crates, barrels, and bags,
trying to keep an eye on everyone else to keep them from wandering away,
trying not to let the thing we hunted slip past us, not wanting to
actually set eyes on it and face the implied lure.
We finally came to the far corner of the dock end of the loading
house without seeing the water sprite. Unless it had slipped past us, it
had to be behind that last pile of crates. We lined up on one side of
the pile and advanced, calling out and stamping our feet on the wooden
floor. We split to go around the pile, moving as quickly as we could,
and suddenly, with a flash of movement into the corner itself, we saw
it.
Saw her, I should say, because standing there, cowering slightly,
was Giesele, my wife. She was as beautiful as I remembered: tall,
graceful, with long blond hair and the sweetest lips I had ever tasted.
This was Giesele before the Red Plague, smiling, beckoning to me, her
sea-green eyes filled with longing: longing for my touch, my kiss, my
love.
As I looked into those deep, green eyes, I could hear voices around
me saying names even as I whispered, "Giesele." Tanj on my left said,
"Bronna," and Heerans on my right said, "Dan." The bow was forgotten in
my hands, and I wanted to cross that empty space between us and fall
into her arms. Despite the way she looked at me, I knew that she wasn't
ready for me to approach, and I awaited that call eagerly.
There was a cry like waves crashing on a shore, like screegulls
calling, like a storm passing, and suddenly Giesele was gone. The image
of her standing before me vanished, and as the longing, the pull, also
disappeared, I caught a glimpse as I turned away of something shriveled
and not at all human-seeming where she had been.
I looked around. I saw that everyone had turned away, and some were
also looking around. I counted nine arrows in nine bows, and I looked to
see who was holding the tenth, arrowless bow. Sardyee was the one who
had saved us!
We all congratulated Sardyee on his heroics, but I could see that
he was very confused by the accolades. I drew him aside and said, "Who
did you see? And how did you manage to fire?"
He looked confused, and replied, "What do you mean? All I saw was a
strange, fishy woman-like thing. I took aim, expecting to be shooting
right along with everyone else. When my arrow was the only one loosed, I
was shocked."
"You didn't see a past love?" I asked.
He just shook his head. "You did?"
"I saw my wife. I heard Tanjural mention my daughter, his wife. But
you ..."
His eyes got sad, and he turned away. I wanted to reach out to him
as he walked away, but I had no idea what to say. Heerans came up beside
me and said, "Where's he going? We wanted to invite him out for a drink
in thanks."
I said, "Let him go. You can thank him later." I didn't really
think that Sardyee would appreciate being thanked for never having known
love.
I ordered the workers to bundle up the body of the nisheg, thinking
that someone might have a use for it. As I was walking out of the
loading house to get all of the workers back on the job to get the
Island Winds' cargo loaded, I remembered something. Giesele's eyes had
been brown. Not the green of the sea.
========================================================================
The Great Houses War
Part 7: The Knights' Charge at Balkura
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<WansbutterEsq@gmail.com>
Firil 28 - 30, 902
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-6
Part 6 of this story was printed in DargonZine 20-2
Baroness Galina Fennell sat in a simple pine chair, staring into
the fire that crackled in a stone hearth. The floor beneath her feet was
dirt strewn with rushes, the building a peasant's dwelling that doubled
as a tavern of sorts. The master of the house, a widow of the civil war
that had raged for nigh on five years, served homemade ale and rented
the rooms upstairs to travellers. Such was the best a humble village
like Balkura had to offer. Such was the best that a loyal vassal of the
rightful queen, Dara Tallirhan, could command, Galina thought bitterly.
In the early days, things had seemed far better. Caeron and his
wife had been much loved by the people, and had been crowned to much
celebration by the Stevenic Master Priest, Cyrridain. But then Aendasia
Blortnikson, Empress-consort of the deceased Beinisonian Emperor
Alejandro VII and Duchess of Northfield, had moved north with her
Beinisonian troops to steal the crown from Caeron. She believed that she
was rightful ruler because the spiteful King Stefan II had named her
heir so that the Stevenic Caeron would not be king. Early battles had
gone well as King Caeron had been an excellent battle commander, but in
the first days of 899 the king had died defending the walls of Magnus,
his capital. Since that time, city after city and castle after castle
had fallen to Aendasia's armies.
Queen Dara, Caeron's wife and heir, and what remained of her
nobles, were trapped in Dargon Keep, besieged for over half a year.
Galina looked up from the fire and towards the north where Dargon Keep
lay. Of course, the lone window that faced that direction was shuttered
against the cool winds. Spring had begun several sennights earlier, but
in the Barony of Fennell, in the dense woods to the south of the city of
Dargon, frost still covered the ground some mornings.
"Can I get you anything more, milady?" The owner of the makeshift
tavern interrupted Galina's line of thought.
"No, thank you." She mustered as much pleasantness in her voice as
she could. It would not do to allow others to see her dark mood. "You
may retire for the evening."
"Thank you, your ladyship." The peasant woman curtseyed and backed
away out of the light cast by the fire.
A familiar voice, deep and rumbling like thunder, met her ears.
"Another fine night God has given us, is it not, your ladyship?"
Galina turned to see the Stevenic priest, Cyruz of Vidin enter the
room with her husband, Baron Boris Fennell in tow. They made for an odd
pair. Cyruz was tall and thin, with a broad brow overtopping a face
constantly creased with a smile so warm that each strand of his thick
brown beard seemed to curl in amiability. Galina's beloved Boris, on the
other hand, was short and as solid as an ancient oak. He had blocky
features and several scars on his face earned in many battles.
The Baroness of Fennell couldn't help but smile at the sight of the
two. "Father Cyruz, you are ever in good cheer no matter what befalls
you. I am oft unable to fathom it."
Cyruz chuckled as he always did and pulled up a chair for himself
and sat next to Galina. "I live in the Stevene's Light; how can I not be
happy?"
"Even with the kingdom in tatters around us? With Queen Dara
besieged in Dargon Keep, and we but a few knights and squires holed up
in one of the least of my villages?"
"Ah, but what grand knights and friends you have with you!"
"I can hardly argue with that," Boris said as he, too, pulled up a
chair and sat near the fire to warm himself. Indeed, the Fennells did
have their most trusted friends and vassals with them in the town: all
of Galina's household knights, and those landed knights of the barony
who owed her fealty directly. Even counting the squires, however, they
amounted to little more than fifty.
"But, Stevene help me, hardly enough to be of much help, are we?"
Galina said.
"Nonsense! Have you not learned what I have taught you these many
months?" Laughing softly and
pouring himself a cup of warm posset from
the pot hanging over the fire, Cyruz looked from one Fennell to another.
"Nay, more than months, it has been nigh on two years since the two of
you, and your knights, embraced the Stevene's Light! Put your trust in
that Light. The God of Stevene favours the just!"
Galina could see Boris smiling and nodding at that, and she could
not help but smile herself, as Cyruz's energy and joy was infectious.
She laughed and patted the kindly cleric's knee. "You are always able to
make even the bleakest situation a happy occasion, father."
"It is little wonder some have started to call you Cyruz the holy!"
Boris laughed.
"Holy am I, now?" Cyruz said incredulously. "More of that nonsense
about me meeting the Stevene in Pyridain, I suppose. No matter how much
I tell people I was but a senseless boy at the time, they refuse to
listen!"
From some the words might have sounded angry, but Cyruz was
good-natured about everything, and his voice betrayed no hint of
animosity. The three of them sat in silence for a while after that,
watching the flames slowly devour the log that rested in the hearth.
"This is truly our -- and the queen's -- crucible bell," Galina
said. "But as long as we have good and loyal friends by our side, and
the Stevene's Light shining down from above, we shall weather it."
"You have a new convert's zeal, your ladyship," Cyruz said.
"Treasure that, for it may not last forever."
Boris smirked. "Yes, perhaps you'll one day end up like Katrina
Welspeare, lusting after both men and battle!"
"God forefend!" Galina exclaimed.
"Now, now," Cyruz chided, "have charity, my friends. None are
perfect in their adherence to the Stevene's teachings, even, I dare say,
the Master Priest Cyrridain."
Before any more could be said, the door to the makeshift tavern
banged open as a breathless squire, his tunic soaked through with sweat,
nearly tumbled into the room. He hurried up to Galina and Boris and took
a knee before them. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he
delivered his news.
"Midlord, milady, I fear I bring ill tidings."
"That's hardly something new," Boris said.
Galina shushed her husband, then turned back to the squire. "What
news? Has Lord Connall met defeat?"
She had been expecting news on the battle that Connall Dargon had
engaged in a few days' ride to the east. It was an attempt to circle
around behind the bulk of the Northfield forces and reunite with
Galina's knights, as they had been separated during a skirmish with
Baron Coranabo. She had received word from Connall that he planned to
attempt this gambit three days ago, but had heard nothing after that.
"No, milady." The squire's head dipped as he looked down at the
dirt floor. "I did not make it across the Coldwell, for fresh Northfield
forces move north along the west bank. I recognised the heraldry of the
Baron of Bastonne leading the army. They appeared to be heading west
towards Fennell Keep, milady. I galloped here as fast as I could, but if
they kept the course they were on, they will be between us and Fennell
Keep by now."
Galina's hand went to her throat in a Stevenic gesture of piety.
"Stevene preserve us! Their strength?"
"A thousand at the very least, milady," the squire replied.
"Cephas' boot," Galina whispered. A host that great would
undoubtedly be able to crush Fennell Keep. Then, once it had reinforced
the army under Valeran Northfield at Dargon Keep, the insurrectionists
would likely be able to storm the castle and dash the royalists' hopes
once and for all.
Boris put a hand to his throat. "By the good God, what can we do?"
Firil 29, 902
The next evening Baroness Fennell gathered all of her knights in
the temple that dominated the centre of Balkura, as the makeshift inn
was too small to hold them all, despite the fact there were barely three
dozen of them. Even so, they didn't leave a lot of extra room in the
temple. She was uneasy about using another religion's sacred shrine for
these purposes, but there was nothing for it. She was sure the villagers
were less than pleased themselves, but they weren't about to deny their
baroness access to any of their buildings.
She had spread a map out on the altar at the centre of the temple
and she now traced on it the situation with a thin index finger. "Lord
Connall Dargon is somewhere in this vicinity on the far side of the
Coldwell, but we have no way of knowing whether his attack met with
success. A fresh Northfield force approaches Fennell Keep from the east
-- here. For certes they are headed to reinforce Duke Northfield at
Dargon after taking Fennell Keep. Scouts report that they have cut off
our route through the forest to Fennell Keep.
"Either way, we are in a difficult situation. We cannot return to
Fennell Keep to defend it. We cannot go to Dargon itself, either. Even
if we could sneak past Bastonne's army, Baron Talador now fights for the
Duchess of Northfield, and the insurrectionists hold Winthrop Keep. Even
then, we obviously haven't the forces needed to lift the siege."
"Is there nothing we can do?" one of her knights asked. "By the
Stevene, we cannot just stand by and do nothing."
Galina paused for a few moments before answering. She had prayed
long and hard for guidance while the knights were roused and assembled
in the temple. Unfortunately, the good God had not given her a blast of
sudden insight as he had Queen Dara over a year before, which had led to
the end of the first siege of Dargon. Galina had, however, come to a
determination of her own. It was more of an absolute lack of options
than any great stratagem. She hesitated to state it, but knew it was the
only course, save staying here in Balkura and watching the Northfielders
pass by.
"We have but one honourable choice: to attack the Northfield army,
and do what harm we can to them, in hopes that it may purchase for the
queen a better chance, or at least some time."
"Such a course would be nothing short of suicide!" one of her
knights said, to the accompaniment of a handful of his comrades.
Boris, whom Galina had consulted on this matter, stepped forward.
"We will all die one day. Would you rather it be years from now, in your
beds, or now, when we have a chance to save Baranur from the
depredations of the Beinisonian heathens?"
"What are the virtues that Cyruz the bard has taught us lo these
many months?" Galina asked. "Has he not taught us that the Stevene's
Light calls us to be courageous, faithful ... loyal? Has he not also
taught us that those who uphold the Stevene's Light will be rewarded in
the next life?"
"But what did the Stevene ever say about God choosing queens?"
"Mayhap the Stevene said nothing directly," Galina said, "but God
did choose Dara to rule this land and I do not presume to question His
will. I did not let the force of superior numbers turn my heart when I
*knew* what was right, and I won't do that now. We will ride for pride
and honour, knowing that right will prevail as long as there are good
and brave folk alive in this land. We will ride for our hearts and our
faith, knowing that the Stevene favours the just.
"Dara will reign in Baranur; righteousness will reign in Baranur
because we stood firm when others would fall cowering back. And should
we lose our lives in this fight, our blood will have purchased more than
life: a victory of loyalty and honour in a kingdom where fear and greed
shall never reign!
"We have perhaps lost our chance to share in that victory here on
Makdiar, but we have been given a chance to give this victory to
generations to come. Let us make such an end for ourselves that it shall
be sung by bards down through the ages! Let every stride we take as we
charge to embrace the enemy be a resounding thunderclap in heaven for
those who would uphold the good against all odds "
"Hear, hear!" Boris shouted, his voice echoing off the temple
walls.
Several of the knights nodded in approval. A few more audibly
assented. Finally, one of the youngest of the host, Sir Aleksandr
Kozulin, raised his fist and shouted, "Let it be so! I'd rather die two
menes from now knowing I did my duty than a thousand years later having
shirked it!
"By Cephas, let us give the traitors something they shall ever
remember Fennell by!"
"And give them that we shall!" Galina slammed her fist down on the
stone slab altar, forgetting its religious nature. "Let us adorn
ourselves as if for a grand tournament and ride out onto the fields of
battle one last time in the name of our God and our queen!"
Everyone cheered, then spilled out of the temple and into the
streets. Those who were not staying in the peasant woman's tavern had
commandeered villagers' homes, and each went to his dwelling to prepare
for the battle the next day. Galina and Boris roused their squires, and
their son Oleg, and ordered that their weapons and armour be polished
and cleaned as for a plaisance.
Long into the night they worked, even going so far as to sew
additions with what cloth they could find to their surcoats and horses'
caparisons such that they would resemble what one would wear to a
glorious tournament. When this was done, there was little point in
sleeping, not when all knew this was their last night alive.
Outside the tavern, Galina could hear Cyruz and the other Stevenic
priests who had accompanied them singing hymns and other songs of praise
and worship. While their followers did this, Galina and Boris bathed one
last time, that they might face their end at their best. Boris pleated
his wife's hair as for a banquet. They spent the remaining bells in a
tender embrace, remembering all the blessings that had been bestowed on
them in their lives.
Firil 30, 902
Galina Fennell waited astride her horse, several paces ahead of her
knights, on the field north of the village of Balkura. Out of the corner
of one eye she could see a farmhouse about half a league to the west.
Beyond the house lay dense forest blanketing the horizon. To the east,
the borders of the forest were even closer. She knew that if she turned
in the saddle she would be able to see Balkura itself several leagues
behind her, with the small temple and the wattle-and-daub houses huddled
around it.
Ahead, she could see the Northfield army approaching. Blue banners
flapped in the air. Some of them bore the black falcon that denoted the
presence of Northfield vassals but not the duke or duchess of
Northfield, in which case there would have been a white falcon somewhere
amid the banners. She could see the banner of Baron Bastonne, a blue
field divided in half by a red bar starting in the top-left corner. It
also bore the blazon of a baronial crown, as did Galina's, and stag's
horns, indicating the baron fancied himself a great hunter.
The army was hemmed-in by the forest that had not been cleared as
far back from the road at their position as it was at Galina's. As such,
it was deployed with a very small frontage of troops that Galina judged
would be unable to surround her knights when they charged.
As she expected, the baron's representative, a young noble who
looked as if he'd just eaten something distasteful, cantered away from
the army and towards Galina, who also urged her mount forward to meet
him. As they approached one another, she could see his eyes move over
the line of Fennell knights arranged in one row abreast of each other.
His eyes widened in shock and his voice bore a note of indignation when
the two met.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "We have arranged in
order of battle to face an army, yet there are but three dozen knights
here!"
"I see your liege-lord has not taught you manners, child," Galina
said mildly. The youth's face reddened and she didn't think it was out
of embarrassment. "Even in times of war it is customary to address
nobles by their proper rank."
The boy looked as if he were about to say something more, then
thought better of it. He glanced back at the Northfield army, which had
now stopped. Galina looked also and was glad to see the troops milling
about in confusion and a degree of disarray rather than prepared for
battle.
"Begging your ladyship's pardon," the young noble said grudgingly,
"what do you intend to do with but a handful of knights versus the
mighty host aligned against you?"
Galina looked from left to right, taking the measure of the army.
They stood about, as if fighting were the last thing they expected to do
today, and well they might. Their ranks were not much wider than her own
knights' frontage, and packed dozens of soldiers deep. The bulk of the
army was positioned behind these front lines. There were archers and
varying degree of men-at-arms, from peasants with farm implements to
well-equipped castle guards bearing shields with their lords' livery and
chain hauberks. Their cavalry were not in their customary places on the
flanks thanks to the forest; in fact, Galina could only assume the
Northfield cavalry was stuck further north, unable to manoeuvre to the
front quickly enough to face her.
"I do not know what strength we have, but I do know this," Galina
finally said after close to half a mene had passed while she surveyed
the troops arrayed against her. "You will not be allowed to leave this
place. These soldiers will not reinforce Duke Northfield at Dargon."
The youth snorted, but did not laugh outright. Instead he looked at
her with raised eyebrow, as if to say he thought her completely mad.
Galina pulled a piece of cloth that she had tucked beneath her mount's
saddle. It was a piece of her gown, the type of favour a non-fighting
lady might give her champion at a tournament. She held it out for the
Northfielder to take.
"You will take this to the Baron Bastonne as a token of my respect
for him, but he will not be allowed to leave."
The boy took it and Galina turned her horse and rode back to her
knights. Each was resplendent in his or her personal heraldic devices,
scrubbed and cleaned to a fine gleam in the morning sun. So too, did
their armour sparkle. Each had their crest proudly displayed on their
great helm. Indeed, each was adorned as if for a tournament, and they
had turned out their best, for this would be the last course they would
ever joust.
As she reached the assembled knights and squires, many of them
nodded to her or saluted with their lances. Cyruz of Vidin and a couple
of other Stevenic priests were also there, having prayed for them
through the night and given blessings while they had waited for the
Northfielders to arrive. Galina's squire trotted up on one of the
baroness' horses. So too, did Boris, his helmet not yet donned, a soft
smile upon his lips.
He took Galina's hand and kissed it, even though it was covered
with a chainmail mitten. "Better to end our lives now while we are still
full of a new convert's zeal, would you not agree, my love?"
Galina could feel tears sting her eyes. She reached out that same
mailed hand and stroked Boris' leathery cheek with it. Yes, in a way it
was good to end thus, before the fires of her love for the Stevene's
word might die out, or a hundred other horrible things might happen. She
only prayed that what she did today would not only save Queen Dara, but
keep her own children safe who were now in Fennell Keep. "Yes, my love.
Before the day is out, we shall be basking, together, in the Stevene's
Light."
One of her children, her eldest son Oleg, was not safe in Fennell
Keep, but rather riding up alongside her, bearing the baronial banner.
He was dressed as a squire, with no devices on his heraldry, and wearing
far less armour than the knights. He had only a chainmail hauberk and
leather leggings to protect him. He looked a lot like his father, with a
square jaw he had set with a look of determination.
"Mama, I am proud to be able to serve the queen thus."
Galina shook her head. "No, Oleg, neither you, nor any of the
squires will accompany us this day. You must take them back to Fennell
Keep after the --"
"No! I'd rather die now with you than live a thousand lifetimes
knowing I abandoned you."
"Oleg," Boris said in a gravely voice. "You have never disobeyed or
dishonoured us before. Do not start now. You must lead the barony for
us."
As with all sixteen year-olds Galina knew, Oleg had no real concept
of what death meant. Galina remembered her own attitude at that age,
thinking she had been invincible, that nothing could harm her. She knew
the same held true for Oleg. Despite his brave words, he did not really
think he would die.
"Fennell will need a good ruler, and none of your siblings is old
enough for the task," Galina said, "and you are the only one who has
learned of the Stevene's Light with us. You must share that with them."
"Father Cyruz can do that."
"No, you must." Galina fixed her son with a glare that would brook
no contradiction and took the banner from him. "Now take the other
squires to safety ... and keep my great helm in remembrance of this
day."
She motioned for the squire who had first ridden up to her to give
the helm to Oleg. She leaned over to hug her son. She let the tears that
had been welling flow down her face as she kissed him on the cheek. When
she pulled away, she could see that his face, too, was wet with tears.
He did as she commanded, however, and slowly turned and led the squires
away from the battlefield.
Galina sniffed and felt her husband's hand on her shoulder. She
turned to him and they held each other's gaze for a few moments. There
was nothing more for either to say. She kissed him on the lips and
whispered, "May our love burn as brightly in the hereafter."
He then donned his own great helm and took his position with the
other knights. Galina took a short moment to collect herself. She looked
across again at the enemy army. They must have seen the squires leaving
and appeared to have taken it as an indication that the Fennell knights
would soon follow suit. Many were leaning lazily on their spears; others
looked to be chatting with one another. Baron Bastonne had not ordered
any change of formation it seemed. When she looked to his banner, she
could see that several of his knights had left his side and were trying
to cajole the troops back into order, while the baron himself seemed to
be shouting. Galina nodded her head; the time was now. She turned to
face her knights and held her banner high.
"This *is* to be our end, but let it be such an end as to be spoken
and sung of for hundreds of years in great halls. Let us, God willing,
purchase with our steel and our blood the crown that Queen Dara so
richly deserves to wear. It is better to die for a cause than to
surrender it, and our cause is the defence of our true queen!"
The knights, barely three dozen of them, raised their lances and
cheered as Galina spoke the words. She held her war hammer aloft and
rode down the length of her assembled host, her voice growing louder and
steadier with each pronouncement she made.
"King Caeron was denied his rightful inheritance by King Stefan,
but the Stevene's Light allowed him an opportunity to take that which
was lawfully his. Let us not squander that opportunity he was given, by
our cowardice on this field! Though Caeron, our great king, was laid low
by the knives of traitors at Magnus, his queen and son live on to
continue the Tallirhan line!"
The knights cheered again, more loudly. Galina turned her horse and
galloped along the line of knights. "Follow me into the warm embrace of
the Stevene as he will greet us in death! Follow me for the queen! For
Baranur!"
"For the queen!" some knights shouted; others bellowed, "Long live
Queen Dara! Long live House Tallirhan!"
"For Fennell!" Galina was now screaming at the top of her lungs.
Her horse reached the middle of the line and reared up on its hind legs.
The destrier's powerful hooves then pounded upon the earth and Galina
surged forward, the faithful knights of Fennell close behind. Galina
focussed her gaze on the soldiers across from her, wearing the blue
livery of Northfield, her vassal Bastonne, and the other houses of that
duchy that seemed to blend into one another. Their eyes were wide with
shock and with fear. Bowmen fumbled frantically to bring their weapons
to bear, while other soldiers drew swords and other hand weapons. Some
broke and ran while the charging knights were still many strides away.
A deep, melodious voice, like snow and boulders rumbling down the
side of the Skywall Mountains, filled the air. Galina's heart began to
beat yet faster, and she felt lighter in her saddle as Cyruz the bard's
sacred chant of praise reached her ears:
Prostrate I adore thee, deity unseen,
Who thy glory hidest 'neath these shadows mean;
Lo, to thee surrendered my heart is bowed,
Tranced as it beholds thee, shrined within the mist.
Taste and touch and vision to discern thee fail
But hearing only we may here prevail.
I believe all that the Light hath told;
What the Stevene hath spoken that for truth I hold.
The other priests who had come to the field to bless the knights
joined in the song. It seemed as if all other sound from the battlefield
was no more, for Galina could only hear that beautiful polyphony as she
neared the enemy soldiers. Time seemed to move slowly as she closed, and
she was filled with a deep and abiding calm. She bore no lance but could
see out of the corner of her eye the lowered lances of her comrades. The
first rank of soldiers crumpled before her as lances pierced flesh and
bodies were trod underfoot.
Time returned to normal, and rather than the sonorous chant of the
Stevenic priests, Galina's ears were filled with the terrible sounds of
battle. Men and women screamed, shouted, and moaned. Metal clashed with
metal and hundreds of feet pounded the ground. Galina swung her war
hammer again and again. A small band of soldiers tried to pull her from
her horse. She shattered the skull of one with the hammer, then impaled
another through the eye on the backswing with the point that balanced
the hammer head. Her horse reared up and bore another to the ground
under sharpened, flailing hooves, and others fled. Almost as soon as the
first engagement had begun, it seemed to be over. Enemy soldiers were
fleeing in a disordered mob. Galina knew too well that the battle was
far from over.
She called to her knights to reform a line and prepare for another
charge. They obeyed, forming a neat line with Galina at the centre. She
could see that the Northfielders were scrambling to get into better
position to fight, now that she was in amidst them.
"Charge! For the Stevene!" she screamed and launched her mount
forward once again. This time, arrows started to whiz through the air
past her as she and her knights surged towards the enemy. She heard a
few cries of pain as one or two of her knights were wounded by the
shafts. They pressed on nevertheless, and were quickly in amongst
Northfield troops once again. Galina laid about her with her war hammer
with all the might she could muster. Men and women fell to her blows one
after another.
She turned and saw Aleksandr Kozulin being pulled from his horse.
Once he was on the ground, the soldiers pinned him and, pulling up his
gorget, slashed his throat. Bright red blood spurted out and the knight
soon stopped struggling. Galina charged the band of soldiers and her
horse's powerful body knocked several to the ground then trampled on
them.
Charge after charge she led her knights on, leaving bodies strewn
all across the roadway and grassland that separated it from the trees.
More and more of the brave souls she led fell to arrows and spears as
the morning progressed. Galina had no concept of how much time passed,
nor did she have time to consider, as Baron Bastonne finally started
moving his own knights into position. Without trying to form into a
line, or even take stock of how many men and women still fought on her
side, she charged towards the enemy knights before they were properly
arranged, screaming a battle cry as she went. At least a few hooves
pounded after her, and once again the melodious polyphony of Cyruz and
the priests' chanting reached her ears. The sound filled her with
renewed vigour, and she lifted her tired arm to smite one of the enemy
knights with her hammer. The man's helmet caved in and he toppled from
his horse. His fellows, armed with lances in preparation for a charge,
were ill prepared to meet this sudden attack. Galina parried a clumsy
attempt to use a lance as a club, then slammed the sharp point of her
weapon into her opponent's throat.
Confusion swirled around her, the world descending into a cacophony
of noise, the stench of blood and faeces, and the constant shift of
shapes as knights rode about her and slashes and parries were traded. At
one point, she somehow managed to break free of the enemy knights and
onto a small rise in the land. She could see bodies strewn in every
direction. She recognised the heraldry of one or two of her knights here
and there, scattered and surrounded. They hewed and slashed with their
weapons, dropping many of their enemies, but in turn, they were hauled
down from their horses or cut down by enemy knights.
She could see one of the priests, dressed as for a Stevenic
celebration in a church, lying dead a short distance away amidst the
bodies of enemy soldiers. She was deathly tired, such that she could
barely hold her weapon or her banner, but she resolutely refused to drop
either. Mustering up the last of her energy, she whispered to herself,
"May our love burn as brightly in the hereafter," then spurred her horse
towards the nearest group of enemy knights.
Galina lay on her back. She could see the sky and noticed that the
sun was not yet at the midpoint; no, it had crossed the midpoint and was
already on its descent into night. She struggled to move, but found that
she could not. From the waist up she felt as though she'd been stabbed a
hundred times, though from there down she felt nothing. She wanted to
sleep; her eyes started to flutter shut. But what of the battle? She
opened them again. She was certain all of her knights were dead; she
remembered that much of the battle. But what harm had they inflicted?
A dark shape blocked out the sun. She looked towards it, and as it
drew nearer recognised the heraldry of Baron Bastonne adorning a dirty
surcoat. The man knelt down next to her.
"The day is yours, milady," he said.
Galina realised this was the baron himself. He was younger than she
had expected. "W-what do you mean?" She could barely speak. Her mouth
tasted of blood and her throat felt as though a strong hand were choking
her.
"My army is broken. I have never seen such bravery before." He
shook his head. "I cannot continue. Not only have I hardly anything left
to fight with, but ... your courage, your loyalty ... the empress does
not command such as these."
"Then why do you serve her?"
"Hmmm. I don't rightly know ... In truth, I do not know that I can
serve her any longer after what I have seen this day."
For a moment, Galina felt happiness that eased the pain wracking
her body, but then she felt coldness begin to creep into her. She
started sobbing without intending to. "M-my husband," she stammered
through tears. "Where is he? Please, let me see him one last time?"
"Your valour has earned you that and more. I only wish my physician
could do something for you," Bastonne replied. He signalled, and a short
while later the limp body of Boris was dragged into Galina's fading
sight. The tall, thin man pulling him placed him so that his head rested
upon Galina's chest.
"Rest easy, my lady." She recognised the voice of Cyruz of Vidin.
"You have done your duty; now you may rest in the Light of the Stevene."
Galina could say nothing but only cried more. She could not move
her arms to clutch Boris to her; in fact, she could no longer feel her
arms either. Cyruz put a hand to his throat and stretched another over
her. She was vaguely aware of him saying something, but could not make
out the words. It only sounded like rolling thunder. Then when she could
feel nothing, and could not even move her eyes but only stare up at the
clear blue sky, Cyruz moved his fingers over her eyelids and there was
darkness.
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