DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 14 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 2 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 3/4/2001 Volume 14, Number 2 Circulation: 772 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb The Day Ordelius Dobber Died JD Kenyon Firil, 1016 A Woman's Determination P. Atchley Naia 1017 What Price the King? Mark A. Murray Sy 1017 Talisman Seven 4 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 11-12, 1013 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondence to or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. Back issues are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 14-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright March, 2001 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Jon Evans . All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb When I tell people about my involvement with DargonZine, I almost invariably lead with the statement that it's the longest-running electronic magazine on the Internet. With the number of people using the Internet now measured in the billions, that's an extremely powerful claim to make. And at least once or twice a year I also highlight our longevity in DargonZine's Editorials. While it's great to share our pride in having been around so long, I think that by overemphasizing our history we've overlooked something far more important and worthy of note: that we're achieving our goal of helping aspiring writers improve, and are highly valued by the people who write for us. Despite how often I use it as a differentiator, longevity is worthless if you're not succeeding and doing something meaningful. So I'd like to take a moment and reflect on what we're trying to do, and the evidence (other than longevity, of course) that I see of our success. At our first big writers' Summit we drafted DargonZine's operative mission statement: to provide a way for aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet to meet and become better writers through mutual contact and collaboration as well as contact with a live readership via the Internet. Over the years we've brought hundreds of writers together from all over the world, and promoted collaboration and peer review. We're continually learning from one another what good writing is and how to achieve it, and our readers have provided us with valuable feedback, as well. We're not here to make money, or to have lots of readers, or even to see our names in print; DargonZine exists to help writers. So perhaps the best way to gauge our success is from our writers' attitudes toward the project. While DargonZine is in many ways like a traditional face-to-face writers' workshop, it also requires a much greater commitment of time and energy. While it's easy to critique a story face-to-face, it can take a lot of time to type all that information into an email. Receiving criticism always takes patience and humility, and it can often take as much as five major revisions over twelve months to get a story printed in DargonZine. Simply participating in the Dargon Project as a writer takes a whole lot of time and energy. Still, DargonZine's writers take their craft very seriously, and each of them has decided that publication in these pages is worth that effort. But an even better demonstration of how highly our writers value DargonZine is in the fact that just about all of them go beyond the effort of simply writing for the zine and undertake additional non-writing projects to help make DargonZine better. This includes large tasks such as creating Dargon's maps, assembling a Dargon history and timeline, putting together materials to help new readers and writers get up to speed, fleshing out our database, and discussing the group's direction for coming years. Those aren't things that we require of our writers, yet it's something they willingly do because they have a strong belief in what the Dargon Project can do for them and for other writers. While it's nice that DargonZine has been around so long, the things that we should be most proud about are that we have succeeded at helping lots of writers improve. And those writers, though the time, effort, and energy they devote to DargonZine, have demonstrated that they really believe in this project and the good that we do. And that's something to be truly proud of. ======================================================================== The Day Ordelius Dobber Died by JD Kenyon Firil, 1016 Ordelius Dobber knew that today was the day he was going to die -- and there was nothing he could about it. The gods above issued the portents of life, and in his case, death. In the dark bells that had passed the night before, he had prayed silently to Ol to change his inevitable fate. His prayers had failed, for he had woken with an icy cold grip of dread still clawing into him, its unseen talons piercing his heart as his life force slowly seeped away. All that he had left was today. He moaned weakly and rolled over in bed, his clammy face pressed into the pillow, stifling the anguish he felt within. "Delius!" Mona screeched just outside the window. "Get your breech end out of bed right now and come and feed these pigs." Ordelius pulled the pillow over his head with trembling hands, clutched the shivaree's claw on the thong around his neck and rocked gently. It was hard to accept that he would die on an ordinary day like this, with his wife whining about the pigs being in need of their swill. He groaned again and drew his knees up under the covers, hugging his scrawny legs to his chest. "I said *get up*!" The words boomed in his ears as Mona suddenly barged into the room, plucked off the pillow and tossed the bedding to the floor. Ordelius knew that Mona was not a woman to be trifled with. Over the years she had become rather broad in the beam, and there was solid strength in her akin more to an ox than a cow. Ordelius shrugged himself upright and swung his feet onto the cold floor, ducking to avoid the blow aimed in his direction. "Turdation!" she cussed as she stormed out the door, grabbing a bucket and broom on her way. Ordelius sighed deeply and stood up. He tugged his nightshirt over his bony shoulders and ran cold hands over his skinny body, checking carefully for any signs of malady or disease. Mona had left her wash pitcher on the stand. He splashed some cold water on his face and half-heartedly raked the stringy flap of gray hair over his bald pate before pulling on his breeches and threadbare shirt. He slipped his bare feet into his mud-crusted shoes and turned towards the door. Pausing on the threshold, he tapped the ground twice with the tip of his shoe -- once for health, once for wealth -- the little ritual his mother had taught him in childhood. It seemed rather trifling this morning, but now he was ready to face the day. His last day. It had all started a sennight before, on a dark street near the edge of Dargon, and on a night when Ordelius had perhaps had a bit more than usual to drink. He had stumbled from the Shattered Spear -- or rather, Jahlena had tossed him out the door because he had become rowdy and impoverished at about the same time -- and had staggered into the road just as the fourth night bell clanged in the distance. The world had seemed a little unsteady around him and he had paused to regain his balance. The air had been black and cold; each breath had burned his lungs and made his head spin. The clouds had lifted, letting a bright Nochturon shine down on him, and Ordelius had raised his voice in a greeting, hailing the moon and thanking it for casting a light unto his path. Then he had shuddered, overcome with the feeling that something or someone lurking unseen in the shadows was watching him. He had looked about, anxious, then had decided to hurry home, even if it was to face Mona's wrath. That would have been all good and well, if it had not been for the other thing that had happened on his way home. "Delius Dobber!" Ordelius dropped his head and shuffled the bucket of swill across to the pig trough as Mona's heavy stride approached. "Skies above, Delius!" she exclaimed. "What in Stevene's name has gotten into you?" "Sorry, dear." He stared at her, recalling how nice it was to snuggle up behind her and place his arm around her, cupping her full breast in his small hand as he fell asleep at night. She had a familiar scent about her, almost sweet, but with an undertone of warm spice. He would miss that. "You've been behaving very strangely." Her tone mellowed and she reached out to wipe some splattered swill off his face. Her touch reminded him of the days when he was courting her. It felt like a lifetime ago. "You said you would be getting these things to Sian." She was clutching a cloth-covered basket. He did not want to be away from home on today of all days, but this errand was important to Mona. Once an orphan herself, Sian had used money left to her by her adoptive parents to give a home to street children. Ordelius and Mona had been childless throughout their marriage, and he knew that she had found some comfort in providing what they could from their land for Sian and her little ones. Mona took the bucket from him and gave him the basket. Ordelius heaved a long sigh, then pecked her down-soft cheek and set off for Dargon. In truth, as he recalled, it had been an act of nature that dark night that had signaled his imminent demise. After he had left the tavern, he had felt more and more discomfort with each step, the result of having drunk too many ales. A sudden rustling in the shadows had startled him and he had increased his pace, silently telling himself that it was merely the rats foraging in the gutters. He had felt a growing sense of pressure and had hurried on until the urge to relieve himself could no longer be ignored. With one hand fumbling with his breeches, he had staggered over to the edge of the roadside buildings. There was a tight, narrow gap between two of the walls, and he had slipped in through it, gripped his bursting cod and unleashing a stream of piss into the black night. In that instant, it was as if Makdiar itself had sundered open. There had been a loud rattle and a feral grunt as the ground beneath him erupted, buckling his knees and tossing him to the dirt. A giant figure had risen up above him, blocking the moonlight with an outstretched arm that jabbed violently into the blackness as he cowered below. For just one moment, Ordelius had raised his head and had found himself staring straight into the face of Death. "Hello, Ordelius," a voice called from behind, bringing Ordelius to the present. He spun around to face the caller and saw Sian crossing the road, little Kerith tagging behind. "Greetings, Sian." He extended the basket to her. "I was just bringing this to you." "Thank you kindly." Sian gripped the basket and lifted the cover, spying the fresh bread Mona had baked and the burly-beans from their small garden. "You should be blessed, you are such good people." Ordelius swallowed hard and tousled Kerith's curls, wishing that Sian's words were true, for he was not blessed, but doomed. The sun was not yet fully high, but his hands were all clammy and he could feel his shirt clinging to his body. "You should stop by and see Mona," he said suddenly. "Bring the children. She'd like that." Sian gave him a quizzical look. "Of course." She put a hand on his shoulder and looked down at Kerith. "Some of us would like to see the new piglets, wouldn't we?" Kerith smiled shyly. "I'd best be off." Ordelius looked down at Kerith's pretty face and realized she had a whole life ahead of her. He only had today. "All right, Ordelius. Tell Mona we'll see her soon." Sian clutched Kerith's hand, swung the basket onto her hip and headed back across the road towards Market Street. Ordelius watched until they turned a corner. He felt hot and sticky, and his throat was very dry. The memories flooded back. While he had trembled near the ground in the dark alley, the putrid stench of the gaunt being before Ordelius had overwhelmed him. The creature's eyes were sunken in its head, the skin stretched taut across the emaciated face. It had raised a bony hand in his direction and spewed evil-sounding grunts. The hand clawed in on itself and he watched in horror as it twisted towards the creature's own neck, mimicking a stranglehold. Ordelius had pulled himself into a tight ball, afraid to face the demon. His ears had filled with a frenzied rattling noise that echoed in the alley. He had felt a cold, damp presence over his naked scalp and had not waited another moment, but had scampered to the gap in the wall and burst onto the road, his breeches flailing about his churning legs as he raced homeward through the black night. Mona had looked up in fright as he had crashed through the door, but after listening a short while to the blubbering man in front of her, she had accused Ordelius of being a no-good drunk and clobbered him solidly. He had spent that night curled in front of the fire, listening to Mona's gentle snores in the room next door, wishing that it had all been a horrible nightmare from which he would awake in the morning. Indeed, when morning came Ordelius had put the incident behind him and had almost forgotten about it until last night, when he had returned to the Shattered Spear. The loud clatter from a wagon snapped Ordelius from his reverie. He looked up, his chest tightening. He dragged his eyes away from the shimmering blue heavens, fearful that his eyes would light upon the sign that marked his pending doom. The sun was nearing its zenith, which meant that the midday bells would soon ring out. For Ordelius, every bell that tolled in Dargon this day rang with the echo of his funeral dirge. After saying farewell to Sian, he had not returned home to Mona, but had been wandering through Dargon's streets, on this, his last day alive. He had been down to the docks to smell the brine of the ocean for the last time. He had listened to the water lapping gently against the dockside and watched screegulls swooping down into the waters after hidden prey. He had followed a trail of voices and stopped to watch the flurry of activity in the market place. It was so alive, with the sounds of people talking and haggling, and animals squawking and squealing. He would have gone to Temple Street, but he doubted that the Euilamon and priests would have any answers. As he had paced through the dusty streets of Dargon, he had come to a realization: he had met with Death in the alley that black night and, from that moment, he should have known that his days on Makdiar would end soon. All it needed was a sign, and it had come, last night. It seemed fitting that he was now standing in front of the Shattered Spear, for it was here that it had all begun. There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach as he ran his tongue across his parched lips. He pushed the tavern door open and went inside, and smiled forlornly at Jamis, the tavern owner, who was already decanting a tankard of ale for him. Ordelius sank into his regular seat close to the grimy window. A buxom serving woman brought the tankard, not caring that she sloshed the dark liquid onto his lap as she set it down before him. He gulped it down. "I want something to eat," he said. She waited mutely on him for a few moments, but when he did not elaborate, she walked off, leaving him to stare blankly into the distance. It had been right here that he had heard the news, on the night before. Ordelius recalled that he had felt a strangeness in the air as he had slipped out the cottage door and hurried to the Shattered Spear. The tavern was crowded and he had scrunched himself into a corner close to a huddle of burly sailors while quaffing his ale. For the most part, his attention had been on the young wench serving them; each time she had leaned over the table to pass down another tankard he had caught a glimpse of her brown nipples peeking from the lace bodice. The little thrill that it had given him made him tingle until he had heard one of the sailors say, "It is a strange light -- I swear it -- up in the sky, glowing like fire." There were rumblings and murmurs and guffaws around him, but Ordelius had felt his chest grow tight. The sailor was getting annoyed at his skeptical audience. "All right!" he had boomed, "If you don't believe me, step outside and look for yourselves." Ordelius had felt a hard lump swelling in his throat as he waited anxiously for the sailors and other tavern patrons to get up and accompany the sailor to the door. He had spilled out onto the road with the rest of them and looked upward. The dark shapes of clouds scudded across the starlit night, blacking out Nochturon's yellow glow. "Stupid buffoon," a man had yelled and slugged the sailor who had dragged them out. "No ... look ..." An unknown voice had caused them to fall silent and stare at the strange light that was now clearly visible. Ordelius had stared at the light. If he had ever doubted that he had met Death, he could be certain now. The sign he had secretly feared was burning in the night sky, and only he knew what it truly meant. "A bowl of soup." There was a thud as she plopped it in front of him and Ordelius looked at her. "Thank you," he said politely. She looked at him and gave him an encouraging smile, then walked off. Ordelius lifted the spoon to his mouth and slurped in the hot broth. It had no discernible taste -- no doubt made from the leftovers of last night's tavern fare. It was hot, but not hot enough to take away the chill in his bones. She was suddenly back with another full tankard. "Would you like some stew instead?" She had deep blue eyes, and on any other day Ordelius would have been happy to drown in their depths. "The soup is fine." He clinked the spoon on the full bowl. "I am not that hungry." "It's been awful quiet in here today," she said, "on account of that strange light. People just want to be home." He was not in the mood to talk about the strange light. "Some say it's a bad omen," she continued, trying to engage him in eye contact, "but others say it is the birth of a new god." She waited expectantly for him to say something, but even after another good swig, Ordelius's throat was too tight with fear to speak. She walked back to the counter, swishing a cloth over her shoulder. Ordelius shifted uneasily on the bench. He was the only one who knew the truth: that Death had no words, only signs and deeds. He had fouled Death and such an evil act alone could have an awful result. From the moment he had seen the light in the sky last night he had known that it spelled his doom. He downed the last dregs of the strong bitter liquid, burped, and took a mouthful of soup. He thought about his life. There had been too many days spent here in the tavern, drinking, and not enough time spent at home with Mona instead. Ordelius sat mutely, his body trembling violently. He wondered briefly if he should go to the healer who lived on Atelier Street. Raneela, he thought her name was. But he doubted that she would see how the hand of Death had reached inside him and was tearing him apart. His chest burned, his arms tingled and his jaw felt rigid with the fear that crept through his body. The crackle and sputter from logs in the tavern's great hearth brought Ordelius back to the present. He realized that it was getting dark. Soon Death would be here to claim him. Ordelius shivered. He had hardly touched the soup, and now it was cold and lumpy. He set the spoon down and took another half-hearted swig of ale, letting it dribble down his chin. An icy draft swept through the tavern as the door swished open and closed behind a new patron. Ordelius looked up, but the stout man was a stranger to him. He turned away and took another deep slug of warm ale. The serving woman crossed the tavern and stopped just short of his table, reaching up to light a torch on a nearby wall. The last rays of daylight had faded outside. His head jerked at a new sound that had intruded into his thoughts. He had heard that noise before. A tap. A rattle. A tap, then a rattle. His eyes grew wide as he peered through the tavern window into the encroaching night. He raised his hand to brush away some of the mire on the murky glass pane. Staring back at him he saw the cold waxen features of the creature from the dark alley. Suddenly he was cold, so very, very cold. Raneela looked weary as she approached the scrawny little man who was slumped over the table, his hair trailing in the soup bowl in front of him. There was a small cluster of onlookers next to the serving wench, who was blubbering about how he had looked all funny when he came in and that he had been drinking and hardly eating and drinking more, and then he had just keeled over. "I bet it was the food that killed him," Raneela joked, but the humor was lost on the stout lass who bolted away, tears spilling down her face. She looked away from Jamis, the tavern owner, and the faces of a dozen or so curious drinkers as she slipped her fingers under the floppy head and held them there for a mene. "Waste of good time," she shrugged with annoyance and turned away. "There is no healing to be done here." Someone tipped Ordelius Dobber onto the bench, straightened him as best they could and covered him with a blanket as Jamis walked with Raneela to the door. "Be off with you!" Jamis shouted to a dark form that was skulking in the shadows outside the door. They watched as the giant robed figure scurried into the night, grunting under its breath, a bony hand stabbing at the air and pointing skywards. "Who in turdation is that?" Raneela asked, clenching her nose to expunge the rotten stench the man had left in his wake. "The Death Rattler." Jamis spat into the dark. "The man can smell death. I swear he scavenges for dead bodies at night. Probably kills a few live ones too." Raneela looked up at the night sky as the ball of light cast a trail of fine sparks behind it. She had been kept busy ever since it had appeared, with wild-eyed men and women at her door begging for herbs to ward off this unlikely portent of evil. She wondered how anything that beautiful could be feared by anyone. "Why didn't you throw him out?" she asked Jamis, jabbing her thumb in the direction of the prostrate form on the bench. "Felt sorry for the puny little runt. His wife's a real tyrant." Jamis sighed and bid the healer farewell. The light that assailed his closed eyes was painfully bright, and Ordelius Dobber wondered if indeed there was life after death. Then he heard a sound he dreaded. It hammered right into his aching head, pounding through the haziness. "Delius Dobber! You get your breech end out here right now!" Ordelius forced his eyes open and surveyed the side edge of the table. He dropped his feet to the floor and let the blanket slide down in a crumpled heap, propping himself on the table for support. Jamis was leaning over the counter with an amused look in his eye, but he straightened up and took a step backwards when the formidable Mona Dobber burst through the tavern doors, her shrill voice berating him too. The wenches wiping down the tables suppressed giggles as Mona seized Delius in a firm grip and marched him out the tavern. Jamis crossed the room and leaned against the doorway. He laughed heartily as Mona Dobber strode up the road, dragging Ordelius by the collar, stirring up the dust in their wake. "I bet right now poor Delius wishes he was dead." ======================================================================== A Woman's Determination by P. Atchley Naia 1017 "You've come, have you?" Jahlena greeted Rasine. "We've been very busy tonight. I would have been upset with you if you hadn't showed up." Rasine stared up at the bigger woman who was the bouncer at the Inn of the Shattered Spear. The thought of the way Jahlena had threatened her daughter Oriel earlier that day filled her with dread. Her entire mind burned with one question: how to keep Oriel safe? The fact of the matter was that Oriel would never be safe in all of Dargon after Jahlena had decided she wanted Oriel to entertain at the Spear, much like Rasine herself did. Therefore Oriel's safety could be assured only if the child was not in Dargon. Rasine was unable to think past the impossibility of getting her daughter out of Dargon. "Rasine, pay attention!" She jerked her wandering wits back to the other woman. She knew Jahlena would never hit her in so public a place and so she took a deep breath to calm herself before taking a quick look around. The common room was more crowded than usual, full of smoke and men, some looking dangerous and the rest merely dirty. There appeared to be a card game going on in the far corner, generating loud shouts of laughter. "See that man?" Jahlena pointed to a thin, dark-haired fellow sitting at the bar talking to Jamis, the owner of the Shattered Spear. "Go. The room with the chains. The key is in the soup bowl." There was another shout of laughter from the card table. Rasine stared at the customers as she made her way behind the bar, stopping as she always did to look at the shadows on the ground and the wall from the crockery on the counter. Someone had set three mugs close together, and it created a shadow effect rather like cutwork embroidery; in fact, just like the blouse Jahlena had been wearing that very day. Momentary anger gripped her as she thought of how much money Jahlena had probably paid for it. Still thinking about the money the bouncer spent on her own adornment, Rasine bent and pulled out a key from the soup bowl. She fumed at the thought of the manner in which she, Rasine, earned the money the other woman used to buy herself fancy blouses and jewelry. She came around the counter, intending to take her customer upstairs when she looked down at the key in her hand. It was the key to Jahlena's strong box. Annoyance surged through her as she walked back to the soup bowl. That key had been there the previous night as well. What was it still doing in there anyway? It occurred to Rasine as she dropped the key back in the bowl that it would serve Jahlena right if she took the key. She rummaged for the key to the room with the chains, savoring for just a moment the thought of taking Jahlena's strong box key before shrugging it away. Rasine came around the bar and then stopped, staring at the dark-haired man who, despite being thin, had a big belly. He had come in the previous night as well, and she remembered overhearing his conversation with another customer. He had been talking with a fat man about Heahun. What had he said? Something about a ghost killing the cooks at the Heahun Inn, and the merchant's wagon that stopped there on its way into Dargon, *and* on its way out of Dargon. As she realized that a way out of Dargon did exist, faith blossomed in her mind -- a faith that she could save her daughter. The next step though, was how to find the merchant. She would find the merchant; she would make him take them out of Dargon; she would save Oriel. It was a chant. A litany. A vow. Later that evening when Rasine came back to drop the key back in the soup bowl, she hesitated. The strong box key was still there, and both Jamis and Jahlena were busy serving customers. What would happen if she were to take some money from Jahlena's strong box? Jahlena could hurt her badly, she supposed. A small voice inside her mind pointed out that Jahlena would never know it was she, Rasine, who had taken the money. Besides, she wouldn't take much at all: just a Round, or perhaps two. Rasine considered that dispassionately for a moment. A part of her mind mocked: what about right and wrong? Right and wrong were things one taught to children. She herself had taught Oriel that a wrong was always punished. But real life wasn't like that. People didn't get punished for doing bad things; quite the contrary, Rasine thought bitterly. Jahlena, who hurt people, was rich and always had new clothes. She extended her hand to the strong box and retracted it. It was wrong! The thought thudded through her mind with the force of a hammer. But Jahlena was bad. Rasine looked up, peering through the dim smoke. Jahlena still sported the dark hair, but she was wearing a cutwork blouse tonight. Since the blouse was fairly plain, she had added jewelry, and lots of it. More than one chain hung from her neck, each one slightly longer than the previous. The last one hung to almost her waist. They glittered in the firelight, inviting attention. Rasine's mind rebelled at the beauty of the chains. Each one had been paid for with blood, her own and others'. Did that make it right to steal from Jahlena? Rasine shook her head, and fidgeted. The bouncer had systematically taken money from her for so many years. Didn't that make it Rasine's money? She worried at her lower lip, unable to reach into the strong box, yet unable to walk away. If it was Rasine's money, then taking it wasn't wrong. She reached out to the strong box, inserted and turned the key and then flipped open the top. Coins lay heaped inside the box, glinting dully in the dim light. Rasine stared down, her heart thumping so loudly that she wondered why the others in the room could not hear it. She had paid her debt many times over during the past few years. Surely it couldn't be wrong to take the money? She picked up two coins and stared at them. "Rasine, you're still here!" She gasped and looked up, shutting the strong box quickly. It was only Jamis, the owner of the Spear. She slid the key and the two coins into her purse. "Could you walk Tira to the back room upstairs, the one over the stable? I don't want any of these scum here bothering her," Jamis nodded to the crowded room behind him. "The key's right there, in the soup bowl." Rasine nodded limply, feeling weak with fear and relief. Jamis turned to his daughter. "You, be sure to lock your door, you hear me?" Rasine went upstairs slowly, followed by Tira. A mene later, she returned downstairs and walked slowly behind the counter. The strong box sat there, the dark, polished veneer of the lid gleaming dully. She stroked the lid and swallowed. She closed her eyes for a moment but it didn't seem to matter like before. Quickly she pulled the key out of her purse, opened the strong box and grabbed some more coins. And so the deed was done. She was richer by several Rounds. She left quietly after locking the strong box and dropping the key into the soup bowl. Events progressed quite nicely after she left the Spear that night. Searching for the merchant who planned to stop at Heahun on his way back to Magnus was easy. She found him at the second inn she had tried and he agreed to let them join his wagon from Dargon to Heahun, provided she paid him a Round. It was a steep price; indeed, it was highway robbery. The little voice at the back of her mind rose annoyingly to remind her that it was *she* who was the thief, not the merchant. But she had merely taken a small portion of what belonged to her, she reasoned. Who was going to know that she had appropriated some money from Jahlena? Anyway, it wasn't as if Jahlena was the nicest woman in Baranur. Rasine climbed the steps to her rooms with a sense of satisfaction. She unlocked the door and entered her rooms, ignoring the aggravating voice in her head. Even if what it said was true, she had no time to argue right now. Still, convincing herself that she had done no wrong was proving futile. She admonished herself to stop thinking about it. She had more pressing things at hand. She had to get ready, because the merchant was leaving the next morning. Rasine woke Oriel and dressed the child in the warmest clothes she had. "Why are we getting dressed, Mama?" Oriel asked sleepily. Rasine smiled with pride at her daughter, full of questions even when she was half asleep. "We're going away, dear. Hush, now. Here, put on these shoes; I'll be right back." Rasine went to her room to change. She pulled out the small pouch of money she had secreted in her clothing earlier that evening. It occurred to her that it was quite fitting for Jahlena to pay for their safe passage to Heahun. The thought that she had hit Jahlena where it would hurt the most, her strong box, would be enough to make Rasine smile all the way from Dargon to Heahun. It was something to balance the guilt she still felt at stealing money, even if it was from Jahlena. She went back out and saw that Oriel had slipped on her shoes and was sitting on the one chair that they had, asleep. "Oriel, wake up." "M-Mama, why do you want me to wake up?" Oriel murmured. "Come on, little one," Rasine half picked Oriel up and walked her to the door. The little girl walked obediently, with her eyes still closed. After they were outside though, the chill air woke her up. "Where are we going, Mama?" Oriel asked as they started walking west along the oceanfront toward the docks. "Oriel, I want you to listen to me. This is very important. Do you understand?" Seeing Oriel nod, she continued, "We are going to go on a long journey. I'm taking you to wait for me in a special place." "What special place, Mama? And why?" Oriel yawned. "Hush. We'll be there soon." They continued down the docks until they reached the river and turned toward the causeway. The warehouses along the riverfront had been destroyed during the war and some of them had been restored. The last three were the smaller ones and they were in greater disrepair. Beyond that lay the marshland and then the causeway. The first warehouse was being rebuilt while the remaining two were yet to be. When they reached the last one before the swamp, Rasine said, "Here we are. Now, I'm going to go back to take care of something. Here, keep this." She handed the purse to her daughter. "What's this, Mama?" "Just hold it for me until I return, little one. I want you to stay here, and hide. Don't come out at all, do you understand?" Oriel nodded vigorously. "But where are we going, Mama? And why are we going?" "Do you remember Jahlena, the big, tall woman you met in the marketplace the other day? Well, we're running away from her. She's a bad woman." Rasine paused, frowning. "But, we'll be safe when we get to Heahun. Oriel, you must hide here until I come back. Don't come out, no matter what; do you understand?" "Yes, Mama." Rasine hurried back to the lodgings she rented near the oceanfront, northeast of Dargon and outside the city. When she arrived at her destination, she knocked at the door to the lower part of the house and waited. When there was no answer, she went up the stairs and paused outside the door to her rooms, staring up at the sky. The stars seemed unusually brilliant. Were they proffering their blessing on her? Was it a blessing for the journey or a blessing for the task at hand, or neither? Enough, she thought. There was work to be done. She went in and pulled all their bedding to the center of the living area. The heather and hay she had gathered for Oriel's bed landed on top of the pile. When at last she was satisfied that everything that would burn was on the pile, she went to the small kitchen area and lifted a tiny container of oil. She had been saving it to roast the eels for Oriel's birthday. Oriel loved the way she prepared eels. She sighed. The oil dripped gently, slowly through the bedsheets and crept through the little gaps in the heather. Rasine turned her attention to the mud oven where she had banked the coals before leaving earlier that night. The coals still glowed, albeit dimly. She scooped up the live coals with a ladle and flung them upon the pile in the center of the room. Nothing happened. She bit her lower lip in vexation, wishing the coals would burn. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. She drew close to the pile and tried to blow on the coals, but still, nothing happened. Rasine glanced from the pile to the mud oven, debating what to do. The pile had to burn in order for Jahlena to believe that she had perished in the fire. She picked up a coal, intending to carry it over to the oven. "Ow!!" Rasine cursed aloud. She was far too old a hand in the kitchen to be doing something so stupid. She picked up the coals again, this time with a scoop, and dropped them into the bottom of the mud oven. She blew on them gently, turning them over until a small flame crept up. And this time, when she flung the coals upon the pile, it blazed upwards obediently. She clapped her hands to her ears -- the noise was incredible! After the chill of the outside the heat initially felt pleasant, but already she was beginning to perspire inside her tunic and she knew that it would only get worse. It was time to go. She exited hurriedly, making sure to shut the door behind her, and clattered down the staircase. The cottages on either side of the house were empty, so hopefully the fire guard would be able to quench the fire before it got out of hand. She would make sure they knew of the fire before she went back to the warehouse to get Oriel. This way, no one would know where she had gone, or indeed, if she were gone at all. A nice plan, thought Rasine, congratulating herself. She stepped off the last stair and looked upwards to the top floor of the small cottage. She couldn't see the fire, but she could certainly hear it. Surely those awake inside the town's perimeter could hear it? But it was close to the seventh bell of the night, so perhaps people were asleep. Suddenly there was an incredibly loud sound. What was it? Thunder! She pulled her hand off the banister as if it scorched her: the banister was reverberating. Her heart began to pound. "Oh Stevene!" She swore aloud. What was going on? Time to get out of here, at once. She turned to go and stopped, mid-stride. A child's wail. From inside the lower level of the house. No, no, no, she screamed silently. The house was supposed to be empty. Who was the child? The cold air enveloped her. She still perspired. Unwillingly, she turned. The wail came again. A child, Stevene forgive her! She rushed to the downstairs door, but it was locked. She tried to juggle the handle, but it was so hot that the skin on her hands was scorched. The hurt did not penetrate her distraught mind. The wails from the inside continued, the high-pitched sound now distinctly panicked. Rasine became even more frantic, every instinct responding to the terror in the child's cries. The front door remained well and truly locked against all her tries. Back door! She ran. This door had a trick catch. She pushed. It didn't work. She pulled. That didn't work either. What now? Slowly, try it slowly, she thought. She swallowed her frantic haste, and closed her mind's ears to the child's cries that seemed to be getting softer and slower. The trick was that the door had a latch on top and one at the bottom, and both had to be opened at the same time. She took a deep breath and coughed. Umph! The air smelled very bad. She told herself sternly to concentrate on the matter at hand. She pulled at the top latch, and pulled at the bottom one. If only she were taller! Just a little more, a little more. There. Done. She pushed against the door, the cries inside fading in and out. No, she would not be too late. Uncaring, not looking one way or the other, she ran inside. There was a gaping hole where the ceiling should have been. She realized that that had been what had caused the tremendous noise and reverberation. "Who's there?" she shouted. "Child, where are you?" "Here, in here," the answer came back faintly. In the front bedchamber, then. No wonder she had heard him. Thank Stevene he had been in the front room. She skirted the red haze in the center area and entered. It was the landlord's grandson. The little boy cried with relief as she went to him. The small bed was surrounded by fire on three sides; on the fourth side was the outer wall. Young as he was, he had been paralyzed with fear. She extended her hands, and the boy leapt into her arms and almost choked her with his grip. She loosened his hands at her neck and coughed again. Quickly, she grabbed a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around the child's head so that he, at least, would be less affected by the smoke. She slipped back into the central area of the house, but the way to the back door was now in flames that danced all the way up to the roof of the house. Fear clutched at her mind, threatening an avalanche. She *had* to get the boy to safety. She couldn't let the dread envelop her mind. Rasine turned back and forth, her tired brain bereft of ideas on how to get out of the house that had turned into an oven before they baked. Literally. She giggled. As a cook, she had baked lots of different things in her life, but never people. Somehow that seemed very funny. Rasine, the cook, baker of breads, exotic desserts and people. She giggled again. Dimly she realized that this wasn't funny, but the giggles just would not stop. She gagged in the smoke and then giggled again. The child coughed again and again, his tiny body shaking in her arms. The child! Cold clarity entered her mind. She focused again, and jumped over what seemed like a small flame. It was not small. The heat from the top of the flame seared her legs. She screamed, and the child screamed with her. "Don't. You're safe," she managed. The open back door! Could she reach it? A rafter had fallen directly across the room and burned merrily between her and the door. She turned again, like a cornered rat. She had to save the child. Save the child, save the child. She recited the litany like the prayers she had taught Oriel: prayers to avoid temptation, prayers for mercy in punishment. Dear Stevene, was this punishment? She prayed. She prayed to save this child; she prayed to save Oriel and she prayed to save her own life. The prayers infused her with a new determination. She would save this child. Her mind cleared. Front door. She was taking the boy out of the front door and her prayers would work, she thought grimly. The sheet around the child's head had worked loose. She pulled it tight, wrapped it around his head as loosely as she dared, so that he could breathe and yet the fire would not grab his hair. And then she ran. Through the fire. To the front door. But it was locked! She turned again, and ran blindly, past coherent thought. She tripped over the rafter. She couldn't get through to the back door. Darkness beckoned in her mind; she fought against it because she knew she had yet another task to complete: Oriel. She threw up another prayer to the gods to help her save Oriel, but the smoke was too much for her. She couldn't breathe. She tried to stand, but her knees gave way, and she fell face down again. Her final thought was that if this was indeed punishment, then so be it. ======================================================================== What Price the King? by Mark A. Murray Dargon, Sy 1017 The small, black Daeltis hawk folded its wings in and dove from its lofty height. Down it plummeted through the night sky in a rush of air and adrenaline. Clear membranes covered its eyes while tough, strong feathers protected its body. A sharp beak had tightly closed and no cry issued forth. It was a night predator and usually struck silently and deadly. This night, however, it wasn't in search of food, but rather in search of some thing. A foreign intelligence peered out from behind its eyes and its choices were not entirely its own. Coldwell Height loomed quickly in front of it. Opening wings and banking hard, the hawk flew in a circle around the area. It saw a few men but not the ones sought. Sharp ears heard a voice and the hawk turned around in a tight arc. It landed on a house roof a short distance from the voice. "Will he challenge?" the voice asked. Turning its head slightly, the hawk looked at the men. The one who belonged to the voice was tall and husky. Short-cropped hair hung down evenly at neck level to offset his squarish face. A small nose, large eyes and high cheekbones filled out the rest of his face. He was dressed in fine silk and a large, flowing cape that showed no tears, stains or wear. "He will, Darrin," the second man answered. The hawk was forced to turn its attention to this man. He was of medium height, but his hair was long and straight. Toned muscles pressed through his tight tunic and formed myriad hills and valleys along his chest, shoulders, back and arms. The hawk's sharp eyes watched for any movement around him, yet he stood deathly still. Only his chest moved slightly as he breathed. "As planned," Darrin said. "Arthur, you will make sure he is successful?" "Yes," Arthur replied. "As long as you pay me, you will be successful, too." The hawk opened its wings as it was ordered to do and flew off into the night. It traveled across the Coldwell River and headed for the bad section of town. Somewhere between Ramit and Layman Streets and close to River Street, the hawk slowed its flight. As it located the Shattered Spear, it circled lazily over it, waiting. The door opened and three people walked out. One was a very large, muscular man. The second was a tall, thin man walking behind the first. It was the third person that the hawk had waited for. She had long wavy black hair with blue eyes and a blue dye adorning her full lips. Freckles spread across her cheeks and in the dark, only the hawk's eyesight could see them. "Do you think we'll find any information at Spirit's Haven, Simona?" the large man asked. "I hope so," she answered. "Me--" She looked upwards into the night sky and searched it. Her eyes met the hawk's and she cried out. "Something watches us!" The hawk swerved quickly and fled the scene. "Aaaah," he cried as he broke the connection and plopped back into his soft, padded chair. The staff in his right hand stood straight and tall held in his steady grip. Sighing as he rubbed his temples with his left hand, he relaxed and let the sights of the night replay in his mind. "Darrin, are you controlling events or is someone behind you pulling your strings like the puppets in the marketplace?" he mused out loud. Opening his eyes, he slowly turned his head left and then right to clear the ache in his neck. Small tables were spaced throughout the room and held many items: vials, scrolls, books, herbs, rings, bracelets, mugs. A fireplace was set in the middle of one wall, but no fire burned for the night was warm. Two windows looked out upon the old city. In front of him, on another small table, sat a glass sphere. Under it was a circular metal band that kept it from rolling. Around it, drawn on the table, was a chalked circle inscribed with runic symbols. "Simona," he said. "Will you lead me to your sister, Megan? Do I interfere in Arthur's plans? If he is controlling everything, taking that away from him would be simple. If he isn't, I will need to find out who is behind him. I don't have the time to devote to that, yet. "Someone, either Arthur or the one behind him, is trying to replace the void created by Liriss's absence. He is trying to use the shadow boys to aid him. They have the run of the city and know most of the city's secrets. They would be valuable to the Night Lord of Dargon now that Liriss is gone. "But Megan is in dire trouble and my magic pushes me to aid her. There is no word from the Elders on what course I should take, but I believe that both need to be resolved. If I follow Simona, she will leave Dargon for Megan is not here. I have looked. "If I stay, I believe my headaches and cramps will worsen. Magic dictates I find Megan. But it hasn't helped me locate her, just her sister. One will find the other, I believe. Arthur and the shadow boys must wait while I search for Megan. "Simona won't leave tonight, though. I will have time to look in on the shadow boys ..." "I challenge leadership!" a boy called out. He stood defiant with his hands at his sides clenched tightly into fists. Ragged and curly hair fell around his face, but did not interfere with his piercing gaze. "I am Tumas and I would be king!" Whispers raced through the group of his challenge. "There is a challenge!" another boy yelled. He was skinny and bones seemed to push out from under his skin. Blond, matted hair crowned his dirty face. "I am Geller and I hear the challenge." "You must accept, Shadow King," Tumas cried out. "Why should I?" the Shadow King asked. "You are but one amidst our family. One small homeless child among a sea of us." "I challenge!" another shadow boy yelled. "I am Crey and I would be king!" "There are two!" Geller said. He looked about him in the deserted warehouse and saw a myriad of faces looking back. "Are there any more?" "I challenge!" Ella yelled. "I am Ella and I would be King!" She was small, but her body was fit and healthy. Her green eyes flashed desire and she brushed a lock of blond hair out of her way. "There are three," the Shadow King sighed. "I submit to the challenge. I am Dessin. I am king. I accept the challenges. Let there be a run for who would be king. We now stand in a warehouse on the docks. By my right as king I choose the corner of Thockmarr and Red Avenue as the place for the flag. By my right, I decline the run." Startled gasps ran among the group. "I am done with being king. It isn't what it looked to be," Dessin explained. "Let the three make the run. For those of you who are new and weren't here for the last run, here are the rules. "The first one to bring the flag back here *and* stand before me is the new king. That's it. Only the one who can run faster, fight harder, be more ruthless, and do what needs to be done to win can be a proper king. It is how we have always decided and it will always be the way. "One of you will carry the flag to my chosen place. The first to reach you will grab the flag. The first to bring it to me will be king. We will wait until the next bell before the three run." A boy came forward, took the flag, and ran out of the warehouse. The group moved back from the doorway while the three gathered together near it. Ella stood between Crey and Tumas. They waited a little while. "Remember there is only one rule," Dessin stated. "Run!" he yelled before the next bell could ring, catching all off guard. Crey and Tumas started to run, but Ella reached out and grabbed their hair. Both boys' legs went out from under them and before their bodies hit the ground, Ella was out the door. Crey hit with a thump and rolled over to gain his feet. Tumas hit, rolled backwards and sprinted out the door first. As he got outside, he took a moment to slam the door shut on Crey. Laughing, Tumas turned and ran to catch up to Ella. Crey landed a second time on the ground, blood pouring out his nose and tears running down his cheeks. He growled, got up and ran outside. The rest of the shadow boys slowly walked outside to wait for their return. Ella was quick and she knew the streets as well as the rest. She crossed Main Street and went through several alleys to the Street of Travellers, where she turned right and ran. "I will win!" she thought. "Being king, I'll get first choice on any food we steal, any jewelry we grab." Passing by various shops, she went through the business district and then the intersection of Murson. "Everyone will like me, just like they like Dessin." She made it to Thockmarr and turned left to travel down it. "I'll be able to get finer clothes and not have to wear these rags. I can even get some of that scented water to wear." As she closed the distance to Red Avenue, she glanced around to look for the others. She didn't see any of them as she grabbed the flag from the boy holding it. Turning, she started back along Thockmarr. As she passed an alley near Traders, Crey stepped out and slammed her in the gut with a board. The air left her in a huff and she passed out on the street with screams of 'no!' filling her head! "You thought you were quick," Crey said as he grabbed the flag and ran. "But I'm quicker. And I know more shortcuts through this town than you ever will." He moved through alleys that had no name and crossed streets whose names he couldn't remember. "I'll be king," he thought. "I know the town and I know the right people. I can get us out of being hated and feared." He skirted the hill of Temple Street and passed quickly over Nochtur. "I'll be as good a leader as Dessin. No, I'll be better. I'll make people look at us without hate or fear in their eyes." He didn't look around because his concentration was on getting back to the warehouse as quickly as possible. "I know some merchants and they'll help us. We won't have to steal anymore. We won't have to worry about where our next meal is coming from." His breath started to become ragged as he leapt fences and ditches. His legs pumped steadily as he crossed Travellers and Layman. After crossing Main, he let a smile break on his face. He was going to win. "Everything will be all right." Tumas was nowhere to be seen and Ella wouldn't wake up for awhile. He saw the group in front of the warehouse, but he knew Dessin was inside waiting. As he closed the distance, a figure appeared suddenly and tripped him. He fell, confused at who was there. He heard gasps from the group; he was that close to winning. Landing face down, he bumped his nose and pain shot through his head. A sharp pain in his back followed that and blackness overcame him. "Well done, John," Tumas remarked as he stepped around the man and stooped to pick up the flag. "Come on," he urged as he ran to the warehouse. Shrugging, the man pulled his dagger out of Crey's back, wiped it off on the boy's clothes and followed. "I am king!" Tumas yelled as he stood before Dessin. "He cheated and used a man!" someone yelled. "There are no rules!" Dessin replied. "It is done! Tumas is Shadow King!" "Tumas is Shadow King!" they all said, although not together. "There is one thing to take care of before we let Tumas rule," Dessin said. "A man has killed one of us. That will not go unpunished. He does not leave alive!" "What?" John said, a look of terror crossing his face. "That wasn't the bargain. Arth--" His pleas were drowned out by the mob of youths converging on him. His screams were short but painful. "Dump him in the sea," Tumas ordered. "I am Tumas. I am Shadow King!" ======================================================================== Talisman Seven Part 4 by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 11-12, 1013 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-11 Lord Aldan Bindrmon sat in his fiancee's boarding house room and stared at the grisly contents of the box on his lap. Could the note be true? Could the lump of greyish-brown meat laying at the center of the coiled golden-blond hair actually be Tillna's heart? Aldan shuddered in revulsion at that thought. He lifted the package off his lap and stood, knocking the chair over in the process. He dashed to a window, dropping the bundle of cloth and box onto a table on the way. Sticking his head out into the afternoon sunshine of Beeikar, he took several deep breaths and tried to get the lingering scent of blood out of his nose. Only two days before, Aldan's life had been normal. He'd had more responsibilities than he'd really wanted as the son of the baron, and his father had driven him hard in getting him ready to be baron someday. But he'd had plenty of time to himself as well, and Tillna besides. And then his father, Chak Bindrmon, had returned from his regular trip for the tax-taking to Fremlow City, the ducal seat of Welspeare, with news: the baron had arranged for Aldan to marry the daughter of their neighbor, Baron Durening. Millicet would bring with her a handsome dowry which Chak had negotiated, including a portion of the Durening lands located along the Renev River. All his father cared about was the benefit to the barony; Aldan didn't feel the same. He was in love with Tillna, a beautiful young woman who just happened to be a barmaid at the Boar-Ring Inn, and didn't care to marry the thirty year-old Millicet for any reason whatsoever. That very evening, Aldan had proposed to his barmaid right in the middle of the Boar-Ring's taproom. To his delight, she had accepted. They had made plans to journey to Fremlow City to get married and then had spent the night together. The last time that Aldan had seen her had been when she had left their room upstairs at the inn the next morning. He could hardly believe that that'd been only a day before. He turned around and leaned against the window sill, looking at the package he had found by the door of Tillna's room when he had come looking for her. The white cloth that had been wrapped around the package was spread out on the low table. The wooden box rested with a corner toward him, making it look like a diamond. The cavity inside the box was circular, so that the mass of blond hair, hair like Tillna had, coiling within it formed a golden disk. And in the center of that coil rested an ovoid lump of meat, somewhat reddish between the brown and grey. The sight reminded him of something, but he couldn't quite place what. Then he pushed aside the thought as irrelevant at the moment. Aldan walked over to the box and looked down at it. He still couldn't quite believe that the box was evidence that Tillna was dead. Who would kill her? Why? And why address that note to him, with the gruesome line, "You have my heart, Aldan Bindrmon." Could someone be playing a joke on him? Had Tillna run away, frightened by the idea of getting married, and left this as some kind of farewell message? But she had been the one hinting about marriage for months. She wouldn't run having gotten her wish. Aldan looked around the room, and once again saw that nothing was missing. She hadn't left, then. And she hadn't been seen in more than a day. The note tacked to the inside of the lid of the box had been penned in a very precise hand, and Aldan doubted that Tillna could read, much less write. He looked back down, touched the hair, and accepted the truth: Tillna had been murdered. Before he could begin to mourn his loss, a great weariness fell on Aldan, and he sank to his knees. A sense of age flooded him, of having lived longer than he could imagine, of having seen hundreds and hundreds of years pass. The weight of the centuries bore down on him and he felt like it would crush him against the floor and press him right through it, but just then he felt as if everything around him was on fire. Instead of being afraid, or feeling trapped by the encompassing flames, he felt peace well up inside himself. The weariness vanished, defeated by the flames, which faded more slowly. They seemed to leave a sense of promise behind as they went. Aldan knelt on the floor for several moments, recovering from the strange feelings. His sorrow at his loss had been burned away by the strange flames, but a new emotion was beginning to take its place: anger. He straightened up somewhat and looked at the box. He would dispose of the contents properly, and then he would track down the person who had done this. Someone would pay for killing Tillna. Aldan wrapped the box back up in the cloth after replacing the lid. Carrying the bundle, he left Tillna's room and walked down the stairs. He stopped at the door just inside the entryway and knocked on it. He knew that the old woman who ran the boarding house kept her nose in every resident's business; Tillna had complained about crazy Betta often enough, and she was the reason that Aldan had only visited Tillna once before. The door opened wide, and Betta stood there. She was stoop-shouldered with age, and her face was covered in wrinkles, but her hair was an utterly unnatural brown, even though her eyebrows were thin and grey. She said, "Yes?" in a crotchety tone, but when she saw who was there, she said, "Oh my, my ... Ah, what can I do for your lordship this day? If you're looking for Tillna, she's not here." "Well, yes, I am looking for her," Aldan said, disconcerted that this woman associated him with Tillna after only one visit. "When was the last time you saw her?" Betta blinked a few times, and a sly smile appeared on her face. "So, the baron's boy is really asking after our Tillna, is he?" She cackled to herself, then said, "Yesterday's the last I seen her, your lordship, sir. Leaving like always for her shift, right before seventh bell. She ain't been back since, nor word of her either. By the rumor, I'd a thought she'd be with you, your lordship." "No, ah, not just yet." She had left for her shift, but she hadn't arrived at the Boar-Ring. Aldan thought for a moment, then lifted the cloth-wrapped bundle he was carrying. "Did you by chance see who delivered this package?" "Present from you, was it?" Betta asked. "Saw the tag, with Bindrmon colors on it and all. This morning, it was, a boy came. He had a green rag tied around his arm, like the young ones do that wait at the docks and carry messages for a Bit. He had that package and gave it me, said it was for Tillna. I took it to her room and left it there." She paused as her eyes widened. "But, if it was you sent the boy, why'd you be askin'? What's in it, anyway?" Aldan backed toward the entry and said, "Thank you, mi'lady, for your aid. And if you do see or hear of Tillna, could you send word to the keep? I'm ... worried about her." Betta nodded, and started to cackle about rumors and romance. Aldan hurried away, wondering whether he should try to find the runner-boy or not. He decided to save that for a last resort option, since it was almost futile anyway. He then attempted to trace Tillna's path from the boarding house to the Boar-Ring to see if he could determine where she had vanished. He met with a complete lack of success; there were too many different ways to go through the winding, intersecting streets of Beeikar. Close to the boarding house, he found one or two people who remembered her passing, though not necessarily the previous day. Beyond that, he learned nothing. Once it became clear that tracking down Tillna's route was not going to work, Aldan tried to think of some other way to tackle the problem. Unfortunately, the only thread he had to follow was Tillna. Unless ... He recalled the phrase from the note in the box: "You have my heart." Aldan remembered uttering something like that phrase two days before, first, to his father, in rejecting the arranged marriage to Millicet, and then in the taproom of the Boar-Ring, proposing to Tillna. Unless the use of those words in the note were coincidence, there had to be some connection. Aldan knew that his father was utterly ruthless in performing baronial duties. Baron Chak Bindrmon expected utter loyalty from his staff, and punished disobedience or failure in sometimes extreme ways. Aldan wasn't completely sure, but he suspected that his father had even ordered certain servants killed at times. Aldan had crossed his father in refusing to marry Millicet. Chak would see depriving the barony of her dowry as harming it, and take whatever steps were necessary to deal with that problem. Aldan could see that his father might attempt to prevent his marriage to Tillna, even going so far as to have her killed -- a hard thing to suspect about one's own parent. But he didn't think that the baron would then deliberately taunt him with the deed by delivering that box to her room for him to find. There was nothing of Chak Bindrmon in that act. Which meant it had to be someone in the taproom that night. Aldan's mind leapt to the obvious choice: the Menagerie, who had been sitting at their usual table not four strides away from where he had been standing. The young nobles who made up the Menagerie certainly felt they had reason to hate him. Aldan had once been part of the Menagerie; his nickname had been Falcon. And then his father had dictated that he stop playing childish games with his childhood friends and concentrate on the duties of being baron someday. None of the six remaining members of the group had taken his departure well, and all but Quinla, the only female member of the group, still held it against him to some degree or other. Four of the Menagerie had been present that night, the Rabbit twins being away in Fremlow City with their parents. They would certainly have heard him proposing to Tillna, and he wouldn't put it past them to hurt her, possibly even murder her, to get back at him. And the box was certainly something that Fox or Owl, or even Bear might think of. From the falcon on the lid to the grisly contents, to the taunting note itself, it definitely had the flavor of the Menagerie. Now, he only had to prove it. Later that night, Aldan pushed open the door to the Boar-Ring Inn and entered the taproom. Most of the dozen tables within were full, and Aivney, the raven-haired, flirtatious barmaid had her skirt down and her hair up as she rushed from table to table, ignoring the groping hands and pinching fingers with a tired expression on her face. To Aldan's surprise, Oablar, the proprietor of the inn, was out from behind his bar and serving customers on the floor as well. He didn't need to dodge the lusty attentions of the patrons; not only were his bald head and craggy features enough to scare away goblins, but everyone knew that his wife was jealousy personified and deadly with a rolling pin. Aldan also noticed that the table normally reserved for the Menagerie was occupied by two gypsies and a man with flax-yellow hair dressed all in green. Aivney stopped next to Aldan as he stood by the door, put a hand on his arm, and said, "She's not here, dearest." "I know," he said, "I know. Busy, huh? Why's Oablar working tables?" "'Cause I don't have four hands and eight legs, hun. With Tillna quittin' early like she done, we ain't had time ta hire a replacement. Someone's gotta keep their lips wet so their fists don't smash the furniture and each other. "If yer not lookin' for yer lady, why're ya here?" "The Menagerie," Aldan replied. "Have they been here tonight?" "Sure, straight, they haven't been gone much longer than it takes a bargeman to get drunk. Why? Aldan ignored her question, and asked another of his own. "Were they here last night, do you remember?" Aivney said, "It's an occasion when they ain't here, dear heart." She didn't notice him flinch at that, and continued, "They was here early yesterday. I remember that Tillna didn't show up, and Oablar sent a runner-boy to fetch me 'cause she had early shift. They was here when I arrived, all happy and all fingers, too. I remember them getting loud after dark, like always, and eventually they left. Why're ya innerested?" "Thanks," was all he said. Aldan leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, turned and left. Aivney looked after him for a moment, and then got called back to her duties by the shouts of thirsty patrons and Oablar's growl. Aldan slowly made his way back to the keep, no closer to finding his prey than he had been that afternoon. He'd had no better luck trying to find the Menagerie than tracking Tillna's steps. They hadn't done anything out of the ordinary the previous day by all accounts, including spending the evening bells at the Boar-Ring. If they had indeed abducted Tillna and murdered her, they had done an incredible job of it. No one had witnessed anything suspicious. He knew that just confronting them wouldn't help. They wouldn't tell him anything; they didn't need to. There just had to be something, though. Some mistake, some way to prove their involvement -- if only he could find it. The next morning, halfway between fourth and fifth bells, Aldan was racing down into Beeikar from the keep. He had his clue, and he cursed himself for having taken so long to realize it. Earlier that morning, he had been trying to decide what to do with the package from Tillna's room. The box was beautifully carved, but he didn't think he could keep it considering its current use. He had finally decided to burn the whole thing in the keep's forge-fire. He opened the box one final time to say farewell to Tillna's remains, and he caught sight of the note tacked to the inside of the lid. He pulled it from its fastenings, then closed up the box and set it aside. He examined the parchment again. He had already noticed that it was very precisely lettered. The hand was exact, the lines were even, and each copy of any one letter was nearly identical. With the time to study it like that, distanced from the emotional impact of it, Aldan realized something: he had seen enough professionally inked documents to know that these were the trademarks of a scribe. Looking closely, he saw an ornate spot of color in the lower right corner which turned out to be the letter S encircled by several loops of blue and red. He knew that signature: it belonged to Sestik, the only public scribe in Beeikar. Aldan arrived at Sestik's house out of breath. Once he had realized that the scribe was the link he had been looking for, he had wasted no time in going after him. His fervent hope was that the Menagerie had overlooked their error in using Sestik in their plans. When he'd caught his breath and composed himself, Aldan knocked on the scribe's door. At the sound of "Enter," he did. He found himself in a narrow room that seemed to run across the front of the house. In the center of the room was a narrow table that spanned the width of the room just under the window. Behind it sat Sestik, parchment before him, inkpots and brushes next to him. Behind Sestik was the door to the rest of the residence. Sestik rose and said, "What service may I render you today, my Lord Aldan?" Aldan presented the note from the box, and said, "Is this your work, Sestik?" The scribe glanced at it and replied with pride, "Yes, my Lord, it is. I take it that you received the surprise that Lord Kuvey and mi'lady Tillna prepared for you? I do hope that my craftsmanship did not detract from it in any way. I wasn't given time to properly illuminate the document, after all --" "Did you say Kuvey *and* Tillna?" Aldan interrupted. "Well, that's what Lord Kuvey said when he dictated the words, yes. I --" Aldan interrupted again. "So, you didn't see Tillna?" "No, no. Just Lord Kuvey." "And when was this, if you recall?" "Two days ago," said Sestik. He thought for a moment, then said, "Midday, or perhaps more nearly sixth bell. Yes, that's right, because --" "Thank you, Sestik, you have been a great help. I will reward you for this information, I promise, just as soon as I have dealt with them. I cannot possibly thank you enough. Fare well." Aldan turned and walked out, ignoring Sestik's confused stammer of, "But ... but I only wrote a note of love dictated by a go-between. What kind of information is that to be rewarded for?" Outside of Sestik's house, Aldan paused momentarily to savor his triumph. He had the proof he needed: Lord Kuvey was Weasel of the Menagerie. The note had been commissioned before Tillna's disappearance, which meant that the abduction and murder had been planned out in advance. He still needed to find them, but with any luck, they didn't know that he was chasing them. Beeikar wasn't large enough for them to hide in for very long. He was looking forward to his vengeance. The Menagerie of Bear, Fox, Owl, and Weasel were walking into the market square that afternoon. It was mostly empty, since Beeikar wasn't large enough to require a daily market. The few occupied stalls were ragpicker merchants, and of no interest to the four young lords. Bear said, "We got away with it, didn't we?" "So far," replied Owl. "So far. No one even seems to know that she's dead, which is only good for us." "We showed him, didn't we?" gloated Bear. Fox grinned slyly, and said, "That we did, Bear, that we did." "Do you think he's found it yet?" asked Weasel. Owl replied, "We couldn't very well go and ask, now could we? After all, it's no business of ours what's in Tillna's room or who's visited it. He'll get it eventually, never fear. That tag was perfect, Fox, and the box will get to him one way or another." "I only wish that the note could have been more decorated," mused Weasel. "Some twisty leaves around the edge, a falcon here or there, maybe even a rat next to his name. But Sestik is too much of a perfectionist; he said it would take a --" Fox was suddenly standing in front of Weasel. "What did you say?" he asked in a low, menacing tone. "D-decorations? Leaves ... rats?" stammered the perplexed Weasel. "No. Sestik, you gutter-flop. Did you say Sestik?" "Y-yes, Fox. I ... you know my writing hand is shaky at best. The note needed to be readable, and you didn't give me all day to get it right. So, I went to Sestik. Don't worry, I made up a story and everything ..." Fox's unrelenting glare caused Weasel's explanation to dwindle and fade away. Fox's fists were balling at his sides, and his right temple was pulsing as his jaw clenched and unclenched. He turned away abruptly and with a hurried, "Come on!" he began to run. The others followed as Fox raced through the streets of Beeikar. They arrived in front of Sestik's home, and Fox barged right in without knocking. Sestik looked up as the others piled in behind Fox. The scribe said, "Welcome Lords Wannek, Lothanin, Eywran. Lord Kuvey, Lord Aldan was here earlier. I believe that the surprise you planned went well, or so it seemed. I'm not sure why he came to me, but --" Fox turned to the others, shot Weasel a murderous glare, and said, "Go!" They all dashed out, slamming the door behind them. Sestik just said, "Hmph!" and put the intrusion out of his mind as unfathomable. Outside, the Menagerie huddled around each other. Fox spoke what they all knew. "He's found the box, and thanks to Weasel, he knows we are responsible. We're murderers, and he's got the proof. We've got to get out of here, now." "But where will we go, Fox? We've never been anywhere," whined Bear. "Magnus," said Fox. "We'll head for Magnus; he'll never find us there. Separately, so it will be harder to track us. Go home, get money and supplies, and leave for Magnus as soon as you can." "If Magnus is big enough to hide us from Aldan, how will we find each other again?" asked Weasel. "I shouldn't even tell you, you slug-brained scut, but ... I don't know," said Fox. "The Bardic College," suggested Owl. "Starting in a fortnight, we'll gather on the steps in front of the Bardic College at fifth bell until we are all together. Straight?" "Straight," said Fox, and the other two nodded. "Good luck." He gripped Owl's right wrist with his right hand. Owl grabbed Bear's wrist, Bear grabbed Weasel's wrist, and Weasel gripped Fox's, forming a square between their hands. They all looked at each other, panic beginning in Bear's face and behind Weasel's eyes, resolve on Owl's face and, of course, Fox's. With a final squeeze, they broke apart and left, each going their own way. They knew they'd be back together in a fortnight in Magnus. Lord Kuvey, or Weasel as he preferred, was running along a forest path south of Beeikar that night. He looked back over his shoulder, but he couldn't see his pursuit. He didn't slow down; he knew that Aldan wasn't going to give up that easily. Weasel was very sorry for his mistake. Both of them, actually. When he had gone to the village scribe, Sestik, to write the note, he had never imagined that Aldan would be able to figure out where it had come from. Fox should have been the one to get the note. Fox always thought two or five moves ahead, which was why he always beat Weasel at King's Key. Fox wouldn't have made that first mistake. Or the second one, most likely. Weasel had gone home after the Menagerie had discovered that Aldan knew who had killed Tillna. He had packed up his belongings, and then raided his mother's strongbox. With loaded saddlebags, he had ridden right to the Boar-Ring instead of toward Magnus. He had wanted to say farewell to Aivney before leaving forever. He had planned to give her a quick kiss, and maybe a Round as a final tip, and then be on his way. Instead, he had found Aivney free for a few bells. Tillna's replacement had been hired and shown around. The tall, willowy redheaded woman was experienced as a barmaid, and Oablar wanted to see if she could handle the room alone. He had spent those few bells, and a few more besides, upstairs with Aivney, saying a proper farewell. The new woman had worked out very well. That, combined with a light night, and Aivney hadn't been required downstairs until the third bell after dark. Weasel had expected that the only result of his unplanned tryst would be leaving for Magnus a little late and with some very pleasant memories. When he had walked down the stairs a short while after Aivney to find Aldan walking up to the bar as Aivney angled toward him, Weasel had known utter panic. He had moved as quietly as he could over to the door but just as he'd reached it, Aldan had turned around and spotted him. Weasel had been rooted to the spot for a moment, watching as Aldan's eyes widened in surprise, and Aivney reached his side. Aldan had started dashing toward the door. Aivney had said, "What?" Aldan had shouted, "Tillna's dead, and --" before tripping over a bench that had been accidentally moved into his path. The crash had jolted Weasel out of his shock, and he'd raced out the door. He'd heard rushing footsteps inside the inn and hadn't even taken the time to unhitch his horse but had taken off on foot. He'd been fleeing ever since. West along the river first, and then south when the first bridge came along. He had glimpsed Aldan from time to time, but whenever he thought he'd shaken the baron's son from his trail long enough to take the time to get a mount or find his friends, Aldan had reappeared. Weasel was getting tired. He needed someplace to hide, someplace to lie low until Aldan gave up and he could resume his journey to Magnus in peace. So far, the road he'd been following had been through farm fields, but up ahead was a deep stand of trees. Maybe he could lose Aldan in there. Weasel angled across the edge of one field, and plunged into the trees. The light of the clear summer night sky was immediately cut off, and he had no choice but to slow to a walk as he felt his way from tree trunk to tree trunk. He tried to keep going in the same direction, but it was hard to do. It didn't really matter, he knew, as long as he didn't end up back on the road just yet. He feared he was doing just that as the light began to increase, but he soon came out into a small clearing filled with the white light of the moon and capped with the brilliant stars of summer. The clearing was only ten strides across at most, and considering the difficulty he'd had maintaining a path through the darkness of the trees, Weasel didn't think it likely that Aldan would be able to find this same clearing. He sank down on his haunches and leaned back against a tree at the edge of the clearing. He was panting as he calmed down from his exertions. Sweat dripped down his neck, but he was too tired to wipe it away just yet. He heard a rustling behind him, but it was so soft that he knew it had to be some forest animal resuming its foraging. He didn't realize he'd made his third mistake until the shadow fell over him. He looked up, and there was Aldan, knife in hand and hate in his eyes. Weasel bolted, dashing across the clearing, intending to disappear into the trees on the other side. Weasel thought he was running across level ground, but the moonlight was deceptive. He stumbled badly on the first hillock his foot caught when he was almost all the way across the clearing. Then he felt his ankle wrench badly in a depression that he couldn't see. Off balance and in pain, he tripped over a stone hidden by grass and fell headlong between two tree trunks. The pain of his fall was intense, and startled a short cry out of his lips that masked the strange cracking noise from beneath him. When the burning pain in his chest didn't abate, however, he knew something was wrong. He wanted to push himself up and see what had happened to his chest, but he didn't have the strength. Weasel began to have trouble breathing, and he started to call for aid, but only a very faint, "Help, help" came out of his mouth. When Weasel felt himself being turned over by rough hands, the pain in his chest increased, forcing him to scream raggedly. He was propped up against someone's lap, his head tilted so he could look down along his body. He focused his blurry vision to see the broken end of a dead branch sticking up out of his chest, blood bubbling around the wound and oozing down his tunic. He looked up and saw Aldan gazing down at him, no pity at all in his eyes. "Where were you going, Weasel? Where are the others?" Aldan's questions were forced through gritted teeth, and his eyes demanded truth. Weasel thought about lying. Then he thought about Tillna, lying dead, while Fox cut her chest open, and Bear hacked off her long braid. Aldan deserved the truth, and he didn't have anything to lose anyway. Fox certainly wasn't going to get even with him now. Fortune had already taken care of that. He'd tell Aldan about Magnus, and about the rendezvous at the Bardic College every fifth-bell starting in a fortnight. Aldan would find them, and give them what they deserved, too. Darkness started to close in on his vision as he whispered, "Rat ..." Aldan leaned closer, so he could hear. "Rat ... sorry, Falcon ... they went ... to ..." Weasel couldn't feel his hands or his feet, and the pain was fading away. With a last effort sent on his dying breath, he said, "Dargon." Aldan felt Weasel slump, dead, on his lap. "Dargon," he repeated, mulling over Weasel's last words. "They've gone to Dargon." That sounded like them. Run as far away as possible, and Dargon was pretty far away. Aldan nodded to himself. "They won't escape me that way," he said to the corpse of his former friend. "I'll follow them wherever they've gone, even if it is as far north as Dargon. I swear they won't escape me!" The body of Weasel didn't reply. The author would like to thank the folk-rock group Steeleye Span, and one track from their album "Back in Line," for the inspiration for this story. ========================================================================