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 13 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 3 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 3/25/2000 Volume 13, Number 3 Circulation: 730 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb A Matter of Honour 2 Nicholas Wansbutter Janis, 1006 Talisman Three 3 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Fall, 748 FE A Tale of Two Thieves 1 JD Kenyon Seber 1017 ======================================================================== 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 13-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright March, 2000 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 One of the major benefits of the rise of personal computing and the Internet is our ability to archive information. At a click, I can search for a word in dozens of dictionaries, or scan hundreds of telephone directories to find someone's number, or obtain real-time stock market information. This power is also available to us as individuals. Many people save their email or their checkbook or their address book in some electronic form. We have quick access to information that was unthinkable just ten years ago. We all have examples, but this was driven home for me last week when, out of curiosity, I wanted to cite the date of O.J. Simpson's "low-speed chase" in an email I was composing; obtaining that piece of information took less than a minute, and just four mouse clicks. It seems odd, then, that we have so little information about how the Internet came about, and the people who made it happen. While there are a few familiar names who pioneered the technical infrastructure, few people could name someone who was a catalyst in popularizing the early Internet. Can you name the people who brought you listserv or majordomo or IRC or ICQ? Do you know who founded rec.arts.sf.written or soc.motss or rec.music.misc? Those are people who transformed the Internet from a boring raw communication facility into an exciting, interesting world full of unparalleled opportunities to communicate with, learn from, and share experiences with one another. Those people are the Internet's unsung heroes. I want to tell you about one of those heroes: John Labovitz. A few of you may recognize his name, because it's part of the resource he created: John Labovitz's E-Zine List, which can be found at . Since he began back in 1993, John has maintained the best, most exhaustive, most accurate list of electronic magazines on the Internet. He did this not out of commercial interest, but because he knew such a site was needed and would be useful to both readers and publishers. His service has been wonderfully successful, and has helped DargonZine and hundreds of other emags grow. Hundreds of readers have been introduced to our site through index sites like John's, but John's is by far the most widely-known, and more than a dozen of our subscribers mentioned his site by name when they joined DargonZine. I single out John because after seven years of selfless service, John has decided to cease maintaining the E-Zine List. As a reflection of his adherence to the noncommercial spirit of the early Internet, he is presently looking for someone who will adopt this popular site and continue to operate it as a public, not-for-profit resource. We are thankful recipients of John's valuable contribution to the Internet, and we wish him luck in his future endeavors. On a more positive note, I'd like to mention a new feature that we recently added to the DargonZine Web site. We know that maps of Dargon and the surrounding lands are useful ways to help readers visualize the settings of our stories. We've recently put together a small DHTML script which ties some of our maps together with our Online Glossary. By hovering your mouse over landmarks on the maps, you will see their Glossary descriptions. And by clicking a landmark, you will be taken directly to that feature's Glossary page, which contains additional information. It's a great way to familiarize yourself with the places that our stories talk about, and we're really pleased to be able to share it with you. However, the interactive features of these maps rely on fairly recent innovations, so they will not work for older browsers (we've tested the script using Netscape 4.0 and Internet Explorer 4.0). If you have a recent browser, you should have no problem using the maps, but older or nonstandard browsers may have more difficulty with the additional interactive features. The interactive maps of the city of Dargon and of the surrounding area can be found in the map section of the About Dargon page. In this issue we continue ongoing series' by Dafydd and Nick Wansbutter, and print the first part of a two-part story by JD Kenyon. All three of these storylines will culminate in our next issue, DargonZine 13-4, so don't miss that one! It should be out before the end of April. ======================================================================== A Matter of Honour Part 2 by Nicholas Wansbutter Janis, 1006 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-2 A cold wind howled like some enraged banshee outside the walls of Fennell Keep. Aleksandr added another log to keep the fire blazing in the hearth in the main hall. A great bearskin covered the icy stones beneath his feet, but he could still feel cold radiating up from the ground. Indeed, the stone in the castle seemed to soak up the cold, and pass it on to every being within. Perched atop the hill that held the city of Fennell, the keep received the full brunt of the frigid winds that swept in from the northeast. The dense forest that was the barony's saving grace during the winters was ineffectual here. The keep didn't even have the benefit of shelter from surrounding buildings. But on a day like this, it was still better than being outside, Aleksandr supposed. In a way it was good, as the winds were too cold to allow outdoor training this day. In the two years he had lived at the keep, he had learned to appreciate such small comforts. "Aleksandr!" A deep voice intoned from across the hall. Aleksandr turned to see his weapons instructor and most direct superior, Sir Igrim, approaching him from across the room. His powerful figure dominated the fire-lit room. Long, dark hair hung thickly from his head, as did a grey-streaked beard and moustaches. On his broad shoulders hung a black tunic bearing his family crest. Aleksandr of course, being only the humble rank of page, wore no coat of arms. Rather, he was dressed in a plain grey tunic with black belt and breeches. "Come here, boy!" Sir Igrim's words were harsh, but Aleksandr was not afraid of him. He remembered many a training session with the quarterstaff when Sir Igrim would berate him for letting his guard down, that such a lapse would mean his death some day. Afterwards, he would always tell Aleksandr when they were alone that he was pleased with his progress, or offer other such words of encouragement. Nevertheless, Aleksandr scurried over to the knight without delay. "Sir?" "Keeping the fire stoked I see." Sir Igrim never seemed to be the slightest bit affected by the cold. "Good. The baron has some guests coming this eve. Fetch a *good* bottle of Solov'necr from the cellars, then get yourself to the kitchens! Pots and pans will be your weapons today. Now, be off with you!" "Yes, sir!" Aleksandr hurried off down the hallway. The long corridors along the outer edge of the bailey were the coldest in the inner keep, as chill winds sneaked through the wooden boards covering the portholes that looked out on the courtyard. Fortunately, the cellars weren't far. Aleksandr closed the heavy wooden door behind him to block the wind, enabling him to light a torch from the pile sitting in a niche by the door. He descended the stairs into the darkness of the cellars, where a wide variety of stores that the keep needed to last out the winter were stored. The light thrown by the torch illuminated smoked sausages and meats that hung from wooden pegs along one frosty wall. Barrels of pickled vegetables, salted pork and spices filled one corner of the room. Hundreds of pounds of flour lay in large sacks piled in another corner. More kegs of wine and mead filled other parts of the cellar. Aleksandr headed to the very back of the room where the finer vintages of wine rested on large racks. Behind these were more racks bearing the hard liquor. The stuff he sought was hidden in the furthest corner, in case a questionable servant might want to pinch a bottle. To Aleksandr's knowledge, such a thing had never happened, and he resented the fact that they lay in the coldest corner to defend against it. Solov'necr was the favoured drink in the Barony of Fennell. Made from fermented iechyd berries, it was a potent drink that warmed one to the core during the cold winter months. Aleksandr surveyed the available bottles, and chose one of the larger looking ones. The coldness of the bottle shocked him, and when it bit into his hand he accidentally dropped the frigid carafe. Instinctively, he grabbed for it with both hands, dropping the torch as he did so. He caught the bottle before it smashed all over the floor, but the dropped torch made trouble of its own: one of the older bottles had been leaking it seemed, and its contents ignited immediately when touched by the torch's flames. Aleksandr had to think quickly, as the fire was spreading. Currently only the puddle of Solov'necr burned, but he knew that wouldn't be the case for long. He carefully put the bottle he was holding on a nearby barrel, and hurried over to the stack of flour. Grabbing one bag, he dragged it over to the fire. Summoning what strength his little body had, he tossed the thing atop the fire, and was plunged into darkness. "Cephas' boot!" He cursed. "Now what?" There were no windows in the underground cellar. It was so dark Aleksandr couldn't see one cubit in front of his nose. It was chillingly cold in the room, and quiet. The dark frightened Aleksandr. Who knew what evil creatures lurked in there? His mind conjured up images of the Wasp King and other horrible monsters creeping out of the corner to peel his skin off and eat it. He wanted to run screaming out of the room, but knew he would only cause further disaster if he did. Countless glass bottles containing valuable liquids, made all the more fragile by the cold that surrounded him on all sides. By slowly and carefully reaching out with his hands, Aleksandr was able to reacquire the Solov'necr he had been sent for. Nearly knocking several other bottles off of their shelves in the process gave him reason to move no further. He didn't know how long he had been standing there, shivering from both cold and fright, when he heard the door at the top of the stair creak open. He was too far away to see the faint grey light that filtered through the doorway, nor hear who it was that had entered. He was about to call out, then checked himself. "What an idiot they'll think of me for trapping myself down here without a light. No ... I'll sneak out when they're not looking and no one will know." Presently, the warm glow of torchlight emerged from the stairwell and illuminated the room enough for Aleksandr to begin creeping around the outer edge of the room. He could hear voices as he drew nearer the torchlight. They seemed to be hovering not far from the stairs. "What in blazes are we doing down here, Kelbhen?" Hiding behind a barrel, Aleksandr risked a glance at the people who had invaded the cellars. The one who had spoken he recognised as Sir Miripur by his deeply pocked face and slim frame. His greasy black hair hung limply about his pox-scarred face, and his tabard hung loosely from his bony shoulder. Standing next to him holding the torch, in stark contrast, was Sir Kalayan, a barrel-chested man who seemed to bristle hair everywhere. His reddish-brown beard puffed out from his face in all directions, as did the curly hair on his head. He was nearly as wide as he was tall, his arms and legs like tree-trunks. Excitement welled up when Aleksandr saw the third member of the group. It was Jarek Kelbhen, the foreign mercenary, captain of the guards, and his idol. Aleksandr remembered being slightly disappointed the first time he met Sir Jarek. He was not the towering figure he had imagined. He was of average height and build. Aleksandr quickly learned that his prowess on the battlefield came from skill rather than brute strength. He had a certain charisma as well. Aleksandr had never heard an ill word said of the knight by any of the guards under him and especially not from the maidservants that worked around the keep. His olive skin and raven black hair gave him away as a foreigner, but still he had a certain presence that drew people to him. "What we are doing here, Miripur," Sir Jarek stroked his goatee, "Is making my wedding arrangements." "Then Fennell agreed?" Sir Kalayan's head snapped sharply to look at the other. "Quite the contrary, my friend." Sir Jarek's lips curled into a smile. "But I shall have my way nevertheless." "How?" Sir Miripur gestured to the room above them. "If the baron has denied you, then that's all there is to it. You can't just take her!" What *were* they talking about? Whatever it was, it sounded bad. Aleksandr made sure to keep very still and hidden behind the barrels. He now had more reason than pride to remain unnoticed. Though he didn't yet know what they were plotting, he was sure they wouldn't be pleased if they discovered him. "Who says I can't?" Aleksandr could hear Sir Jarek's footsteps moving closer. "Tell me, Miripur. Have you heard of the practice of marriage by conquest?" Sir Miripur let out a chuckle. "You rogue." Aleksandr was not surprised by such a comment from Sir Miripur. In fact, the man was barely worthy of the title he bore in Aleksandr's mind. The knight often found sport in beating a squire that had not performed his duties to a high enough standard, or in tormenting monks from the monastery with insults he knew they would not return. Aleksandr had even heard rumors about Sir Miripur mistreating the ladies in waiting, forcing one of them into his bed. "Zhilinda will by a fine conquest." Kalayan said knowingly. "Baron Fennell thinks his daughter too good for me, a foreigner, I suppose." That wasn't true! Aleksandr finally knew what the knights were discussing, and it appalled him. Everyone knew Zhilinda had been betrothed to Baron Delborne's son, Kristofer, for years. She was still quite young, being only thirteen; otherwise she would be married now, and in Delborne. But these were knights! Where was their honour? Were they not sworn to protect all women? Sir Jarek slammed a fist down on a barrel not far from the hiding page. "I did not get to where I am by bowing to unworthy masters! He will soon learn some respect. He will have no choice but to give me my due when I am his son-in-law!" Kalayan gave a hearty laugh, but Miripur remained sober. "Can it be done?" "Of course it can be done!" Sir Jarek's voice could be heard moving back towards the others. "We've travelled the length and breadth of this land, our swords slaying the enemies of the gold that bought us. Fought the traitrous House Northfield, and sowed the soil of Fennell red with their blood. Making this girl my wife will be but a simpleton's game compared to that." Aleksandr stole another glance to see Sir Miripur cautiously watching the stairwell. "How?" "It's quite simple, really. We *are* the baron's trusted guards, are we not?" Sir Jarek said. "It is but a matter of moving. We will wait a sennight, I think, to allow the baron to forget my most recent request for the young Zhilinda's hand. Seven nights from now, we will take her from her chambers when I order the changing of the guards at the fifth bell of night. Getting to her room will be not a problem, but getting her out will take some care. You'll be able to make it as far as the weaving room without being noticed. There's an unused door behind one of the tapestries in there that opens into one of the servants' passages. Follow it to the servants' entrance on the north side of the keep. I will meet you there, and we will make haste to the stables." "Where will we take her?" Kalayan's deep voice intoned. "I think just outside of the city, into the forest a little ways. Only a couple bells' ride from here lives a wealthy merchant named Billik. He's made his fortune as a moneylender, and has a winter residence in the forest away from the commotion of Fennell. I think such accommodations would be suitable for my ascendance into Baranur nobility, no?" "How and where do we find this Billik?" Miripur asked. "It's simple. There's a spot along the road to Heahun where a little stream runs. You'll know it when you see it. Five mene's ride further, a small trail breaks off the road to the north. Billik's house lies at the end of that trail." "It's almost *too* easy." Miripur said. "Fear not, my friend." Sir Jarek assured, "It will work. Now come, we must be away from this cellar before we are missed. Remember, one sennight from today. Until then, not a word. Not even to each other." With that, the group ascended the stairs, once again plunging the cellar into darkness, where Aleksandr remained for several long menes. He wasn't even sure that he heard what he thought he had. Surely, he must have misunderstood what the knights had said. They couldn't possibly have been plotting to kidnap the baron's daughter. Sir Jarek was his idol: the personification of everything knightly. Even if Aleksandr had understood, how could he destroy the man he sought to become? But then he remembered what his father had said about Sir Jarek on the day he left Heahun. "He is a robber knight. Not a noble like us!" Father had been right then, and he was right now. Sir Jarek Kelbhen was not a true knight; not a true idol. There was no denying it. They would take the girl one sennight hence, and Sir Jarek would marry her by force. Aleksandr shuddered at the thought. He couldn't let such a thing happen. It was an offence against Stevene and against the baron! Against all who bore the title of 'knight'. But what could he do? He knew that he was but a boy. Who would listen to him? "He is a robber knight. Not a noble like us!" His father's words repeated themselves over and over in Aleksandr's head. What to do? The question still tormented him as he waited on Baron Dorja's guests that evening. "If only I were a knight!" he thought. "Then I could challenge Sir Jarek to a duel, and save Zhilinda! Those who follow Stevene's light always win their battles!" But he was only a page, of course -- not even a squire yet, by Cephas! Aleksandr wandered about the room, filling goblets with the bottle of Solov'necr that had led to the boy's state of affairs. He didn't pay much attention to the guests, as they couldn't possibly interest him with this dilemma rolling about his head. All he knew was that there were two of them, and that they liked the Solov'necr quite a bit. Which meant they'd probably stay the night. At least staying busy kept him from going crazy. It was a quiet little gathering, and Aleksandr was presently excused to do as he pleased. Of course, he had to stay in the general area as he might be needed again. In the main hall of the keep, several sets of King's Key held permanent residence. Once a sennight, on the holy day, Aleksandr would meet Lev to play a game or two. The two had won roughly the same amount of games each, but Aleksandr had pulled several victories off in the past month, and wished to press the advantage by keeping his skills sharp. Such was his zeal for the game that he had far surpassed the other pages in skill level. Sir Igrim's squire, Tpliki, was a very challenging opponent, however. As the squires were not required to wait on guests, as the pages were, he was free to partake in the recreational activities available in the keep. Once he was dismissed, Aleksandr would often search out the older boy and challenge him to a game. "So, you're ready for another thrashing, eh carrot-head?" the squire taunted when approached by Aleksandr. "I wouldn't be so cocky if I were you," the younger boy said, setting pieces on the board. "Remember last time?" Aleksandr had almost won their last encounter. "I've been practising." "So have I." Aleksandr sat across from the other. "Ready?" The game moved at a good pace, both of the boys employing a rather aggressive style of play, much faster than when Aleksandr confronted the methodical monk Lev. Aleksandr's favourite piece was the horseman, whose abilities he'd mastered. He always pictured himself as the very cavalier he moved about the board, bravely charging to battle in the name of good. Tpliki knew this however, and his first objective was to remove those pieces from the game, leaving Aleksandr in a tight and unfamiliar spot. He tried to employ other pieces, initially to no avail. It appeared that Tpliki was going to dominate the rest of the game, when Aleksandr was able to pull off a series of moves utilising his priests, turning the tables on the other boy. Tpliki eventually won the game, but Aleksandr had realised something important. Using his horsemen to their maximum potential was the attack he always used when playing King's Key, but when they were taken from him he had to employ a strategy that was less than obvious at first. "I don't have to stop Sir Jarek myself!" he thought. "There *is* someone who will listen to me, and bring justice to Fennell!" Aleksandr bade his time with patience uncommon for a nine year-old boy. After helping the guests to the rooms reserved for such purposes, and cleaning and sweeping the main hall, Aleksandr sought out Sir Igrim. Tpliki was thankfully still about, and aware of his master's whereabouts, as Aleksandr knew any good squire should be. He directed Aleksandr to the knight's living quarters. The living quarters were very similar throughout the keep, save those belonging to the baron and his family. Like the others, Sir Igrim's was a single room with a fireplace along one wall, and a window on another. It being winter, the window had its shutters closed tightly. Sir Igrim had not lit the fire however, and was cleaning a dagger by the light of a candle. The somewhat chilly room was as impressive to Aleksandr as its inhabitant was, however. On one wall hung a tapestry portraying a battle from the Shadow Wars that had taken place during the reign of King Darian, that Sir Igrim had been given as a gift. On the floor lay the skin of a bear, which the knight had killed personally. The sword that he carried with him at all times rested on the bed, a cleaning rag and sharpening stone nearby. He didn't trust anyone with his weapons, not even Tpliki. Above the fireplace rested a crossed sword and axe. As Aleksandr entered the room, Sir Igrim shifted slightly in his chair to appraise the boy. "Aleksandr!" he rumbled. "What are you doing up here, boy? You should have been in bed almost a bell ago!" "I'm sorry, Sir Igrim." Aleksandr kept his eyes on the floor. "But there's something I have to tell you ... that can't wait until morning." "Oh?" Sir Igrim put the blade down that he was polishing, and turned to face the boy fully. Aleksandr could feel his courage leaving him so he blurted the entire story out to the elder knight. True to his nature, Sir Igrim appeared totally unperturbed as the young page described the disrespect with which Sir Jarek and the others had spoken about the baron and his daughter. Even when he explained the plan to gain Zhilinda's hand 'by conquest', the knight remained emotionless. When the tale was complete, he gave Aleksandr a long, hard look. "What have I told to about spinning tales, boy?" His heavy eyebrows moved fractionally into a frown. "Sir ..." Aleksandr could feel panic welling up inside of him. Sir Igrim thought he was lying! "Sir, a knight does not lie ... he is honest always and with all people." "Exactly." Sir Igrim face grew darker. "And are you being honest with *me*?" "I am, Sir Igrim!" Aleksandr trembled. "I swear as if Stevene were here in front of me!" It seemed an eternity before the knight spoke again. "A strong oath. If you be made of the stuff worthy of a knight such an oath will prove it. I will take your ... tale, to the baron. He will judge. And if he judge that you are not being entirely truthful ..." The threat didn't need to be finished. Aleksandr knew well that the punishment for dishonesty was harsh, as was the punishment for breaking any of the knightly code upheld throughout Baranur. But Aleksandr had hope. If Sir Igrim was taking the story to the baron, he at least suspected a grain of truth in it. Also, Aleksandr *was* telling the truth. Surely, Stevene would guide the baron's heart to that conclusion. "Stevene favours the just," he thought. Sir Igrim placed a leathery hand on Aleksandr's shoulder. "You will speak of this to no one." Aleksandr shook his head vigorously. "No, sir." "Be off with you, then." Aleksandr left the room, Sir Igrim closing the heavy wooden door behind him. Aleksandr headed down the hallway towards the large room that the pages lived in, still a little shaky from his encounter with Sir Igrim. It was very dark, now that most everyone had gone to bed, and only every third torch remained burning for the guards to make their rounds. Aleksandr shuddered at the thought that Sir Jarek, Sir Miripur, and Sir Kalayan were among them. Just as he turned a corner, he heard the faint sound of Sir Igrim's door opening, and footsteps moving quickly from it in the direction of the baron's quarters. Baron Dorja's answer came sooner than Aleksandr expected. It was only the day after he had told Sir Igrim about the kidnapping plot, when the knight pulled him aside from his grammar studies with Brother Vladimir. Aleksandr knew when he looked into Sir Igrim's eyes that the answer wasn't a good one. "Baron Dorja the Just has considered what you said carefully." His eyes seemed to smoulder with anger. "Considering the services Sir Jarek has rendered Fennell in the past, he has judged him innocent. And your tale less than truthful!" Aleksandr gulped, but could say nothing in his defence. "By rights I should give you a good thrashing for telling such tales!" He was clearly quite upset with his pupil, but no hand was raised. In fact, his hard features suddenly softened. "But your intentions were good. You may well have heard something, but your imagination created what you told me. Therefore, your only punishment shall be extra duties. Hopefully that will teach you to keep your mind free of such flights of fancy. You may begin by mucking out the stables after your lesson with Brother Vladimir." Aleksandr would have bemoaned his extra duties, were he not so distraught over the news he had just received. As he shuffled back to his desk and slate among the other pages, worried thoughts ran through his mind. "The baron didn't believe me! How? Why? Was it just my imagination?" "He is a robber knight. Not a noble like us!" "No! I wasn't imagining it!" Aleksandr thought. "He *is* going to kidnap Zhilinda! Cephas' boot! What now? I can't let him take her!" As was the custom in the Barony of Fennell, the fifth day of the sennight was declared a day of worship for all Stevenics in the barony. Lev's friend Aleksandr had been given the day off from training and, as usual, made the short journey to Heart's Hope Monastery just outside Fennell Keep's outer walls, to visit him. Aleksandr had of course attended worship in the keep's chapel, at the first bell of day, with all of the other residents of the keep, while Lev had celebrated with his brothers. After the service, Aleksandr had made his way to the monastery. Heart's Hope Monastery had been Lev's home for just over two years, living with the Stevenic sect of Cyruzhian monks. He was, of course, still far too young to join the sect as a brother, but they treated him as such, and taught him all of their ways. Very different from many groups that followed Stevene's light, they were named after Cyruz of Vidin, a close follower of Cephas Stevene and missionary. The order had come into existence with an unconditional grant of land to Cyruz from the Baron of Fennell some fifty years previous. Heart's Hope Monastery was the first of many that soon dotted the countryside of Fennell. Centrally located in cities, the Cyruzhians were both scholarly and disciplined; their business was social and pastoral work, as well as education. They were effective preachers from the "common touch" as Cyruz liked to say, and knowledgeable. When they weren't caring for the sick and homeless, they created elegant religious icons and exquisitely beautiful books. The tomes were so valued by the monks that they were chained to their bookcases by metal rods built into the binding. As Lev had always loved reading, the monastery's scriptorium was his favourite room in the entire community. That the Cyruzhians eagerly accepted anyone attracted many peasants with unpromising futures to join. This despite the fact that unlike the vast majority of Stevenic groups, the order took strict vows of celibacy and poverty. Lev had always been exceptionally intelligent, far above his station in life as a peasant and son of a woodcutter. As Aleksandr's playmate he had devoured all of the scrolls and religious texts in the Heahun household. He had been taught how to read by Aleksandr's compassionate mother, who had claimed to see a bright future in him as a servant of God. The local church had been another source of learning with its handful of religious scrolls. It soon came time when there was no more room for intellectual growth in Heahun. It was then that Lev's parents decided he would join the Cyruzhians. As well as an avid learner, Lev had always been very religious. He loved discussing theology with the priest in Heahun, and the texts of Stevene's light spoke to him as they did to few others. It was not only priests he spoke with, but God as well. He never heard voices or had visions, but he was aware of a deep communication with a higher being. Sitting alone, near a gently flowing stream or quiet forest, he would have long conversations with his creator. He was never answered in words, but he found his mind was always directed towards an answer to his questions. Often answers that he would have never thought of on his own. And so, the Cyruzhian monastery seemed the appropriate place for him. Despite this, he was initially less than enthusiastic about his parents' decision, and asked them to consider another sect with a less severe code than the Cyruzhians. They had made up their minds, though, and he was going. With no hope in changing their minds, he had resigned himself to the Cyruzhians. He had contemplated what life would be like with them. The thought of marriage had never particularly appealed to him, and the idea of a wealthy cleric was appalling. In the end, he decided that if he were to dedicate his life to God and to Stevene's light, he would devote all of it. Since then, he had been able to expand both his mind and his soul beyond his expectations with the Cyruzhian monks. As he and his friend sat at the simple wooden table in the common room of the monastery, cool white rays from the sun shone through the cracks in the boards covering the window slits that lined the outside wall. Outside, the courtyard where the boys usually visited was covered with a thick blanket of snow. In the summer it was a truly beautiful place, its gardens carefully tended by the monks. The boys were alone in the room. Lev quietly surveyed the King's Key game that they were playing. Aleksandr sat restlessly across from him, obviously disturbed by something. Lev moved a piece and looked up to Aleksandr. "Something's bothering you, my friend. What is it?" "Something terrible is going to happen." Lev felt concern grow within him. It was unlike his friend to exaggerate on a matter of such importance. "Aleksandr?" The young page related an appalling tale, of Sir Jarek and his plot to kidnap Baron Dorja's daughter, and of the disbelief of Sir Igrim and the baron when Aleksandr told them of the plot. "... and I don't know what to do now." Lev sat in silence for several menes. Indeed it was a desperate situation, for both of them now that he knew of it. "What does your heart tell you?" Aleksandr seemed taken aback by the comment. Lev had always known him as one to think with his head, a tactician as a knight should be. But the mind couldn't answer every question. Lev was sure his friend's mind said he'd done all that could be done. But Lev knew there was a small voice near the back that said there was more. He listened to that voice often, and prayed it would lead Aleksandr as it lead him. "By Stevene! I have to try to stop them myself! If no one will listen, I *have* to try! I cannot have a clear conscience by retreating from glory!" He looked hard into Lev's eyes. "You will help me." Lev felt slightly sick at the idea. Two children against hardened mercenaries? But there was no alternative. "If all else has been exhausted, we have to take matters into our own hands. Stevene's light commands it." Aleksandr reached across the table to grasp Lev's hand. "Like the knights' charge at Balkura! It is better to die for a cause than to surrender it, and our cause is the defence of the Stevene's laws!" Lev was not taken by Aleksandr's sudden burst of enthusiasm, but knew the boy to be speaking the truth. The knights' charge at Balkura was less than an appetising thought however; a glorious battle it had been, but at great cost. The confrontation had taken place not far from Fennell, during the Great Houses War. There, the brave Fennell knights had confronted a force loyal to the insurrectionist House Northfield nearly one thousand strong. No fewer than fifty Fennell knights, nearly all of the noble sons of Fennell, had died in the battle. In an act of uncommon valour, the knights had charged, taking the rebels by surprise. All of the knights had died, but took more than half of the traitors to the crown with them, halting the advance and ultimately saving the barony from certain defeat. Though he knew he would go to a better place than this upon death, Lev was not so eager to become a martyr. "We cannot just charge them as did the brave cavaliers at Balkura, my friend." "No." Aleksandr's face was a little red from excitement as he settled back into his chair. "One must be pragmatic. We are only boys after all." Lev steepled his fingers before him in a meditation position. It helped him think. "Though I know direct attack has always been your way, this will call for subtlety." Lev couldn't hide the hint of a smirk from his friend as he remembered their many games back in Heahun. Yes, Aleksandr had won many of them by brute force, but Lev had won more by intelligence. "What do you have in mind?" "Well, if I recall from your endless prattle about your hero Sir Jarek," Aleksandr shot him a dirty look, "He comes from far south, does he not?" "Yes. He's not even from Baranur." "Exactly. There is something we have in Baranur that they don't in the warmer climes where Sir Jarek hails from. Winter. And with winter comes ice. Did you not say their route runs near a stream?" "Yes, it does!" Aleksandr touched a hand to his cheek. "Right near the holy rocks where we became brothers." "Which is perfect for my plan ..." ======================================================================== Talisman Three Part 3 by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Fall, 748 FE Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-1 The next morning saw most of Torenda's Troupe reloading the wagons and cleaning up the clearing by the way-cabin where they had spent the night. Meanwhile, Orla, Naka, Elin, Kend, and Thanj were sitting around the table that had been fetched from inside the cabin, and debating their next move. The odd stone that had been found in the cabin rested on the table in front of Elin. Its marble-like surface gleamed in the sunlight, and the metal and glass bands that crisscrossed it sparkled like new. Thanj was staring at the stone fragment, tracing the paths of the silver, gold, and glass bands. He idly wondered what the original sculpture had looked like. He reached out and traced a few of the lines as they wove under and over each other. Then, on a whim, he licked his finger and ran it along one of the glass strips. To everyone's surprise, a clear ringing tone issued forth and he snatched his hand away in haste, wondering what he had done to the thing. Naka's interest was immediately piqued by the note Thanj conjured. Ignoring the restarted conversation, she pulled the stone fragment closer and tried to get the glass strips to make noise. Thanj finally had to show her the trick. Once she had it, Naka found that every single glass band on the stone produced at least one note, and often several. Upon close examination, she discovered that instead of being continuous like the metal lines were, the glass ones were really segmented into smaller lengths and held in place by wedges of wood. Curious, Naka tried 'playing' the metal pieces in the same way as the glass strips, but the metal did not respond to rubbing. Trying the next logical thing, she tapped on them with her finger, to no result. Finally, it was Kend who took his dagger and tapped a band with its hilt to produce a bell-like tone. Naka thanked the wood carver, fished in her pocket-pouch, and found a piece of metal she proceeded to use to tap on the metal strips. She found that each band, while obviously continuous along its length, was somehow segmented within so that several different notes could be conjured from each length just like the glass strips. While she delicately tapped at the stone to determine what notes could be found and where, the discussion continued around her. So far, no one had been able to produce a convincing argument for either proposed course of action: continuing on south or returning to the original path and heading for Roebsach. Orla was in favor of continuing on south. "After all," she said, "we may have been intending to visit Roebsach next, but we certainly don't have any commitments there." "But we just don't know where this path leads," argued Elin. "It's so run down and overgrown that it certainly hasn't been used regularly in quite a long time. Why? What if it doesn't lead anywhere any more?" "You know, this speculation would be moot," put in Kend, "if we hadn't managed to lose our only map of the south of Farevlin." The woodworker looked at Thanj when he said this, since it had been the illusionist who'd had that map last, but Thanj was listening to Naka play random notes on the stone and didn't even hear Kend's gibe. "Still," Kend continued, "the weather has been nice and it's early enough in the Autumn. We only really have to worry if the path actually vanishes, and even then we could still pull the wagons back out by hand. But the path most likely leads somewhere eventually, and we have plenty of provisions for the trip. I say we continue on south." Thanj had torn his attention away from Naka's playing to hear the end of Kend's opinion and was about to add his own when they all heard hoof beats coming along the path from the south. Moments later, a rider sped past the clearing. They only had a glimpse of a person in a dusty tan robe on the back of a large brown horse, and then the rider had galloped past and was gone. The five of them looked at each other, and at almost the same time they all shrugged and returned to their previous pursuits. Thanj said, "Yes, the weather is nice and yes, we have plenty of provisions. And this portion of Farevlin is just as heavily populated as the rest of it, so we can't go all that far without coming across a village or town eventually. "But are we explorers, or actors? Should we strike out into the unknown of south Farevlin without any idea of where we are or might end up? Or should we just go back the way we came, get back onto the road we shouldn't have turned off of in the first place, and end up in nice, safe, planned-for Roebsach?" Before anyone else had a chance to rebut Thanj's cautionary stance, they all heard hoof beats again, this time coming from the north part of the path. Heads all turned, and sure enough, what looked like the same horse and tan-robed rider soon came into view. This time the rider reigned in and steered the horse over to the group by the table, who could now see that the rider was a woman with long black hair and a strong-featured face, handsome rather than pretty, but just now exhausted. The woman halted her mount a few paces from the table, and everyone around it stood up. "I ... can you ... ah ... help ... ?" She gasped out these unintelligible phrases, and swayed atop her horse. She took a deep breath and scanned the whole clearing. What she saw seemed very disheartening, though, for she bowed her head with a little sorrowful sigh-almost-sob, said, "Not war ..." and fainted. Orla caught her as she fell from her saddle, and then called for help to carry the rider over to the benches around the table. Players were sent to fetch water and some food while the woman was stretched out on two benches shoved together side by side. Orla used a wetted cloth to wipe the woman's face clean, which revived her. After a few sips of water, the woman sat up slowly, leaning her back against the table and staring up warily at the strangers who surrounded her. Kend, kneeling down next to her, said, "Take it easy, friend. We mean you no harm, but you fainted off of the back of your horse and we just wanted to be sure that you are all right. You also said something about 'help'?" The woman shook her head and said softly, "Help I sought, and help I have not found. But still ..." She looked around at the five faces directly around her, and the others crowding in behind that first ring. She said, "Help you may not be, but neither do I think you could be harm. So." She sat up straighter, drank the water Kend offered her, and after a moment spoke. "I am Virrila, one of Tchad Zarilt's students of the Way. The Tchad, who is also the Treasurer of Farevlin, has gathered around him people to whom he is teaching his philosophy of simplicity and serenity: this is the Way. "Two evenings ago, word came to the Treasury that an invasion was imminent. A former student of the Tchad, who now styles himself Warlord Adamik, is said to be intent on one of the objects housed in the Treasury. You have, of course, heard of Hekorivas?" Everyone nodded. The legends of the Staff of Unity were widespread throughout Farevlin. The gist of most of them was that Hekorivas belonged in the hand of the ruler of a unified Farevlin. Virrila nodded in return, and said, "Good. Adamik seeks Hekorivas, and knowing the man as I do, he will do anything that is required to get it. Adamik also knows something of how well the Treasury is protected, so he knows he cannot just walk into the vault and take it from its table. He has something planned, of that I am sure. "Tchad Zarilt has stated that he will not actively resist Adamik, and he has also forbidden the students from attempting to do the same. The Way is not about strife or combat, of that I have always been aware. But he also will not flee to leave the Vault to protect itself. This is understandable -- he does have his duty as Treasurer. And, though he has given his students leave to seek safety, they have chosen to stay with him. I do not know whether they think he can protect them, or whether they all accept the Way enough not to be frightened by the threat Adamik represents." Virrila paused to take another drink, and to collect herself. Everyone around her was hanging on her every word, and she liked the feeling of being paid attention to like that. But she also had a mission, one that seemed doomed to failure. Hope still lived, however, and these people around her were that hope. So, she continued her tale. "I, however, *am* frightened by that threat. I do not believe that Adamik will stop short of harming any or all of the Tchad's students if he thinks that will bend his former teacher's will. So, I left to seek help. "I hurried to Bluebell Rock, the village nearest to the Treasury, and got a horse. Then, I rode. I've been riding since. I was trying to get to Hofrusk or Redtree Grove, where it was likely that I could find some soldiers, or guardsmen, or even some rowdy farmers' sons eager for trouble. Someone to help against the upstart Warlord, someone to protect the students from Adamik's enmity. "About midday yesterday, somewhere south of here, I took a wrong turn. A trick of the light, or maybe I was just tired or over-worried, but somehow the signpost was pointing north along what becomes this path here. I had thought to continue east, but followed the sign automatically. By the time I realized that I was not on the right road, it was too late to turn back. I could only hope to find some town along this path in time. "When I rode past this clearing, I barely recognized that it was peopled. And then, when I realized, I hoped that you would be a company of guards or a band of mercenaries that I could hire. You were my last possibility to find someone in time. "Adamik will be at the Treasury by tomorrow, maybe the next day at the latest. He may give the Tchad time to consider before trying to coerce him, which may give me more time. Is there any village close by up this path? Anywhere I could find help we so desperately need?" The way the silence stretched for a few moments gave her the answer, even before Elin said, "Well, the village of Tilting Falls is three days east, but you'd find no help there. Roebsach is maybe a day to the west, but that was our destination before we, too, became lost, so we don't know what kind of help might be available there." "If any was, it would be help that was too late," said Virrila. "A day to this Roebsach, time to muster help if it exists, and the time it would take to ride back, as a group will ride more slowly than one, means that Warlord Adamik will have Hekorivas before we could possibly arrive. Which is also true of doubling back and taking the correct road from that traitorous signpost. "So, it falls to you to help us, or to no one. Is there any aid you could offer?" Orla said, "I do not wish to disappoint you or thwart your loyal efforts, but we are actors, Torenda's Troupe, though I fear our fame is not great enough for it to be likely you have heard of us." Orla introduced herself and the other four immediately around Virrila, and then the rest of the company with a sweep of her arm and a simple, "and our players." Silence fell again, and Virrila rose and started pacing. Eventually, she said, "I don't suppose you could ... well, *play* warriors, could you?" Naka laughed, and Thanj said, "Given that we could play warriors, which we could, we don't number enough to scare someone at a distance who calls himself Warlord. And our wooden swords and knitted chain mail won't fool him up close, either, so to try to out-bluff him face-to-face is also not an option." Virrila sighed in resignation, and said, "That makes sense, unfortunately." She turned in her pacing, and noticed the stone fragment on the table. She walked over to it, stared at it, reached out but didn't quite touch it, and finally asked, "What's this?" Kend walked back over to the table and said, "Well, we don't know. We found it last night in the way-cabin; it was among the belongings of a traveler who died there. Ordinarily, we wouldn't loot a body, but this fragment ... it was different. I know I felt like it belonged to me when I saw it. Well, to us," he said as he gestured at the other three people who wore the blue earrings. Elin added, "It was like something I, we, had been searching for for a long time, without even knowing it was lost." Elin reached over and touched the stone, not to take it or hide it from Virrila, but just to reassure herself that it was still there, still real. Naka added, "And, it's musical. See?" She began tapping at the metal bands, and sliding a wet finger along the glass bands, playing a simple children's game tune, fingers and hand darting around the piece to hit notes that weren't in any normal instrument's pattern. Virrila listened for a moment, fascinated by the tune, but then she remembered why she had been drawn to the piece. "But," she exclaimed, "there's one of these in the Treasury! Not exactly like this -- it is bigger, and has a cat as well as a falcon on it, but it is otherwise just like this one. Same kind of interlaced bands, same kind of marble-like stone, same fragmented sides. They might even be related -- if they somehow fit together, they would make half a circle, I'd bet. I wonder what they could be?" There wasn't even a vocal decision made. Orla, Kend, Elin, and Naka looked at each other, excitement welling up inside of each of them, and nodded. Orla turned to the players and said, "Finish packing, we're leaving as soon as possible." She turned back to the people gathered around the table and said, "I don't know what help we can be, Virrila, but we are going south at least as far as Bluebell Rock. Maybe we can think of some way to help as we travel." Zarilt stood in a very different-looking vault and gazed at the treasures laid out on the altar-like table at the front of the room. The wooden floor of the vault had been removed square by square, as had the covering panels on the walls. But that removal had not revealed the bare structure of the cave: instead, another floor had been hidden beneath the wooden ones, and other walls behind the plaster-smooth ones. Some of what was on the formerly hidden floor and walls was attributable to the artistic bent of a former Treasurer; the rest served as evidence of the vault's protection. Snaking out from the stone-block table were large root-like limbs that crawled across the floor and walls. These limbs coiled and curled, moving up, down, and sideways in the space beneath the transparent floor. But each limb, no matter how twisted and convoluted, eventually connected with a large, blue crystal. These crystals were usually beneath or behind the level of the coiling limbs, and as such were mostly concealed by the limbs themselves. The floor continued to be smooth to walk on, and the walls were just as smooth now as they had been when covered. The space that the limbs existed in was either trapped beneath a layer of what looked like clear, very hard glass, or they were completely encased in that crystal-hard substance. In various places, intricate mosaics had been inset into the surface of that substance. Some of those mosaics were complimentary to the objects below the surface, reproducing the twisting limbs in other colors or shades, or creating pictures out of twisting limbs; others were completely at odds with them, as if to deny their existence and cover them up with normal scenes of lakesides, or forest glades, or city walls. Zarilt knew nothing of what the blue crystals were, nor what the limbs were. He was fairly sure that no one in Farevlin did. The vault had not been constructed by those who had set up the Treasury, but had rather been usurped for the purpose. What had the creators of this cave needed the crystals and limbs for? What strange rites had the altar-table been used for? Sacrifices? Fertility rituals? No legends told those stories. He did know that those crystals and limbs formed the protection around the table. The mosaics had been done at a much later date, around the time when the carved stone fragment had come to be one of the five treasures. He understood why another former Treasurer had asked that the wood and plaster coverings be constructed. Zarilt had only once been in the room when it was bared like this, and that was when he had become Treasurer himself. He had always felt that the room looked impressive, but upon spending some time in it now for longer than the brief confirmation ceremony, he felt that it was growing more spooky and sinister. He certainly didn't think that his meditation sessions would have gone well in this version of the room. But meditation sessions were on hold for the foreseeable future, as were most of the normal day-to-day activities of his school. It had been four afternoons since word had come that Warlord Adamik was on his way. By now, he could be here at any moment, and though almost all of his students had remained with him, few were able to continue their daily routines in the face of looming disaster. Zarilt remembered Adamik as being strong and resourceful, but superstitious and headstrong. He had no idea what had brought such a person to his school, but it hadn't taken long for there to be trouble. In those days, he hadn't had as much of a grasp of the temptations his students offered to the unscrupulous, and Adamik had been able to carry out his tiny empire-building efforts for longer than Zarilt had liked. But eventually he had been caught and expelled, like Fessim had been only a few days past. Only now Adamik was back, with plans that did not include adopting the Way. Zarilt looked down at the five treasures. The one called Hekorivas was what Adamik was after. The Scepter of Unity was short, only a quok long, the span from a man's fingertips to his elbow. On each end, encased in a wood lattice, was an irregular oval lump of some kind of whitish crystal. What was even more odd, there was one in the middle of the length as well. Not attached to the side of the staff, but actually in the middle of the wooden staff. It looked as if the wood had been softened somehow and cut into strips. These strips had then been stretched outward to leave room for the crystal lump to fit within. Then, the strips had been twisted and braided somehow to form lattices like those on the ends. Zarilt had never been able see the joins that had to be in the wood to get it into that shape. But then, there was only so close that he could get without removing it from the table, and he would not let curiosity sway him from his duty. The seams could have been concealed by the carving on the wood itself, of course. The object was a work of art, but it was also possessed of a powerful history and legend. It made a sort of twisted sense that Adamik would try to get his hands on Hekorivas, but that just wasn't going to happen. The Treasury had never been plundered, and that wasn't going to change now, Adamik or no Adamik. The door on the other side of the room slammed open, drawing Zarilt's attention away from the altar. A student dashed through and managed to stammer out, "He's here!" but he needn't have bothered for Adamik was striding confidently right behind him. The so-called warlord hesitated just after crossing the threshold, startled by the change in the room that he thought he knew. Adamik recovered quickly, and looked around, taking in the ophidian splendor of the vault. "Very nice redecorating job, Zarilt!" he boomed out. "I wouldn't have thought it your style, but it works, I think. Most impressive." Zarilt watched his former pupil, trailed by a handful of well-armed and armored guards, stride across the floor. Adamik was older now, of course, but otherwise unchanged. He was still thick-bodied, with strong arms and legs, and a pinched face on a head that had always looked a little too small for his body. His hair was still brown, but his jaw-framing, short-cropped beard had a light sprinkling of grey. He wore armor like his fellows, and carried a huge sword at his hip, but he also wore a surcoat and cape, and the woman directly behind him carried a ridiculously ornate helm that could only have been made for intimidation purposes. And, of course, there were the customary amulets and trinkets hanging from his belt and epaulets -- Adamik had always been rather superstitious. The warlord stopped five paces from the altar, and his soldiers fanned out to either side of him. The woman who held his helm advanced a step in front of him but still to his right, and announced in a surprisingly loud voice, "Warlord Adamik comes before you. Heed his words and obey, or face the consequences!" She took two steps back, and Adamik laughed. "She's a good herald, isn't she, Zarilt? And that's not all she's good at either!" He laughed with his people, including his herald, who didn't even blush. Adamik continued, "I wager you know why I'm here, Zarilt. You may not have spies of your own, but the information would have come to you anyway. But to make it formal, I am here to claim Hekorivas." Zarilt said, "No one may claim Hekorivas. It is one of the Treasures of Farevlin. Only the unifier of Farevlin can lay claim to Hekorivas, and such there shall never be." "There you are wrong, my old, *old* teacher. I shall unify the thousand lands of Farevlin, but I do not intend to wait until I do to take Hekorivas in my hand. With that scepter, I can convince maybe a third of Farevlin to accept me as their overlord without striking a blow, which is a third fewer lands I have to conquer by might. And the more states I control, the more likely that others will come to me of their own free will, especially if I am wielding Hekorivas. I need that artifact, old man, and I *will* have it." Zarilt stepped back a pace from the altar and spread his hands wide. "Then try to take it, if you must. I shall not stop you." Adamik had never expected to just be handed the artifact he coveted, but neither had he expected Zarilt to simply step aside, to offer no resistance whatsoever in his office of Treasurer. He glanced around the strangely-decorated room and wondered about the legends concerning the Treasury. No one had ever pillaged it in all its history. It made sense that there would be a reason for that, didn't it? Still, Adamik had a reputation to uphold, and an impression to make. If the vault really could protect itself, he had to see that for himself. And Zarilt had to know that he was serious about his demands. He *would* be carrying Hekorivas when he left the vicinity of the Treasury, or he was no Warlord worth the name. Adamik gestured to his left. One of the soldiers standing there stepped forward. He looked at the Treasurer, and then at the fabled Scepter of Unity lying on the table in front of him. He would have looked back at his leader, but he knew what the warlord expected of him. He, however, also knew the legends of the Treasury, and he didn't think he would be satisfying his warlord's wishes this day. Knowing his duty, he reached for Hekorivas anyway, a faint plea for mercy on his lips. As his fingers approached the top of the table, a hum built up in the room. A glance around would have revealed that each of the blue crystals was glowing behind the twisting limbs. Nearer, and tiny blue stones set into the vertical corners of the stone-block table started to glow one after the other, starting at the floor. Other gems also began to glow on the four faces of the table, and the hum grew louder. Finally, just as the soldier's fingers were about to touch the staff, the top of the table flashed bright blue. The soldier screamed, there was a deep snapping noise, and suddenly the soldier was slumping against the far wall, back by the door. Tiny blue sparks darted around on his armor, and smoke drifted out from under it. The man was quite obviously dead. Warlord Adamik turned to check the fate of his man, and to hide from his former teacher and current foe the way he was clutching at his amulets in fear. He had expected something less deadly from the vault, despite the legends, and to see the might of the response it had produced to the attempted theft rattled him to his bones. But caressing his amulets and trinkets calmed him, and he realized that he couldn't let anyone see his fear. He took a few steadying breaths, composed himself, saying a silent 'farewell and well done' to Rinask, his dead companion. Adamik then turned back to Zarilt, summoning rage to cover his momentary weakness. Bluster would be enough to cow the Treasurer, he knew; a show of continued determination and strength to back it up. He said, menacingly, "You tricked me, old man." "I did not," replied Zarilt calmly. "I said 'try'. I never said you would succeed. You did not trust me in any case, else it would be you lying dead over there." Zarilt's placidity infuriated the warlord. "Turn it off!" Adamik thundered. "Release the scepter to me, or you will be sorry!" "I can not. I will not." Adamik growled in frustration. Sword-rattling obviously wasn't going to be enough. He hadn't expected to get Hekorivas without a fight of some kind, but it troubled him that he felt like he was losing the contest of wills. "I will give you some time to reconsider, Zarilt. Think well to what lengths I might go to gain what I want." He turned and strode single-mindedly to the doors, scattering the handful of students who had followed him in. His soldiers started toward the body of their fallen comrade, but Adamik said, "No. Leave him to the teacher and his students. Rinask served me well in life but can no longer serve in death." He stopped and turned back to Zarilt. "Until tomorrow, Tch -- *old man*!" And he was gone. Zarilt's students crowded around him, all babbling at once in fright. None of them had ever seen the might of the vault displayed, but neither had Zarilt himself. He had known that the vault was protected and had trusted in the tenets of his office. The result of Rinask's action had been as gruesome as the twisty limbs in the floor were, but effective also. His treasures were in no danger. His students ... well, he just didn't know. He reassured those around him, and soon each had left except one. Ninya, who stayed by him behind the altar, asked, "Do you know what he intends, Tchad?" "No, Ninya, I don't. I think he may be even more ruthless than I feared, however. He sacrificed his own man to prove that he was serious in his desire for Hekorivas. What else might he be willing to sacrifice to gain that artifact?" "Is that not reason, then, to resist? To take up arms, to stand in the hallway out there and hold him off? To send for help?" "No, Ninya, it is not. Fighting is not part of the Way. Resistance to others cannot lead to happiness. Serenity will armor me against anything that he does, and any of my students who stay in the face of what Adamik represents must learn the same, and swiftly." "But, Tchad," Ninya all but whined, "What use is serenity when you are dead?" Zarilt looked her in the eye, calling upon all of his calm and confidence. He said, "If serenity is a worthy goal -- and it is -- then serenity is its own reward. If I were to die now, my search for serenity would still have been worth every moment that I spent on it. There is no result to be earned, no reward at the end. The result is happiness now, the reward is serenity today. "Let me ask you a question, Ninya. Do you think that Warlord Adamik is happy?" Ninya laughed a short, derisive laugh. "Of course he is! He is powerful, so he can have anything he wants. His army earns him his every desire. How could he not be happy?" "If that is happiness, then how is it that I am happy? No, Ninya, he is not happy. His army can not bring him everything he wants, though he thinks it can. It cannot bring him Hekorivas, can it? "There is a simpler test, however. I am happy in and of myself, and no one can take that away from me if I do not let them do so. But I ask you, Ninya, what of Adamik? He has a powerful army, and people respect and fear him. This gains him much, and makes him happy in a way. But his happiness is not of himself nor with himself. Others suffice to make him happy. "So what happens, Ninya, where is his happiness, if Adamik meets someone who is powerful enough to take it away from him?" ======================================================================== A Tale of Two Thieves Part 1 by JD Kenyon Seber 1017 "Can you see her?" Durvin Karrick whispered loudly. Storn Mard, a good head taller than his companion, had no trouble finding the woman and her child, even at a distance from the crowd that had gathered for Dargon's annual blessing of its fleet of ships. He watched as the little girl trailed behind her mother, clutching a chewy-apple in her grubby hand. From his vantage point in the alley, he followed their weaving path along the edge of the milling throng. "She's heading towards the dock." His look was appreciative -- she was a fine woman, worthy of more than one glance even when not being followed. "You've got to get close to her." Durvin's breath reeked of ale and Storn shoved him away. "Just get away and leave me to it." Impatient to get on with the plan, he found his target again. She bent down to swoop her daughter into her arms and he could hear her light laughter as she examined the brown sticky mess all over the little one's face. "Go now!" Durvin said insistently. Storn shrugged away from Durvin's hand on his back and stepped into the road, sweeping his cloak over his shoulder and turning to keep his eye on the woman. He did not want to get too close; his timing would have to be perfect. He glanced back to see if Durvin had left the alley. It would all come to naught if the idiot got himself recognized by one of the town guard. Thankfully, he was gone from sight. Storn inhaled deeply and lengthened his stride. The citizens of Dargon seemed in a festive mood as they ambled around vendors' stalls, even though a thick gray blanket of clouds hinted at possible rain. Squeals of delight rang out from a group of children as they tossed hard-shelled flingers onto the rocks and rushed to collect them. He edged his way past the row of people waiting to have their fortunes revealed from the broken flingers and wondered whether his future would show a sudden increase in wealth. A guardsman cast a keen eye over him and he hurried on past. He was virtually a stranger in these parts following a lengthy absence from Dargon and there was no need to draw attention at this stage of the plan. For a moment he lost sight of mother and daughter, then saw the small head of dark curls bobbing up and down to his right as the young woman tried to adjust the wriggling child on her hip. She had joined a group that was making its way towards the dock where the ceremony would be performed. He changed his pace and moved in behind them. Up close, he could see that the woman had tiny flowers pressed into the braids that swung across her back with each step. The little girl had noticed him and he gave her a big wink. She tucked her head down and scrunched her face into her mother's slender neck. "Ginny ..." the woman reprimanded gently, twisting away from the small gooey hands that had suddenly been flung around her neck. Storn slowed his pace and bent down, adjusting his boot clasp but watching the figure in front of him from under his fringe of hair. She started to move again and he rose quickly, moving to her side as they neared the edge of the dock. A swift glance assured him that everyone around them was absorbed with the pending arrival of the priests. Storn nudged closer, aware that the tot's big blue eyes were locked onto him. The moment was right he decided, and sneaked his hand to the little girl's leg and gave it a playful tweak. The effect was immediate: the face crumpled and the little mouth let out an almighty wail. The woman stopped short and Storn gave a loud gasp of surprise as he tumbled to his left over some netting and ropes, and plunged into the murky waters below the dock. As he rose to the surface spluttering, he heard the urgent calls for help and saw that mother and daughter were huddled most concernedly just above him. Storn also realized that the water was cold and smelled foul, and in his head, he cursed Durvin. He looked for a foothold, but was forced to tread water. Someone tossed him a rough rope. His body thudded into the dockside pillars as they hauled him up, but within a mene, several hands were clutching at him and boosting him onto the dock. He twisted his head and coughed. "I am so sorry. So, so sorry," the woman he had been following said anxiously to him as he slumped onto the wooden deck. Other voices asked if he was all right and he nodded his reassurances, spitting into the water and tugging off his cape. With the excitement over and a clamor growing nearby as the priests approached the fleet, people began to head off, leaving Storn hunched over, wringing out his sodden cloak. The woman waited. "That was cold," he announced, looking into her guilt-laden eyes and inwardly breathing a sigh of relief that she had not bolted. She had a protective arm around her daughter. "I didn't realize ..." Her remorse was genuine. Storn smiled. "No harm done, madam. Just a bit of a soak." He dropped his cloak and extended a hand. "Storn Mard is the name." His disarming smile had the desired effect: the tension eased from her face and she slipped a soft hand into his clasp. "I'm Della," she said, "and this little mischief maker is Ginny." Storn focused on the tot, who was cowed in her mother's arm. "Hello, Ginny." He tousled her curls and gave her a conspiratorial wink. "I suppose we had better get up." He straightened, water dripping from his drenched clothes. Della stood up too, and a bashful Ginny buried her face in the folds of her mother's skirt. "I'll find a spot out of the way to dry off." He looked up at the overcast skies, and then offered a further explanation. "I'm staying at the Feathered Pig." He watched as Della grasped the predicament, as the inn was a good way out of town. "I live nearby," she said. "I suppose you can come and dry off in front of a fire." "I wouldn't want to impose." Storn squirmed from one foot to the other and the water squelched in his boots. There was no need to feign the coldness he was feeling; every shiver came from the bone. "It's no problem," she said. "After all, we did knock you into the water." "Well, if you are sure." He shuddered involuntarily. "If the foul water doesn't kill me, the cold surely will." "It's not far." Della picked her daughter up onto her hip. Storn smiled warmly again. "Just lead the way." He had reeled her in as easy as eating honeyed pie. This was the reason he was known as the best swindler in Baranur he thought smugly as they left the docks behind. The house on Ramit Street was unusual. Judging by the worse-for-wear forge that now served as a stove and fireplace, it had once been a smithy. Storn looked about while Della sat the little one at the table and produced a wheat cake from a pottery jar, then turned her attention to stoking up a new fire with some wheezing bellows. Things were going far better than he had expected. He had heard much about Della from his partner Durvin, and had thought it was an exaggeration, like so many of Durvin's tales, until he met her this day. He wished Durvin had provided a bit more detail. After all, Della was Durvin's former wife. Storn found his eyes straying to her gentle curves and slim waist. She looked up and he glanced away. "I'll just be a mene," she said, and disappeared into a back room. He looked around -- there were no cupboards or cabinets. A few pots and pans hung from large hooks above a small table. The place was sparsely furnished, but had a comfortable feel. Storn saw a few bolts of cloth on a low bed in the corner and a half-completed dress spread out on the kitchen table. If Della had the money Durvin claimed she did, then she was using it sparingly. He suddenly realized that she was back and that her eyes were on him -- and on the puddle that was forming at his feet. "I appear to be making a mess of your neat home," he said. She offered him a pile of clothes. "You can use that room to change." He shrugged off his cloak and she took it from him. "The clothes may be a bit tight, but they're dry." Then she added hastily by way of explanation, "They belonged to my late husband." Storn repressed a smile as he pictured her "late husband" Durvin propping up the tavern counter and downing yet another ale. It was somehow fitting that he should be dressing in Durvin's clothes. "Thanks." He squelched across to the doorway, pausing to undo the twist of curtaining draped above the lintel. This room was also bare: a bed, a nightstand, a chest and a makeshift shelf. With his ears pricked, listening to Della's lively chatter with her daughter, Storn undressed. As he stripped off his shirt, he looked for possible hiding places: the little treasure trove that Durvin had promised would be there somewhere. He let his boots thud to the floor as he hurriedly searched the nightstand drawer, then crouched down to peer under the bed. In the dark, he could make out a loose floorboard that jutted slightly askance. He felt a sense of elation as he finished undressing and pulled the dry clothes on, tugging as they stuck to his wet skin and sighing when he saw how short the sleeves were. At least the leggings were a better fit, but if he had been a modest man he would have been a tad wary about the close cut that clearly accentuated his masculinity. "Are you all right?" she called, and Storn realized that he had taken his time. He pulled back the curtain and she fought to suppress a smile. "Your mirth is not appreciated, madam," he said in a mock stern tone as she gave a spontaneous laugh. "I'm sorry. You do look odd though." Della laughed again. She reached for his wet clothes and draped them over a bench and a chair, which she had moved closer to the forge. Storn padded across the floor in bare feet and placed his boots close to the heat. "Do sit down, Milord Mard." She gestured to the clothes that had now started to give off wisps of steam. "They may take a while to dry." There was only one chair left, and he hesitated. Della resolved his dilemma by swinging Ginny onto her hip and sitting down on the edge of the bed pallet in the corner. "I should really leave," he said, as he sat down on the edge of the seat. "You should at least stay until your boots have dried out some more." She settled a sleepy-looking Ginny on the bed. "Let me get you something to drink." He watched as she got up and walked past him. He had not pictured her like this at all. From Durvin's description, Storn had expected Della to be cold and humorless -- more like the "nagging, demanding, selfish, high and mighty hussy" he had been told about. He had met Durvin at Jo'nass' Tavern in Port Andestn about a year before, and their common background -- both formerly from Dargon -- had been the basis for their partnership in crime. Storn was the charming swindler in their partnership. He would befriend lonely widows; and as he wooed, he would watch and note the little details of their homes. What better alibi than to be with the widow herself when some dastard thief broke in? It had proven to be a smart plan that netted both Durvin and Storn a goodly hoard. Unfortunately, there were only so many widows, and it had seemed a good idea to leave when Storn's charm started wearing off because of rumors. "Where are you from, Milord Mard?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts. " I was in Dargon to check on a valuable shipment, but need to return to Port Andestn." Storn decided on a vague mixture of the truth. "It just seemed like a good idea to see the blessing of the fleet." "I'm sorry that we ruined the festival for you." She set up two mugs. "Not much to regret. The fleet will be blessed again next year," Storn said, knowing that he had no intention of being in Dargon next year. After this little caper and their activities in Port Andestn, he and Durvin would have to seek the anonymity of some or other town -- possibly Hawksbridge, or even the city of Magnus -- for a while. A sweet spicy scent wafted his way as Della decanted some short mead. "I'm sorry I couldn't offer you anything warmer to wear." She handed him a mug. "I suppose I would have been luckier if my rescuer had been a tailor instead of a seamstress." He gestured to the dress and bolts of cloth. "A man in a dress -- now that would make an awful sight." She tossed her hair back and laughed, and Storn found himself laughing too. "What happened next?" Durvin was hunched over the table, glaring at Storn who was seated opposite him in the otherwise deserted Rogue and Quiver. "Keep your voice down, fool," Storn said angrily, checking to see if they were drawing any attention. The tavern owner was leaning against the counter, cleaning his fingernails with a short dagger, and the only serving wench present was sprawled across a table, polishing silver tankards in a bored daze. "The stupid sow gave you my clothes," Durvin said. "Do you want to hear what I found, or not?" Storn waited as Durvin picked up his ale and took a swig, then leaned back against the bench. "I think you may be right about the money." "You see!" Durvin clanged his tankard down. "Bitch took my money, ran me off with threats to expose me, and now she is living in noble style." Storn decided to ignore Durvin's sullen outbursts and instead presented the facts, as he saw them. "She says she is working as a seamstress, but there wasn't much work lying about. She dresses well, but the place is sparsely furnished." He pictured it again in his head. "She has also spent money recently. The walls look like they have just been whitewashed and she was wearing a fine pair of shoes for someone counting their rounds." "Well it certainly ain't from an inheritance. Her mother died little more than a pauper," Durvin interjected. "No great loss there -- the old woman was a real curmudgeon." Storn expressed his doubts. "I really don't think we are talking about a lot of money, Durvin." "You don't know Della like I do, Storn Mard. She's a hoarder, that one. Set aside every coin that came into the house when we were married, and turned it ten times before it went out." Durvin snorted and spat on the ground. "She took a big pile of my plunderings too. Della's a devious one, I tell you." "Well, I still have to find out where she is hiding it." Storn recalled the loose floorboard, but decided not to reveal it just yet. "We just have to make sure she isn't there when we go look for it." Durvin snarled, "So what do you propose we do? Spend a few more weeks here until we see our chance?" "No. Perhaps it's simpler than that," Storn said slowly. He had just figured out a way to do it. "I think she's already taken a fancy to me." "She's not a widow, you bastardly jack-a-dandy. She's my wife!" Durvin cried out. "Not any more." Storn sucked in a deep breath, wondering what a beautiful woman like Della had ever seen in a fool like Durvin Karrick. "The mighty Mard," Durvin said sarcastically. "Truth is you are always thinking with your pecker, aren't you?" "The truth is that this plan has worked well for us before," Storn said, annoyed. "It will work fine here too." He leaned back against the bench and clasped his hands behind his head. Durvin scratched his beard and slowly rubbed his hairy throat before he spoke. "Straight, Storn. You get the woman and a third of the loot --" Storn smacked his hand on the table. "A *third*! We agreed on half, you screegull scum!" "Ah. But that was before you planned to sleep with my wife." "Former wife, you stupid lout. You left her, remember?" Storn said. "Or perhaps you still have feelings for her?" he asked in an accusing tone. "I forgot that bitch a long time ago," Durvin said with a sneer. "If you go anywhere near her, she'll report you to the town guard." Storn reminded him. "Somehow I don't think *they* have forgotten how you murdered a guardsman." Durvin grunted and swore under his breath. "All right!" He glared at his smirking partner, who knew too well that he had to stay out of sight in Dargon or risk being arrested. "You can take half." "Fair share partners!" Storn declared and thrust his hand out. Durvin gripped it. "So be it," he stated. Storn smiled and lifted his tankard. "To good fortune -- no matter whose we claim!" ========================================================================