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 4 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 4/22/2000 Volume 13, Number 4 Circulation: 753 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb A Matter of Honour 3 Nicholas Wansbutter Janis, 1006 A Tale of Two Thieves 2 JD Kenyon Seber 1017 Talisman Three 4 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Fall, 748 FE ======================================================================== 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 13-4, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright April, 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 This issue is so packed with fiction that there's virtually no space left for the editorial, so I will be, as they say, "mercifully brief". Although as DargonZine's Editor, I really don't see why a short editorial should be termed "merciful" ... But allow me to move on to the content; I have just two things to talk about. First, I'd like to extend a personal welcome to all our new subscribers. Since the last issue went out, nearly three dozen new readers have subscribed to the zine. Part of that influx is attributable to an article, written by Emily Alward and distributed by TipWorld, which featured DargonZine. In the two days after that article went out we received more than a dozen new subscription requests, and two new writers had contacted us about joining the group! Welcome aboard, and I hope you enjoy our stories and that DargonZine meets your expectations. Oddly, this is a bit of an awkward issue for us to welcome new readers with, because it contains the concluding chapters of three ongoing storylines: JD Kenyon's two-part "A Tale of Two Thieves", Nick Wansbutter's three-part "A Matter of Honour", and Dafydd's four-part "Talisman Three", which in itself is part of an immense (and ongoing) story arc that goes back another sixteen chapters and may continue equally far into the future! I'd encourage our new readers to go back and read these stories in their entirety; they're well worth the effort! Unfortunately (or perhaps "mercifully"), due to space limitations that's about all I can say for now, but you can be sure I'll have plenty of news and opinions to share when DargonZine 13-5 is distributed next month! Until then, enjoy the stories, and help us spread the word! ======================================================================== A Matter of Honour Part 3 by Nicholas Wansbutter Janis, 1006 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-2 The night of the kidnapping was a bitter one. It seemed fitting to Aleksandr that the eve of such a vile deed be so cold. That Baron Dorja Fennell's trusted captain of the guard, Sir Jarek Kelbhen, sought the baron's daughter Zhilinda's hand in marriage through such means was appalling, but no less true for it. That Aleksandr, but a page in the baron's household, and his friend Lev were the only ones standing between Sir Jarek and his plot did not bode well for Zhilinda. The baron had not believed the young page when Aleksandr had reported his knowledge of the plot, and thus the boy had been pressed to take things into his own small hands. He could not allow Sir Jarek to take the baron's daughter, and by the Stevene, he'd do all in his power to stop it. Aleksandr stole silently down the halls of Fennell Keep towards the stables where he and Lev had planned to meet. He had only pretended to go to sleep that evening, and had waited an eternity, listening for the third bell of night to toll from the monastery bell tower. When it had finally come, he donned a thick black cloak and heavy boots, over the clothes that he had never changed out of. Under his bed he had hidden a shortsword two days previously in preparation for his mission. The thing was clumsy in his hands, as he had only just started to learn the basics of sword use the sennight before. He hid it beneath his cloak, wishing it were a full-sized sword despite the fact such a weapon would be as tall as he was. But no matter. With God on his side, he was confident that he would prevail, despite his small weapon and diminutive size. Careful not to wake any of the other pages, he had then moved stealthily out of the large room that he lived in, and onto his mission of saving the baron's daughter. He moved with haste, as in a mere two bells Sir Jarek and his minions would begin their excursion into the night. He took care to avoid the guards as they made their rounds. There still remained two bells until the guard was changed, making this a difficult task. Aleksandr wondered how Lev was doing in his escape from the monastery. The thought was cut off by the sound of heavy boots strolling down the hall. Aleksandr pressed himself into a dark corner where the meagre light of the torch left burning during the night could not find him. He held his breath as two burly guards moved past. They wore tunics in the red and white colours of the baron, and carried torches in their hands, their swords sheathed. They appeared half-asleep and bored, never moving their gaze from the space directly in front of their eyes. Finally the guards were gone, and Aleksandr resumed his journey. He was glad for the cloak and boots, even within the keep's walls. His breath formed thin, frosty clouds with each exhale. They were barely visible thanks to the bit of warmth cast by the torches, but he knew it would be a much different story once outside. The scabbard holding the shortsword was cool in his hand, but reassuring. When Aleksandr pushed open a door leading out of the inner keep, a wall of bitterly cold air hit him. It was still at least: a saving grace on a night like this. A full moon shone brightly down into the inner courtyard in which Aleksandr now found himself. With it the black sky, unblemished by any clouds, bore a myriad of stars. It was incredibly bright, almost as light as day with the glistening snow below reflecting it. It was a hard white light however, quite different from the warm yellow radiance of the sun. It was nearly impossible to distinguish colours: everything appeared varying shades of blue. To Aleksandr the world barely seemed real. The crisp snow crunched under his booted feet as he moved across the yard, but fortunately there was no one about to hear. The guards in the battlements were too far away, and concentrating on the surrounding city. He made haste across the inner bailey, through the inner gates and into the outer bailey. Hugging the walls and the shadows he managed to evade the notice of any of the guards in the gatehouse. At last he reached the stables. He waited until the group of guards patrolling the outer bailey had moved around to the rear of the stables before approaching them. It was deathly still in the large one-and-a-half storey building. The frigid air carried the intermingling of manure, hay, sweat and leather that made the distinct smell that permeated all stables, which was much more potent in warmer weather. It lacked the harsh, acidic odour that chamberpots bore, and to a person used to the stables, the smell of horses was not unpleasant at all. The moonlight filtered in through the door Aleksandr had just opened, illuminating the room with its eerie glow. Many of the horses slept on their feet, large puffs of steam billowing forth from their snouts that protruded from their stalls. Others lay stretched out in the hay, sleeping deeply. Snores permeated the room, some loud, others a bizarre whinny-snort sound. As Aleksandr was no stranger to the stables, the horses were unperturbed by his entrance, and remained sleeping. Easily spooked, a great commotion could have been raised by the animals had someone unknown to them entered. For this reason, it had been arranged that he would meet Lev outside. Aleksandr moved through the stables towards the stall Sir Jarek's horse lived in. As he suspected, the animal was already saddled-up, ready to leave at a moment's notice, as were the horses belonging to Sir Kalayan and Miripur. The animals were dozing restlessly with the uncomfortable gear on their backs. Aleksandr slipped into the stall holding Sir Jarek's horse first, and brought forth his dagger. Whispering soothingly to the creature, he approached the horse. "Shhh ... Easy there boy. I've just got a little present to leave for your master." Ever so carefully, he started sawing at the saddle girth with his dagger. Very slowly he cut, weakening the leather as he did so. He stopped once he had cut about three quarters of the way through the leather belt. "That should do it." he thought. "A good bell's ride and the girth should snap like a twig. That should give Sir Jarek a good surprise! And a little more time for me and Lev to complete our work." Aleksandr repeated the process on Sir Miripur and Sir Kalayan's horses' girths, then moved to another part of the stable. He didn't feel completely at ease with what he had to do next, but he and Lev needed a horse if they were to beat Sir Jarek and his men to the stream in good time. Tpliki's horse was sleeping soundly, but on its feet, in a stall near the door. It wasn't anything special -- a skinny old warhorse past its prime, flea-bitten and slow -- but it would do. Carefully waking the creature, he placed a thick saddle blanket over the horse's flanks. Aleksandr then took Tpliki's saddle and placed it on the horse's back. He then attached his scabbard-encased short sword to it and adjusted the stirrups for a person of his height. Once the horse had been properly saddled-up, he opened its stall and led it towards the rear of the stables where the open door awaited. On the way he grabbed a pitchfork with his free hand. Once at the door, he cautiously peered out to see where the bailey guards were. He caught sight of their pointed helmets and glinting halberds about three hundred paces away, parallel to the stables. Aleksandr only had a couple of menes before they made their right wheel at the chapel and would then see him. Quickly, but as quietly as possible, he exited the stables with Tpliki's horse in tow, and closed the door behind him. He moved around the stables so the guards wouldn't spot him at their turn, then towards the gates where Lev would meet him. Pulling his cloak low over his head and much of his face he prayed to Stevene that the next, and most daring, part of their escape could be accomplished. Fortunately the guards hadn't thought much of a monk wandering about the castle, as they often came to visit the guards with some food, drink and ministry during the night. Aleksandr found Lev unmolested near the main gates. They exchanged a silent greeting, and started the most dangerous leg of their journey. The guards in the outer gatehouse were the most vigilant of them all, but watched for people trying to enter, rather than leave. Thus, reaching the gate was no problem. Getting through it wouldn't be bad either; the problem lay in making it out of visual range of the keep without being spotted once outside. For the past few nights since the plan had been hatched, Lev had gone in place of the monk from Heart's Hope Monastery that visited the guards during the night, and they recognised him when he called up to the gatehouse. Aleksandr remained huddled in a shadow nearby, hoping they wouldn't notice the frosty breaths emerging from his position. Presently one of the guards opened the gatehouse door and allowed Lev to enter. Aleksandr could hear voices drifting down from the gatehouse as the guards talked with Lev, and he gave them the food he had brought. Aleksandr remained in the shadows for the agreed upon amount of time: the duration of five prayers to Cephas hanged. He had said the first sentence of six when he began moving towards the gate. His heart thudded in his chest so loud he was sure the guards would hear it. Slowly, one finger's width at a time, he edged the main gate open. When it was exactly the width of the horse, he moved it no more, and proceeded through the opening. Softly clucking to the horse, he urged it through as well, then pushed the gate shut. Now came the most perilous part. Still moving slowly, and through the snow at the edge of the road leading to the keep, he headed downhill and away. After an eternity he reached the safety of the closest city buildings and ducked into the first alley he saw and awaited Lev. The fourth bell of night was struck before his friend arrived. Avoiding the city watch was easy after escaping the castle, but the boys nevertheless remained silent until outside of the city walls. Aleksandr breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank Stevene we made it through that." "The night is far from over," Lev said nervously. They didn't speak much during the ride. Each was nervous about what had to come next, but neither willing to admit it. Lev especially, was almost sick with nervousness and fear. As an aspiring monk, he was a pacifist, and totally inept in any form of combat. Aleksandr, though only a page, at least had some training and though several years younger he was also bigger and stronger. He calmed himself; faith in Stevene was all he needed. Silently he mouthed prayers over and over to keep his wits about him. It was several bells later when they arrived at the stream, and no telling how far behind the kidnappers were. Amidst the 'holy rocks', where the boys had made their pact years before, rested two wooden buckets that Lev had hidden there the day before. Each of the boys took one and headed for the stream. It was almost completely frozen, but its quick current kept some of it liquid. Aleksandr cracked the ice with a rock, and the boys began scooping buckets-full of water and heading for the road. There, they poured the contents across the highway. After several trips a thick glaze of ice covered the road, slippery as anything in Dargon. Next they sprinkled dry snow lightly over the surface of the ice to disguise it. Then they waited. On the edge of the road they hunkered down amidst the trees, hidden behind a mound of snow. As they huddled there, Aleksandr with his shortsword gripped tightly, Lev with the pitchfork, a gentle wind began to pick up, blowing snow all about. It disguised the boys more completely, but reduced the visibility. As a result, Sir Jarek and his men were almost on top of them before they realised they were there. Aleksandr's sabotage of the saddle girths had not worked as planned. Only Sir Jarek was dismounted, and it appeared he was only so to more easily find the path they sought in the blowing snow. Aleksandr could make out the small form of Zhilinda in front of Sir Kalayan on his horse. They were approaching at a cautious pace. Perhaps the sabotage had worked at least on Sir Jarek's saddle and they suspected something? It didn't matter. As soon as Sir Jarek stepped onto the ice, his feet shot out from under him, and he thundered to the ground. A look of bewilderment and rage contorted his face as he struck the hard road surface. Out of instinct Sir Kalayan dismounted immediately, and rushed to Sir Jarek's side. "Now!" Aleksandr whispered, as he dashed with all of the speed he could muster out towards Sir Jarek, shortsword outstretched. Lev was right behind him, pitchfork thrust forward. With the added reach of the stable implement, Lev reached his target first, digging the points into Sir Kalayan's massive form. The huge knight bellowed more with anger than with pain, and batted the fork aside, throwing Lev to the ground with it. Aleksandr fared no better. With cat-like reflexes Sir Jarek parried the thrust with his forearm sending Aleksandr skidding across the ice. He regained control, and headed for the horse upon which Zhilinda was perched. Sir Miripur wheeled his horse about, and, making the best of its spiked horseshoes, charged onto the ice, knocking Lev back to the ground as he staggered to his feet. Aleksandr had nearly reached Zhilinda when out of the corner of his eye he saw Sir Jarek swinging. The captain of the guards hadn't even bothered to draw a weapon, he merely struck at the boy with a clenched fist. Aleksandr tried to dodge, but still caught enough of the blow to send him to the ground and sliding across the ice once more. "Kalayan!" Sir Jarek shouted. "The girl!" Somewhat dazed, Aleksandr looked up to see that Zhilinda was attempting to escape on her own. Unfortunately, Sir Kalayan's horse was less than cooperative, otherwise she might have gotten away before the lumbering knight could grab the beast's reins. Stevene's love was with her however, as Aleksandr saw an opening. There was enough room and enough time that he could shoot himself across the ice and have the knight hamstrung before he knew what was happening. Assuming, of course, that he could cut with enough force. "Stevene, guide my blade," he whispered. He was just about to launch himself into the attack when he heard the loud whinny of Sir Miripur's horse. He chanced a look to see the mounted knight toying with Lev. Every time the boy rose to his feet the knight knocked him to the ground again. No, he was done playing now; he was circling for the kill, his mace raised, about to strike. Aleksandr froze. He was only paces away from gaining Zhilinda a distraction that would allow her to escape. His friend was moments away from dying. Save his lord and master's daughter? Or his friend's life? He had to choose and act now; Sir Miripur had finished his backswing. "Lev!" Aleksandr made his choice, and dove towards his friend. The swinging mace knocked the shortsword from Aleksandr's hands as he tried to parry Sir Miripur's attack. The blow was slightly deflected however, and rather than shattering Lev's skull, it just clipped him with a sickening crack. Aleksandr dropped to catch Lev, as the other boy fell lifelessly to the ground. Aleksandr was unable to catch him, but gathered him into his arms immediately. Lev's eyes rolled into the back of his head and his muscles suddenly became very tense. His body started shaking violently in Aleksandr's arms. Aleksandr could only watch in horror and pray. What had Sir Miripur done to him? "Cephas, please!" Aleksandr cried. "Help him! Help Lev." Presently the trembling stopped, and Lev's body went limp. Blood trickled from his head where the mace had left a depression. His chest didn't seem to be moving, and no mist emerged from his mouth or nose. Aleksandr was sure he was dead. "And now you die!" he heard Sir Miripur say from behind him, accompanied by the swish of a mace travelling through the air. Aleksandr didn't care. "No!" The mace stopped abruptly three hands above Aleksandr's head as it was blocked by Sir Jarek's sword. "These boys have shown courage unprecedented for their young years. They will live." "But they know!" Sir Miripur objected. "Such is our task that that is of no matter." Sir Jarek pushed the mace away. "In fact, the more who know the better. Once it is done, Zhilinda is mine and no one can do anything about it. But these children ... impress me greatly. I doubt I would have had the audacity to try such a rescue were I in their position." "But one of them is dead! What about murder?" Sir Jarek knelt beside Lev and touched two fingers to the boy's neck. "No. He lives. Bring them." With that Sir Jarek turned and strode back to his horse, which had obediently stayed where it was during the brief skirmish. The wind had died down again sometime in the past couple of menes. Having had good visibility returned, Sir Jarek mounted the horse, and started once again towards the merchant Billik's house. Sir Miripur noticed the horse that the boys had brought with them standing in the forest, and commanded Aleksandr. "Take your horse, and follow me." He lifted the lifeless Lev onto his own horse, and waited. Having no spirit left in him, Aleksandr obediently mounted his horse and went to the knight. Sir Kalayan fell in behind Sir Jarek, with Zhilinda securely in hand, and Sir Miripur followed. Tears welled up in Aleksandr's eyes as they rode. "Stevene, why have you forsaken us? Why Lev? He's one of your closest followers. Why not me?" Aleksandr cried softly much of the way to Billik's house. Tpliki's horse followed the others all of the way there. Aleksandr lifted his head as they neared it. It was a handsome home, built of darkly stained logs. All appeared quiet in the home. It was completely dark. "And now," Aleksandr thought, "This atrocity will be allowed to happen. Out here in the middle of nowhere. Where her father can't protect her. Why Stevene? Do you not love her?" Everyone dismounted, except Aleksandr, who was hauled from his mount by Sir Miripur and made to drag his friend along. They dug fresh tracks into the snow as they approached, decimating the single set of tracks that must have belonged to the merchant. Aleksandr looked over miserably to Zhilinda who was now only an arm's length away. It was the first time he'd seen her close up. Though her eyes were red from tears, he found her to be quite beautiful. She had long, black hair and pale, almost white skin. He couldn't tell what colour her eyes were in the ethereal moonlight, but they were captivating nonetheless. Aleksandr could only look at her, a silent apology in his eyes. "Do not fear for me," she whispered. Aleksandr hung his head in shame. Such courage. Sir Jarek pounded loudly on the door. "Open the door, in the name of Baron Dorja!" He continued pounding for several menes before the sound of a board being lifted could be heard. A short, portly man answered the door. He had dishevelled grey hair, and a reddish complexion. He held a lamp in his hand and squinted out at the visitors. "Yes?" Sir Jarek shoved the man backwards into his home, and entered. "Be silent, you greedy old dog!" The man obeyed, and cringed in a corner as the rest of the party entered, and closed the door behind them. As soon as the bar slid into place, a door near the rear of the house opened and guards bearing lanterns appeared. Tramping feet could be heard rushing around the sides of the house to cut off any chance for escape. In the centre of the room stood Baron Dorja himself, sword drawn. To his right stood Sir Igrim, similarly ready for combat. Other knights stood ready behind them. Rage burned in the baron's eyes. "You use my name quite freely Sir Jarek," he said between clenched teeth. "You dare to take my daughter for yourself? How dare you steal her from her bed! How dare you betray the trust of all of Fennell!" Sir Jarek knew what was coming, and he stepped forward to face it as a man and a knight. He drew his sword in readiness for what was about to occur. "As is my right as a father, and as baron, I will now deliver justice for this most foul deed!" Aleksandr was swept along with everyone else as they piled outside to witness the final combat that was to take place. Outside, the baron's soldiers formed a large circle about the clearing directly in front of the cabin, bearing torches to light the deadly arena. Baron Dorja removed his heavy cloak and handed it to one of the guards. He wore no armour but a scarlet shirt and breeches, a gold medallion bearing his family's coat of arms hanging from his neck. Infuriated though he was, the baron attacked with skill and precision. Aleksandr had never seen the baron in combat, but it was an impressive sight. It was almost as if he and his sword were one. Sir Jarek, however, was a better swordsman still, and younger and more agile. Each blow Baron Dorja delivered was expertly deflected, as Sir Jarek danced about the older lord. Soon it was the baron who was on the defensive, trying to put space between himself and Sir Jarek. The knight was quick however, and closed in on Baron Dorja every time he tried to draw away. Without warning, Sir Miripur brought forth his mace and struck at the baron. Sir Igrim's blade was waiting for it, though, as if the elder knight knew exactly when and where Sir Miripur would strike. Sir Kalayan then struck at Sir Igrim, but his attack, too, was turned aside. The clearing degenerated into one terrible melee. Only the clash of swords and screams of the wounded could be heard. Aleksandr dragged Lev behind a tree where Zhilinda had already sought refuge. The battle was terrible to watch. Aleksandr's heart jumped every time he caught a glimpse of the baron and Sir Jarek. His lord fought bravely though Sir Jarek was clearly his superior in armed combat. Aleksandr winced as Sir Jarek's blade met flesh, and the baron's blood splattered the once pristine snow. Baron Dorja fought on still, intent on avenging the wrong attempted against his daughter. Then Aleksandr's view of the baron was blocked as the lumbering form of Sir Kalayan moved in his path, laying about him with two morningstars. The guardsmen that tried to take him were felled by the flailing ball and chain like strands of dry grass. Aleksandr then caught sight of Sir Miripur and Sir Igrim trading blows. Sir Miripur lashed out at his adversary with reckless disregard for defence. As his mace rained blow upon blow on Sir Igrim's sword, Aleksandr feared his teacher would not be able to recover. Aleksandr took solace in the composure with which Sir Igrim faced his enemy, so did not squeeze his eyes shut when it looked as if the elder knight had left an opening for Sir Miripur's mace. With practised grace, Sir Igrim redirected what appeared to be the final blow and used the force of it to send Sir Miripur sprawling face-first into the snow. He wasted no time in quickly dispatching the fiend. Sir Kalayan was not far behind his comrade, as one of the guardmen's halberds neatly cut his head off as he was smashing a wounded soldier lying prone before him. Baron Dorja courageously fought on with Sir Jarek, despite more wounds that leaked his life onto the ground. It was clear that he was weakening from the loss, as he dropped to one knee and weakly parried another attack from Sir Jarek. Aleksandr was filled with fear for his lord, but also with anxiety. How he wished he had the skill to take up a sword and come to the baron's aid! For everything that had transpired here tonight to end this way would be too much for Aleksandr to bear. "It cannot end this way," he thought. Blood covered half of Baron Dorja's face and stained his greying beard, and more blood seeped from several cuts over his body. Still, he was not defeated, and with a look of steely determination in his eyes, he rose to land one last attack against Sir Jarek with all that he had left. With a mighty swing, the baron broke Sir Jarek's blade in two and cleaved him nearly in half with the follow-through. Jarek toppled the ground, thrashing and screaming before growing suddenly silent, a puddle of dark blood seeping quickly into the snow beneath him. Baron Dorja drove his blade into the ground beside the body and dropped to his face exhausted and bloodied. Zhilinda ran to him, arms outstretched. "Father!" "My sweet child." Baron Dorja forced himself back up onto his knees and enclosed her into a great hug. Tears ran down both of their faces. Sir Igrim knelt beside Aleksandr and Lev. "I must apologise to you, Aleksandr. I told you that the baron did not believe you, only so that we could catch Sir Jarek in the act, and totally unexpecting. I never thought that you might do this. You are uncommonly courageous and gallant for a boy of your age. And I am sorry for underestimating you." "I was not only I, Sir Igrim." Aleksandr held his friend tightly. "Lev, my best friend ... I couldn't have done it without him." Two sennights later, Lev stood before the baron and Sir Igrim once again, though he did not remember meeting them the first time. In fact, Lev remembered nothing of he and his friend Aleksandr's ardent attempt to save the baron's daughter, Zhilinda, nor of several days before and after. He leaned heavily on a wooden staff. According to Fennell Keep's resident healer who had saved Lev, it had been several days before he had awakened from his wounds, though he knew not what had caused them. Aleksandr's version of how he had received them was suitably valiant. Supposedly Lev had faced Sir Jarek's minion, Sir Miripur in single combat to protect the girl. Aleksandr was a good boy, and no doubt had embellished the story somewhat to cheer Lev, as his wounds had proved grave indeed. Despite the efforts of the keep's healer, Lev was not yet fully healed, and perhaps never would. He now dragged his left foot, and had trouble using his left hand. In fact, much of the left half of his body was now permanently numb, even his face, which lead to great difficulty in speech. It bothered Lev far less than it might have others. He was to be a spiritual man, and that his young body was now wrecked would not hinder that. Nor would God look on him any less lovingly for it. Stevene's love remained with him he knew, as his mind was unaffected by the injuries he had suffered and his ability to serve God unimpeded. Lev was content, though he knew physical people like Aleksandr could never understand how. Theirs was a world of mundane lances and swords, and they were welcome to it. But of course Baron Dorja's daughter, Zhilinda had been saved, which was of further consolation. As it had been told to him later, the baron had in fact believed Aleksandr's tale of the kidnapping but pretended not to in fear that Sir Jarek would realise that his plan would fail. Instead of going to sleep than night, the baron and a few select soldiers went to the merchant Billik's house and laid in wait there for the mercenary and his henchmen. Thinking of the baron and his daughter brought Lev back to the present, where he stood in the great hall of Fennell Keep. It was far from empty. Shy of crowds, Lev was comforted to see Aleksandr standing next to him. His friend was as big and healthy as ever, thanks be to God. Stevene always held the just in God's favour, and He had not overlooked Aleksandr. At the front of the room stood the baron before his throne, Sir Igrim to one side, Zhilinda to the other. All were decked out in beautiful dress clothing for the occasion, a stark contrast to Lev in the plain Cyruzhian habit of a white tunic beneath a black hooded cloak. Several knights and lesser gentry from the Barony filled the hall. Aleksandr's father held a place of to the left of the baron, as did Lev's own father. A commoner, Bel Roise had nothing spectacular to wear, though he seemed not to notice. Both he and Sir Harbid were bursting with pride. Baron Dorja cleared his throat. "Gentles, please!" Once the crowd had quieted he continued. "It is my great honour to present to you this day, two brave young boys. Aleksandr Heahun, son of Sir Harbid Heahun, and Lev Roise, son of Bel Roise of Heahun. Their great courage saved my daughter from what could only have been called an abomination, and they must be recognised for it." He recounted the tale to those assembled. Though a cleaned-up and shortened version, it did justice to what had transpired. "Such ... valour ... is uncommon to say the least. Why, to face grown men and hardened mercenaries on their own showed courage unparalleled since the knight's charge at Balkura. I cannot imagine having had the audacity to do such a thing without the support of my knights." The crowd cheered loudly, but silenced when the baron raised a hand. "The entire barony owes you its gratitude. Friend Lev, as a novice of the Holy Order of Cyruzhian monks, I can offer you no personal reward though I shall make a contribution to your monastery." Lev bowed as deeply as he could while still clutching the staff, and with great concentration spoke, "Your grace, I have already been rewarded a thousandfold by seeing your daughter returned to you safely. Your generosity to my order is unnecessary, but greatly appreciated. May Stevene's light shine on you." "And on you." The baron seemed not to have noticed any slurring of Lev's speech, for which he was further grateful. "As for you, Aleksandr ..." "Your lordship?" Lev could hear his friend's voice tremble with excitement and nervousness, as it had they day they had left for Fennell. "I respect nothing more than a man of gallantry who upholds Stevene's laws. You have proved yourself to have the makings of such a man. That you and your friend did not meet death at the hands of those evil-doers impresses me also. Thus, I promote you to the rank of squire in spite of your young years. Not only this, but you shall be my personal squire from this day forth." Aleksandr bowed low, but Lev was still able to see the grin on his face, which warmed him to the core to see. "Your lordship is too kind!" Lev cooly observed the faces of their fathers. Sir Harbid's seemed about to fall from his skull, he was so bewildered and joyous. Lev's father was more subdued, though Lev saw tears welling up in his eyes. Zhilinda descended the dias and thanked both Lev and Aleksandr with a few words and a kiss on the cheek. As Aleksandr said repeatedly in later years, he would always look back on that day as one of the greatest in his life, and the true beginning of his life as a knight. Lev knew he, too, would look fondly upon this day for the happiness it bore his friend, and the strong presence of God he felt in the hall. For him, too, it was a beginning. ======================================================================== A Tale of Two Thieves Part 2 by JD Kenyon Seber 1017 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-3 The rising sun was warming the crisp morning air as Storn Mard cantered up Dargon's Main Street, mulling over the day ahead. While he still felt a bit uneasy about the plan he and Durvin Karrick had devised to get money from Durvin's estranged wife, he felt buoyant about the prospect of seeing the attractive Della Karrick once again. He decided that he would regard this escapade as a "recovery" and not an act of theft; after all, Durvin insisted that Della had cheated him out of a goodly sum of money two years earlier. Storn pulled up the reins and slipped off his mount, tethering the stallion to a wooden post outside Della's home. He rapped on the door, then stepped back into the street with a hand tucked behind his back and waited. There were muffled sounds indoors and he heard a little girl's brief wail just before the door opened cautiously. "Oh! Milord Mard." Della balanced her daughter Ginny on a hip as she pushed the door ajar and looked at the bundle in his hand. "I did not expect you to return the clothes." The day before, Storn had contrived to meet Della after staging an accident at the docks during the annual blessing of the Dargon fleet. The plan had worked out neatly; not only had she invited him back to her home, she had also loaned him dry clothes. "It was the least I could do, Madam Karrick." Storn smiled broadly as he proffered the pile of borrowed clothes and followed Della into the house. "You were most generous in providing me with assistance after my unfortunate tumble." He revealed a spray of wildflowers that he had concealed behind his back. "I picked these on the way into town." Della took the flowers and set Ginny on the bed, along with the clothes. "They are very pretty. But there was no need." She was cool and aloof. Storn watched as she crossed to the kitchen and silently searched for a jug. He bent to talk to the toddler in a loud whisper. "Something tells me that your mother does not like flowers." Ginny rushed away shyly to her mother's side and Della reached down to clasp her hand. "I didn't mean to sound rude." She looked at him. Her blue eyes were piercing and her direct gaze caught Storn off guard. "Della ..." he paused. "It so happens that I now have some business in Dargon that I need to attend to. I will be here for a day or two." He had to convince her he had a good reason to stay on, because he had told her before that he was just in town for the festivities. "Would you and Ginny like to accompany me on an outing tomorrow? After all, we missed the festivities and I feel I owe you both something in return." "Thank you for your kind offer, Milord." Della's smile seemed forced. "Unfortunately," she said, looking at Ginny, "we are not going to be here on the morrow." "Oh." This was going to affect Storn's plans. "Will you be busy the whole day?" "I am afraid so." She started to walk back towards the door and Storn was forced to follow. "Thank you for returning the clothes," she said brusquely, and nudged the door open with her foot. Storn knew he was being given a signal to exit. He stepped outside into the fresh air, untethered his stallion and hardly had time to say farewell as Della shut the door firmly. With his foot in the stirrup, he swung his leg over and settled on his mount. "Never fear, Storn Mard. One door closes, and another opens," he muttered to himself as he set off down the road at a canter, his mind already working on a way to turn the situation to his advantage. Judging by the glazed look in his eyes, Durvin was already downing his umpteenth ale of the day as Storn walked through the door to the Rogue and Quiver. His greasy-haired companion was also doing his best to engage the serving woman in a conversation and Storn caught the tail end of some fanciful story as he approached. "Back already?" Durvin grinned. "I guess our Della did her usual icy slip and shunt." He chuckled at his own description. "For your information," Storn said through gritted teeth, "it so happens that I have another plan." Durvin's stool scraped as he pushed it back, swigged his ale and surveyed Storn. "So let's hear it then." "She's going out tomorrow." The interest in Durvin's eyes picked up at Storn's words. "You're sure?" "She turned me down for a prior arrangement," Storn informed him, but decided not to say that Della had subtly declined him in more ways than that. He was not used to having his advances rebuffed. He turned his attention to the woman behind the counter. "Good morning, fair maiden." The woman blushed, but responded with a gap-toothed smile. Reaching across the counter and catching her hand in his, Storn beamed back at her. "What does a poor man have to do to get a drink and a smile in this place?" He lifted her fingers and brushed them to his lips as his partner snorted loudly next to him. "Just bring the man a drink, you silly sow," Durvin interjected loudly. Storn gave him a sideways blow on the shoulder, almost knocking him from the stool. The woman laughed and filled a tankard with ale. Storn decided that this was a more productive way to spend his day, instead of chasing after a cold-hearted woman like Della Karrick. He took a generous swig and winked at the barmaid. "It's going to be much easier than we anticipated, Durvin." "Fat lot of good you've been," his partner grunted. "I may as well have done this on my own." "Straight! You could not take the chance of being seen by the town guard. In fact, you are taking a risk sitting here." Storn said under his breath. "Or did you forget that they still hang people who commit murder?" Durvin's eyes narrowed and Storn knew that his partner would prefer not to be reminded that he was being sought in Dargon for the killing of a young guardsman. "Well, thieving ain't much better, Mard. So don't get all self-righteous with me." "We are partners. We do this together," Storn proclaimed, slapping Durvin on the back. "Besides," he said, leaning forward to whisper a fact that he had concealed the day before, "I know where she has hidden the money." He grabbed the wench as she passed by the table and pulled her onto his lap, ignoring Durvin's expectant gaze. "I've got work to do," she protested. "That you have," Storn agreed and slid his hand around her waist. The stallion swished his tail and snorted, and Storn patted his flank as he peered from the alleyway early the next morning. A full bell had passed since first light. "Shhhh, boy, shhhh." Storn felt uneasy. It was unlike the horse to be restless, and it was not the first time that he had been backed up in a narrow alley, although Storn usually worked under cover of dark. He had a clear view of Della's doorway. She was yet to leave for her errand, but there was still no sign of Durvin. Storn cussed under his breath. They had agreed to meet here at dawn and Storn hoped that the stupid fool was not still asleep somewhere. His own head was throbbing slightly. If it had not been for the fact that he had had company in his room the previous night, he would have kept a closer watch on his rogue companion. As it was, he had told Durvin to make his bed elsewhere; after all, Storn had paid for the room and he was in need of a little womanly comfort, even if she was not as fair as Della Karrick. Sudden movement from across the road caught his eye and he sidled closer to the wall to get a better look. Della was closing the door. She had her back to him and a bright scarf bound loosely over her hair, concealing her face as she turned to the road. Ginny was standing at her side, fidgeting about. Della picked her daughter up, cradling her in the crook of her arm, and walked off in the opposite direction towards Main Street. She was moving slowly, and Storn had to wait a few menes until she disappeared from sight. He stepped from the alley and looked about for any sign of Durvin. "Turdation!" He decided not to wait any longer. A heavily laden wagon rolled by, stirring up a trail of dust. Storn gave a quick tug on his horse's reins to check that they were still tied to the wooden wall slat, then hurried across the road as the wagon came to a halt a short distance away. There was some commotion as a group of men started to unload barrels. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Storn opened Della's door and stepped inside, shutting it behind him. The room looked as if the Beinison army had plundered it. Chairs had been smashed; jagged bits of splintered wood poked into the air. Bolts of cloth had been yanked open and were covered in ash. His eyes settled on the torn strips of material caught beneath an overturned bench. He recognized it as what was left of the dress Della had been working on. "*Durvin*!" He spat the word out as he dashed to the back room, stumbling over a tattered flap of curtain that had once covered the doorway, and dropping to his knees to look under the bed. The loose floorboard he had noticed when he had changed in the room two days earlier had been pried open and lay to the side of a now-empty hole. There was no time to be lost if he wanted to catch the two-timing, thieving, no-good whoreson. Storn sprinted for the door -- and stopped dead in his tracks as he came face to face with Della Karrick. Ginny was asleep in her mother's arms, her thumb in her mouth. Their eyes met. "What are you doing in my home?" she asked in a low tone that seethed with anger. Storn saw with some shock that her scarf was concealing a livid bruise across her cheek. "I just came to bid you farewell and found this disarray," he said, watching her reactions closely. "What happened?" Della sighed and stood quietly. "Please don't tell me you think I am responsible for this," Storn said, with a calculated measure of surprise. He crossed the room and set the bench upright, then gestured for her to sit on it. She walked past him, leaving the door open behind her, and laid Ginny on the pallet, smoothing the little girl's dark curls. "I was going to report this to the guard this morning." Her voice was trembling. She bit her lower lip as she stared at the destruction around her. "You know who did it?" he asked, feeling ill at ease. There was an extended silence as he waited for her to speak. "I was not entirely honest with you," she said at last. She spoke slowly, her body rigid as she perched on the edge of the pallet. "This is the work of my former husband -- the lousy rat who walked out on us two years ago and then came back last night." If the town guard knew, they would be here soon. Storn glanced at the door. "Did you report it?" "I changed my mind." She looked defeated. "Durvin is a brutal man." Storn's hands hung at his side and he felt an inner rage starting to seethe. "Why did he do this?" "He said it was revenge for the way I treated him." She shook her head and looked at him, as if she was expecting him to say something. To avoid her gaze, Storn bent to the task of clearing up the things that were strewn on the floor. He could feel her eyes on his back as he moved about the room. He found a woven coverlet under an unrolled bolt of cloth and handed it to her. She flinched when she took it and he noticed the bruises on her arm as she covered Ginny with it. Her trembling fingers tugged at the scarf and a sheaf of hair fell across her shoulders. She stood up and brushed past him. "Did he take much?" Storn asked, watching as she began to straighten her possessions, her hands pausing over the broken shards of mug and bits of shattered wood. "He took everything I had." She looked at the torn remnants of the dress she had been working on. The tears welled in her eyes and he barely heard her whispered words. "It was money that I earned the hard way." They worked together in silence, turning the table upright and fixing the stools and chairs as best they could. Swirls of dust glimmered in the sun's rays as they moved about. Ginny whimpered in her sleep and Della rushed to her side. She knelt and cuddled the little girl in her arms, and as Storn looked down on mother and daughter, an uncomfortable sense of guilt settled heavily on him. It was not something that he was used to feeling. "I have to go," he said quietly. Della did not reply as he left her house, pulling the door shut behind him. Storn's gap-toothed companion from the night before beamed widely as he barged into the Rogue and Quiver. There were a handful of early morning patrons hunched over tables, but Durvin was not in the tavern. Storn darted across to the counter and tried desperately to recall the wench's name. Eventually he blurted, "Woman! Where is my friend? Did you see him leave?" She looked taken aback at this sudden show of rudeness and turned away from him. He leapt over the counter and pushed her up against the barrels. "Please, my dearest one," he said in a soothing tone, running his hand over a rounded hip, "it's a matter of life or death." Her eyes softened as he took her hand in his grasp and dropped to his knees, clutching her waist. "All right, you charming scoundrel!" She pointed to a stout woman wiping tables. "He spent the night with Maddie over here -- even gave her a bleeding Round, unlike some of us who got nothing." "I wouldn't say nothing," Storn reprimanded in mock offence and stood up. She blushed and pushed at his chest as the other woman came towards them. "If you're looking for your friend," Maddie said, "he bolted during the night." She leaned over the counter, giving Storn a generous view of her ample bosom. "Just so you know, the Round was only because he couldn't get it up and wanted me to keep quiet about it." "Guess I should have given you a Round then," his bed companion said, running her hands down his chest and winking at Maddie, who let out a hearty laugh. "Did he say where he was going?" Storn brushed the roving hands away. "Do I look like I care where he was going?" Maddie said. Storn swore in exasperation. Durvin could be heading anywhere, and he had a good head start. "If it will help, he asked about barges heading for Kenna." Storn bolted back over the counter and planted a resounding kiss on Maddie's cheek before dashing out the tavern. He could still hear her laughter as he mounted his startled steed deftly and dug his heels in to get the beast moving. "Thought you would get away, you cheating whoreson," he grunted, and galloped towards the riverside docks. It was close on mid of day at the docks as Storn slowed the stallion to a trot. He cursed, looking at the clusters of people milling about. It seemed as if everyone in Dargon had business at the riverside today. A couple of deckhands staggered past him. "Ahoy there," he called. They stopped and turned to look up at him. "I'm seeking barges bound for Kenna." "End of the dock," the swarthy one muttered, pointing past a row of crates and goods on the small crowded dock. "Thanks." He spurred the horse on, then yelled back over his shoulder, "If you're wanting a good time, try the Rogue and Quiver!" With the knot of people thickening every step of the way, Storn slipped off the stallion's back and looped his reins over the closest post. Charging ahead, Storn narrowly avoided careening into some dockworkers who were shifting a large wooden crate. Ahead of him, he could see deckhands preparing a barge for sail. Storn's path was blocked by a group of straggling dockworkers. He skirted round them, lengthened his stride and broke into a run. Durvin Karrick was not going to get away that easily. Kenna was upriver from Dargon, and if his cheating partner got that far, Storn would have a hard time tracking him. "Are you bound for Kenna?" he called to a thickset man who was untying a thick swirl of rope from its mooring. "Aye." Storn stepped past the man and bounded up the gangplank, ignoring the shouts of protest from behind him. A glimpse of greasy hair and a black cape were all he needed to confirm that his crooked partner was on board. He lunged forward. Busy deckhands cursed him and blocked his path as he shoved past them and clambered over crates, jostling his way across the barge's deck. Durvin was near the barge's helm, talking to a man Storn took to be the captain. They turned at the sound of the commotion. Durvin's eyes widened. He muttered to the captain and started to scramble backwards. Storn reached him in two strides. "Screegull scum!" He grabbed Durvin's tunic and whipped him round to face him. "I can explain --" Durvin stammered. "How you cheated me and beat up a young woman?" Storn snarled. He sensed that the men on board were circling them. In the background, he heard one of the deckhands start a chant. "Fight. Fight. Fight" More voices joined in. "The bitch deserved it!" Durvin spat the words out and widened his stance. The voices around them rose, but Storn no longer needed an invitation. He swung his arm and felt the crunch of Durvin's jaw beneath his fist. Wild-eyed, Durvin staggered into the gathered men and was grabbed roughly and flung back into the tight circle. As he straightened, Storn saw that Durvin now held a short dagger in his hands. Durvin lunged at him. Storn pulled back, narrowly escaping the blade, but the circle of men behind him thrust him forward again. Out the corner of his eye, he saw a thick wooden staff against a crate in a narrow gap between the jeering deckhands. Dodging to avoid another of Durvin's wild blows, he made for the staff, gripped it in his hand and went on the attack, slamming the hard wood into Durvin's chest and forcing him to reel backwards. He wielded the staff, blow after blow, until Durvin's knife fell from his grasp and he sank to his knees. The gathered men fell silent, and the only sound that could be heard was the ragged breathing that tore from Durvin's lips and Storn's own deep gasps. The captain bent to retrieve the knife and took the staff from Storn's clutch. "Beat a woman, you say?" he asked, looking at Storn. "A beautiful young woman," Storn said, not taking his eyes off Durvin's prostrate form. Nochturon's glow lit the deserted streets of Dargon as the lone rider's mount slowed to a trot. The horse's hooves clack-clacked slowly across the cobbles towards Ramit Street. Storn pulled the horse up short and paused in the cool night air, his tongue running tenderly over a bruised lip. There was a dull ache in his arm and he plucked gingerly at his shirt, prying it away from the dried blood on his wounded shoulder. Less than a bell ago he had been on the road south, heading away from Dargon. "You're getting soft," he said under his breath and shook his head. From where he sat, he could see Della Karrick's door, a short way down the road. The stallion whinnied and flicked its tail. Storn dropped his hand to his waist and felt for the pouch of coins he had taken from Durvin, then he nudged the horse's flanks with his heels and headed for her threshold. He slipped off his steed and knocked quietly on the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The house remained silent. He knocked again, this time a short, sharp rap. The sound carried in the night gloom and Storn glanced over his shoulder to see if there were any people about. He heard a light footfall. The door scraped and opened an inch, and he saw Della staring at him in surprise. "May I come in?" he asked, the reins trailing loosely from his bruised fingers. She hesitated, the candle she held lighting her face with a soft radiance. "All right, Milord." She opened the door to let him in, tugging her shawl around her shoulders. There was an icy chill in the dark room. "I won't stay long. I just wanted to return this." He stretched out his hand and held the bag of coins before her. "I'm afraid Durvin has already spent some of it." She stared at the pouch that dangled from his fingers, and he heard her breath catch in her throat. "I don't know what Durvin led you to believe," she said as she eventually reached for the bag. "There wasn't much to take." He raked his fingers through his hair, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. Della crossed to the table and emptied out the small pile of coins in the flickering candlelight. She gathered them in her hand and turned to face him. "Why?" she asked. Storn realized that it was a simple question which begged a hundred different answers. He looked away and thought a while before he spoke. "Durvin lied to me and he cheated me. I expect that he did the same to you." He swallowed hard. "I suppose I thought that you and Ginny didn't deserve it." "Should I be grateful?" "No," he said, "That's not what I came for." He was glad that he stood in the shadows so that she could not see the uncertainty on his face, because he did not know what he wanted from her. Not gratitude. Perhaps acceptance; perhaps just to know that he had made her happy; this woman with eyes the color of the ocean on a calm day, and a laugh that made him feel like the gods had smiled on him. She slipped the coins back into the pouch and tightened her shawl around her. "Then you have done what you wanted to do." "Della --" "I've survived Durvin Karrick more than once, Milord Mard." She sounded bitter, but resolute. "I'll do it again." "Then at least know that Durvin won't be back in a hurry." What he did not say was that after he had beaten Durvin, the captain had agreed not to call the guard. Since he had already been paid for the journey, the captain said he would let Durvin stay aboard, but as a deckhand, and not a passenger. "He's on his way to Kenna." She picked up the candle and crossed to where he stood, her hand on the door. He turned to leave, then paused. "Tell me," he asked, voicing the one question that had been on his mind, "why did you think that I was involved? Because I was at your house that morning?" "I knew the day that you brought the clothes back," she said. "Was the ruse that obvious?" "No. But I never told you my married name, Milord Mard," she said. "When you brought the clothes back you called me Madam Karrick. People around here only know me by my mother's name." He remembered how cool she had been towards him that day. She gave a wry laugh. "I moved the coins, you know. I took you for a petty thief, and thought if you didn't find anything you would leave me alone. Durvin was just more persistent." "I am truly sorry, Della." He looked at the fading bruise on her cheek. "I have been many things in my life: I have swindled and conned and stolen. But I have never hurt a woman." "Perhaps not with your fists." The words hit him harder than any of the blows Durvin had struck. He swallowed and shook his head lightly. "It's not likely that I will ever do an honest day's work, but knowing what I have done to you will certainly make it harder." She opened the door. "Good bye, Milord." Instinctively, he leaned forward and brushed his lips over her soft mouth. "Good bye, Della Karrick." He turned and walked out the door. As he settled in the saddle, he saw Della staring at him from the doorway, the candle flickering in the cool night breeze. "It's never too late to change, Storn Mard," she said, and he had a feeling that she knew what she was talking about. He clicked his tongue and yanked the horse's reins, turning to head up the dark street. ======================================================================== Talisman Three Part 4 by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Fall, 748 FE Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-1 Torenda's Troupe, plus one student of the Way, traveled south at a much slower pace than any of them wanted. It was nearing the end of the same day Virrila had come across the troupe in the clearing of a way-cabin. They had listened to her story of the Treasurer of Farevlin, who was also a teacher of some kind of pacifist philosophy, and of a renegade warlord intent on conquering the thousand lands of Farevlin with the aid of one of the artifacts in the Treasury. They had decided to go south to help the teacher against the warlord, but they didn't yet know how. What made their decision even stranger was that it had not been made solely out of concern for the students endangered by the warlord's will, but more because of the news that the Treasury housed another carved and banded stone fragment like the one they had found, and found so important, in the way-cabin. The four leaders of the troupe, Kend, Naka, Orla and Elin, were walking at the front of the caravan with Thanj the illusionist, and Virrila, the student of the Way. The rest of the players and the troupe's three wagons followed behind. Though the need for haste was evident, their current pace was a sedate walk. Trying to maintain a soldier's ground-eating pace for long periods of time was too difficult for the actors and the philosopher. Their slower pace, however, allowed those in the lead to discuss how a score and a half of actors could contrive to defeat or scare off a warlord determined to reach his goal. Orla said, "'Scare' is what we need, right? Because we can't actually confront the man and his army, so we need to make him run away, not kill him. So, what would frighten this Warlord Adamik?" "A bigger army, I should think," said Naka. "Someone to challenge his might and power. Right?" Virrila nodded. "That sounds right, Naka. Superior force would easily make him run. But where are we going to get enough people for that kind of army?" Elin said, "Thanj, what about your illusions? I know we have never tried to multiply a single person, but could your magic make one person seem like two, or five or twenty?" Thanj thought the idea over, then said, "I think I could probably make one person look like as many as a score, perhaps more with a well-carved image to work from and if the illusion did not need to move. But, I couldn't possibly make one person look like ten score, nor could I make ten people each look like twenty -- I could not stretch my magic so far. I could make our company look twice as big, but we would never be a fearsome army." "But ..." said Kend, who then paused as if thinking something through before continuing, "Wait, wait! The key phrase there was 'fearsome army', yes? But that doesn't have to mean a large army!" Orla asked, "What do you mean, Kend?" He explained, "Well, remember Sir Nathrik? His army would qualify." Virrila asked, "Who? Sir Nathrik?" Elin explained, "Sir Nathrik was a famous knight about twenty years ago, in the north-eastern part of Farevlin. He gathered a group of exceptionally skilled warriors around him, no more than a double-dozen all told, and then rode all through the states championing just causes. Some people even called him Farevlin's Champion. I'm sure that some of the stories about him are exaggerations, but I'm equally certain that he wasn't some empty legend, since I met him once." "Exactly," said Kend. "So, Virrila, is there anyone here in the south with that kind of reputation? Anyone whose appearance alone would scare Adamik away?" Virrila thought about it, then said, "Well, the school doesn't get every scrap of gossip that passes around a market-center well. But if anyone besides Adamik himself had gained enough of a name hereabouts to frighten by sight, news surely would have reached us. I can't think of anyone. Sorry." Thanj said, "Just our luck. Oh well, I don't suppose we could just disguise ourselves as Sir Nathrik's band. I mean, I know that he died over ten years ago, but maybe Adamik wouldn't know that. Or maybe Adamik would think that Farevlin's Champion had returned to save the Treasury." Kend brightened at the suggestion, but Orla saw the problem with it first. "No, that wouldn't work," she said. "Adamik would never believe that, not even with someone to suggest it to him. I've never heard of any legends attached to Sir Nathrik that would suggest something like that. And a suspicious mind would find it easy to believe that someone could just duplicate the knight's banner and try to usurp Sir Nathrik's fame. No, I don't think that one is going to work." Everyone nodded their agreement, and turned their attention to searching for ideas again. Only a short time had passed when Naka spoke up again. "Wait! Maybe Thanj *was* on the right track. We can't craft a convincing natural enemy to frighten Adamik, but what about a supernatural enemy? Perhaps not Sir Nathrik returned from the dead, but something else?" Virrila turned to the musician and said, "Wait, you might have something there! I remember Adamik as being very superstitious! He wore charms and trinkets all the time, and was always chanting litanies meant to keep the attentions of evil spirits away from him. "But what kind of supernatural figure? A ghost? One of those red-eared hounds from the Mavratal legend?" Elin said, "No, not frightening enough. I ... wait! I've got it. Not red-eared hounds, but invisible hounds! Do you remember the first night at the Headless Sheep, in Tilting Falls? The stories that were going around?" Virrila was mystified as her walking companions all got looks of enlightenment on their faces. Then Orla explained how they had overheard tales of a certain local legend, and Virrila started grinning with the rest of them. "You've got something there, Naka," said Virrila. "A supernatural threat mean enough to turn a powerful but superstitious warlord into a coward. *If* you can make him believe." Orla, well acquainted with the strengths and weaknesses of her troupe, said, "It won't be easy, but we do have some time to prepare. I think we will be able to put on a production fit for a duke! "Thanj, your illusions will be at the heart of this play. Kend, you will have to supply the main focus, so start carving. Elin, I know that it won't be a proper stage, but perhaps with Virrila's knowledge of the land around the Treasury, perhaps you can rough out some movement directions for the action. I'll work on the script, such as it is, and come up with the other supporting parts." She raised her voice and said, "Let's pick up the pace again, everyone!" To her walking companions, she continued, "We have the beginnings of a plan, and a day to whip it into production shape. Shall we get to it, then?" Low, rolling hills spread across a portion of the southern border of Farevlin, where it met Drigalit. At the end of a slight notch in one of those hills, almost too small to be termed a valley, was the passageway that led beneath the hill and into the cavern that was the vault of the Treasury of Farevlin. But the Treasury was more than just that one room where the treasures were actually stored. Aside from the few other underground rooms that served as the Treasurer's quarters, the Treasury also comprised the several hectares of land around the valley entrance. The hill provided good grazing on its gentle slopes and large meadows, while the flat land around the base of the hill was divided into several small fields that had been harvested by this time of the year. It was a league between the entrance valley and the beginnings of the forest to the north, and all of the cleared land between belonged to the Treasury. Warlord Adamik stood in front of his troops and surveyed this land. He remembered tending the herd animals that belonged to Zarilt's school, leading them from their pens up onto the hillside, and back down at the end of the day. He remembered toiling beside his fellow students in the fields, sowing, tending, reaping like any common peasant. He scowled at the memories, and was tempted to spit the foul taste of his past out of his mouth. It hadn't been hard work. Even in the early days of Zarilt's school, when there had been fewer students, there had been fewer animals and fields to tend. But it had always rankled him ever after that he had once scrabbled in the dirt to earn his keep. He had always had large dreams, and this day he would one step closer to fulfilling them. Adamik fingered an amulet at his belt to appease the fate sprites at his presumptive thought -- it was never a good idea to set the fate sprites against you by assuming success in an undertaking. He pushed the thoughts of his past away, and turned to look at his troops lined up in neat ranks behind him. These were the elite of his forces, though, in truth, they were the bulk of his forces as well. He had left about two score troops with his most trusted lieutenant, Eliian, to keep his conquered lands safe, bringing the rest of his army here to underscore his resolve to get his wish. The men and women standing in ranks were armed and armored as if for a pitched battle, the better to help intimidate his enemies. Adamik thought it fittingly ironic that the people who had flocked to his banner could just as easily have ended up among the ranks of Zarilt's students who were now lined up in rows in front of their barracks building. Both groups of people were the outcasts of Farevlin society -- third or fourth children of minor nobles with nothing to inherit; sons and daughters of merchants or tradespeople who didn't want to follow in their parents' footsteps; the kinds of people who couldn't find their places in normal society. The chief difference between his people and Zarilt's people was that the students of Zarilt's Way were peaceful, willing to be led like the herd animals they tended into a pattern of belief that left them helpless and ineffectual, total ciphers in the greater scheme of things. Adamik's soldiers, on the other hand, were going to help him conquer Farevlin. Whether their individual names would be remembered by history or not, they were going to leave their mark by helping him become famous. Absently fingering his fate-sprite charm again, Adamik turned back to the Treasury's entrance valley. The overcast sky was beginning to darken as evening approached, hastened by the rain-heavy clouds that were slowly appearing from behind the hill. He was waiting for Zarilt to answer the summons that he had sent just after gathering all of the students into rows. He hoped the teacher wouldn't keep him waiting -- he didn't want to have to conduct this final interview in torchlight in the rain. Finally, Adamik spied Zarilt walking calmly up the entrance valley towards his students. The warlord raised his arm, and with a satisfying clash, his troops came to marching attention. He then started to stride forward, focusing his attention on his former teacher and his plans for the man and the treasures he guarded. Thunder rumbled over the hill, and Adamik smiled grimly at the fitting accompaniment to his thoughts. At about two dozen paces from the rows of students, Adamik signaled for his troops to halt. He continued toward Zarilt, who was standing before his students. Only his four officers, those who had accompanied him into the vault the previous day, continued with him. Adamik stopped only a pace from his former teacher, and asked without preamble, "Are you going to surrender Hekorivas to me, Zarilt?" "My resolve has not changed," answered the calm man. "I will not give you the scepter; you must take it if you would have it." Adamik had not expected any other answer, and his own reply was ready on his tongue. "Yes, yes, and I know the price that would take; yesterday was an effective demonstration. Still," he said, a nasty gleam in his eye, "I wonder how many the magic would kill before it wore down enough to stop protecting the treasures?" Zarilt seemed puzzled by the question. "Why do you think that there is a limit to the protective capacity of the vault?" "Because, old man," Adamik replied, a nasty sneer in his voice, "nothing is unlimited. Everything eventually runs out. Draw water from a spring too fast, and it will dry up for a time. My advisors tell me that this should happen with the vault, as well." Adamik saw Zarilt glance at his officers behind him. The teacher's face was as calm and serene as ever, but something about the way Zarilt's eyes darted around between the five of them made Adamik wonder if he and his officers had really come up with the solution to the vault's defenses. Finally, Zarilt said, "Well, Adamik, you have plenty of volunteers behind you. Why don't you escort them to the vault and have them test your theory?" Adamik grinned evilly at his former teacher's suggestion. He had no intention of sacrificing any more of his own people, at least not yet. Fortunately, there was an alternative plan to hand which had two benefits: it would test the theory at no cost to himself, *and* it would hurt Zarilt greatly. The warlord turned his grin into a sneer and said, "Yes, I do have plenty of volunteers: they are not standing behind me, Zarilt, but behind *you*. I think your students will provide me a much less expensive body of test subjects, don't you?" He paused meaningfully before continuing, "Of course, you could just give me Hekorivas instead." Adamik watched his former teachers' calm facade crack a little as he considered the warlord's statement. There was a small hope that Zarilt would relent to save his students, but Adamik wasn't gambling on that hope. "Do what you feel you must, Adamik," Zarilt finally said, his unruffled mien back, utter confidence in his voice. Adamik was furious, despite knowing the likelihood of Zarilt giving in then and there. He had expected something more, perhaps a little sweat. It was as if the old man didn't believe that he was ruthless enough! "That's *Warlord* Adamik, old man!" Adamik thundered. "Do you think I won't do it? Do you think I don't have the heart to slaughter these sheep that follow you? I will. Don't believe that I won't! I'll take them one by one and throw them on the altar myself, if that's what it takes. I swear by Harmett's jawbone I will!" Zarilt didn't so much as flinch in the face of his tirade, which only made Adamik angrier. Seething, face red, growling with anger, Adamik pointed toward the students. Two of his officers darted forward and grabbed a student from the front ranks. They brought the man over and stood just to one side of the warlord, between Zarilt and Adamik, holding his arms firmly. Without breaking eye contact with Zarilt, Adamik drew his sword in a short, angry movement, and thrust it into the student's abdomen, then gave it a savage jerk sideways to clear the body it impaled. The gutted student made no sound, but the students gasped, and some moaned. Zarilt never even blinked, and the slight smile never left his lips, as if he knew something that the warlord didn't. Adamik glanced down at the body of the man he had killed, and then back into Zarilt's eyes. He reached for the fate-sprite amulet again, and rubbed it four times. He recognized the murdered man. It was Louff, who had been a student of Zarilt's Way even before Adamik had joined. Anyone who had stayed with the Treasurer's school for that long had surely absorbed Zarilt's teachings into the very fabric of his being. Adamik had just killed one of the least likely among the students to have feared death. Just his luck. Still, the move had unnerved the students. Surely, Zarilt would see sense now. Adamik gave his sword a practiced flick that cleaned it of most of the blood that coated it, and then resheathed it. It wasn't clean, but his officers could take care of polishing it later. "*There!*" he shouted. "Now do you believe me?" "I never doubted you," was the soft, calm reply. "It was not me you were proving yourself to." In a twinkling, Adamik's sword was out again, its tip touching Zarilt's throat. "Maybe I should just kill you now, and rid myself of your smirking face for good. Then, I can throw your students to their deaths on the altar in peace. How about that, huh? Got any more words of wisdom, old man? Think you can save yourself with a glib tongue now?" Once again, Adamik saw Zarilt's resolve falter just slightly. Was that resignation in the teacher's eyes? Was that despair? Almost before Adamik could be sure of anything, calm descended over Zarilt's face again. Some decision had been made. Was it the right one? Zarilt opened his mouth to say something, but he was preempted by one of Adamik's officers saying, "Warlord, sir, we have visitors. Look." Everyone followed the pointing arm, and saw a wagon rolling slowly out of the woods along the only road that led away from the Treasury, the one to Bluebell Rock. Three people rode on its drivers' bench, while two or three handsfull of people walked alongside of or behind it. Thunder rumbled from behind the hill as Adamik said, "Who are they? Didn't the people in Bluebell Rock warn them not to come here?" He removed his sword from Zarilt's throat as he turned back to the teacher. "Do you know them, old man?" Zarilt shook his head. "I have no more idea than you, Adamik." The warlord frowned in puzzlement rather than anger, and made some quick decisions. Pointing, he said, "You two take this body and hide it behind the students back there. You go back to the others and tell them to ready their weapons. At best, we have an audience; at worst, some more subjects for our upcoming experiment. Right, old man?" A few of Adamik's soldiers rushed around carrying out the warlord's orders, while everyone else waited and watched the wagon and walkers approach slowly. Adamik took the time to compose himself, trying to look and feel in command of the situation. His efforts were hindered, however, by the presence of his former teacher by his side. Zarilt exuded confidence; he had a commanding presence even doing nothing other than standing there in his robe and smile. Adamik was almost minded to stick a knife in the old man's back and drag him back behind the students with the other corpse before the strange travelers reached them. He fingered several of his talismans in turn and hoped for the best. The wagon finally pulled up in front of the dormitory-barracks, next to the rows of students, and stopped. The people on the drivers' bench stepped down, and then everyone walked over to where Adamik stood. The leader of the group, a somewhat plump, raven-haired woman with one blue and one brown eye hailed Adamik and those standing around him. "Greetings," she said. "I am Bifrorlani, the owner and manager of Torenda's Troupe, the group of players whom you see behind me. We heard in Bluebell Rock that there was something exciting happening here, and as we wanted to see the Treasury of Farevlin ourselves in any case, we decided to bend our journey in this direction. I trust we will not be seen as an intrusion on the ... ceremony? ... going on here." Adamik thought for a moment, trying to adjust to this new element in his plans. He knew that he wasn't always the quickest wit in the race, but he did have an image to uphold, and a warlord had to be decisive. Fortunately, this time an answer presented itself readily. "Players, you say? Hmmm. Well, players are not quite the same as skalds, but have been known to serve a similar function. So, Lady Bifrorlani, perhaps your players could do more than simply observe here. Perhaps you could take news of what happens here to other towns and cities, and spread my fame even faster than rumor." "And whose fame would we be spreading, then?" asked Orla. "Warlord Adamik, unifier of Farevlin, that's whose fame. Today, I mean to secure the proof that I will unite the thousand lands of Farevlin. Today, I will secure Hekorivas, the Scepter of Unity, for my own!" Adamik's fingers again caressed the fate-sprite charm, as Orla's eyes widened almost theatrically. She said, "A grand plan, Warlord, and one that will surely be worthy of our troupe. But, is Hekorivas not one of the artifacts housed in the Treasury? What has the Treasurer to say about your plan?" Adamik started to reply, but Zarilt interrupted him. "I am Zarilt, mi'lady, and have been invested with the duties of Treasurer of Farevlin. And Hekorivas is among the treasures I guard." "But," Adamik re-interrupted, "he is about to surrender it to me, isn't that right, Zarilt? We have unbiased witnesses now to preserve this historic occasion. You don't want to be remembered as the loser here, now do you, Zarilt?" Adamik was itching to press his advantage, not even realizing that his position was untenable from the start, but Orla broke in with, "Speaking of witnesses, I can understand the soldiers over there, since you are a warlord and all, Sir Adamik. But what explains the robed persons over there? I had thought that the Treasury ordinarily required no guards, and even so, no offense, but they do not seem very soldierly in any case." Zarilt was absorbed by looking at the group of players standing behind Orla, so Adamik stepped into the gap. "The Treasurer is also the leader of a misguided philosophical cult, and these are his students. If they have picked the wrong man to follow, at least they do no one any harm in it." "Philosophical cult, you say?" said Orla with excessive interest. "What kind of philosophy, if I may ask?" Zarilt, recovered from his reverie, said, "Well, I ..." but he was cut off by Adamik, who was beginning to thunder like the clouds behind the hill again. "You may not ask, not right now!" "But, I need to know, so that we can get the story right," complained Orla. Lightning flashed from the Drigalit side of the hill, trailed closely by rumbling thunder. Adamik said, slowly and forcefully, "I will tell you the right story when this is over. For now, stand back and shut up. The day is fading fast and there is a storm coming, and I want to get this finished!" Orla backed away, her hands up in demonstration of her surrender to the situation. Adamik nodded, turned back to Zarilt, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and got back to the business at hand. "Now, Zarilt, as I was saying, we have witnesses to this historic moment, and it is up to you how history remembers you. Will you be the person who handed the Unifier of Farevlin the Scepter of Unity, or will you be some fool who ..." "Look," cried one of the players in the troupe. "What's that?" The voice was filled with enough startlement that Adamik followed the pointing finger without really thinking about it. His gaze was directed to the south and slightly east, to the top of the hill. Thunder rumbled again, and then lightning became visible. Except that the lightning came after the thunder, and it didn't stop. A small patch of lightning seemed to be rising over the top of the hill. Adamik felt the hairs start to rise on the back of his neck. He had seven different luck-charms hanging from various parts of his body and he fingered every one in turn, twice, as he chanted three verses from an ill-luck warding softly to himself. And then the figure appeared, riding over the crest of the hill and coming down toward the people gathered in the fields. The figure was tall, and made taller by the fact that it was riding on the back of a stag that was larger than any deer anyone had ever heard of. The stag's antlers glowed with lightning, its eyes were red, and everyone could see the fangs in its mouth even from that far away. The figure seated atop the demon stag was just as fearsome. Crowned with lightning, the figure had a wild face -- eyes that flashed with flame, hair and beard tangled and white, glowing with the flashes of lightning. The strong-looking body was draped with hides, most still with heads and legs attached. And despite its wild-man appearance, the figure held a sword aloft, a sword that was longer than two men were tall, and that rippled up and down its length with flame. A faint sound then reached their ears, even over the thunder that was still on the other side of the hill -- the baying of hounds. It didn't take sharp eyes to see that the grass in front of the stag was rustling and being disturbed by the passage of something invisible. Adamik knew every supernatural legend anyone had ever told over an open camp fire, so there was no question in his mind who the riding figure was. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to utter the name, but no sound issued from his tightened throat. His left hand clutched at one of his protection talismans so hard that finely-carved stone actually crumbled in his fist, while he rubbed the most powerful of his luck charms so hard that his fingertips started to hurt from the friction. His mouth continued to move like a landed fish, until his herald finally said, in a strained whisper that still carried over everyone standing there, "It's Skrnahl, the Wild Hunter!" Mutterings came from all sides, as students and soldiers alike wondered whether this could really be the legendary Wild Hunter Skrnahl, and if so, what was he hunting here? Adamik, however, knew: knew that it was Skrnahl, and knew what he was after. The warlord had always harbored a deep doubt about what he was doing. He thought that conquering the many tiny states of Farevlin could only be for the good of everyone. And if it was better for him as that conqueror, well that was all right, too. But perhaps some of the lessons that Zarilt had tied to teach had, in fact, taken root in Adamik's soul. Or perhaps that catalog of legends that the warlord had memorized just led him to believe the worst in any situation. Whichever and whyever, Adamik was sure that the Wild Hunter was after him. If for no other reason -- and there were plenty of other reasons -- than the killing of Louff, who had certainly not deserved to die today. Adamik had actually started to shudder in fear, staring at the approaching apparition. He felt his officers gather around him, and his herald said, softly for once, "Warlord, sir, pull yourself together. We are more than five score, surely we can defeat this Hunter? He normally pursues lone prey, what can he do against so many? Even a sword as big as that can only slay one ... maybe two ... people at a time. "Give the order, sir. We will all gladly die for your cause. Tell us to attack, and we will give that Skrnahl a taste of his own medicine. And won't that be a tale to boost your reputation, eh, Dami?" His other officers joined in, entreating him to give the order. Slowly, their words drew him back from his fear. Slowly, they convinced him that the Wild Hunter was a cowardly foe, and that Adamik's army could beat Skrnahl without hardly trying. Slowly, his shaking stopped, and he stilled his frantic fumbling with his charms and talismans. Still clutching the crumbling fragments of the protection amulet, he straightened from his instinctive crouch, squared his shoulders, and thanked his officers for their encouragement, with an extra pat on the rump for his herald. He was himself again, ready to conquer anyone, or anything, in his way. He turned toward his soldiers, ready to give the order his officers had suggested, when one of his troopers started charging toward the stag-riding figure that was now halfway down the hill. An instant later, a second soldier charged after the first, and the two somehow collided and fell to the grass. One got up and resumed charging toward Hunter. The other soldier didn't rise. The charging warrior brandished her sword at Skrnahl, shouting "Fake! Trick! Go away!" As she neared the waving, shaking grasses that preceded the Hunter, the figure pointed its sword at the running soldier. A tiny gout of flame flashed from the tip of the sword and struck the woman's arm, setting it alight. The soldier's shouts turned to screams. And then, the baying of the hounds increased, and all around the warrior the grass was waving and dancing. The soldier began to rock from side to side as if she was being struck by something, perhaps leaping dogs. Blood appeared on her body, and then a limb was ripped clean off. The woman screamed louder, and then stopped as her throat was torn out by invisible teeth. The frenzy increased around the falling soldier, and in moments there was nothing left of her except, perhaps, a faint wraith-like image standing where she had last stood, fading around the edges. The Hunter pointed with his sword again, and a larger bolt of flame shot out, engulfing that fading image. A long, eerie wail echoed across the hillside, and flame and image vanished. Adamik, who had watched the charge raptly, was stunned by the results. As the eerie wail faded away, he said as if to himself, "He destroys them, body and soul ..." Adamik's men were already running. The warlord wanted to follow, but his fear, returned ten-fold, had paralyzed him. His officers, changing their pro-attack position in the face of bolts of fire and fierce, invisible dogs, grabbed Adamik, spun him around, and dragged him away. By the time he got back to the camp, he had recovered enough to mount his horse himself, and ride away as fast as he possibly could, leaving his dreams lying in the grasses surrounding the Treasury of Farevlin. Adamik's soldiers weren't the only ones to run: most of Zarilt's students fled too, some into their dormitory, most for the safety of the vault. Only a handful remained standing before the barracks with their Tchad and the several members of Torenda's Troupe. Strangely enough, once the fear had set into Adamik's soldiers and Adamik himself, the players had ceased acting fearful at all. Those few students, the Tchad, and the troupe were the only ones to see the image of Skrnahl vanish about a hundred quoks from them, to be replaced by an ordinary sized man riding an ordinary horse. At the same time, nine people appeared in front of the rider from nowhere, as if they had been invisible. One of the nine was dressed like one of Adamik's soldiers, and had what looked like blood smeared on her. Orla walked calmly over to the newcomers, calling out cheerfully, "Great show, Kend!" The rider bowed. "You made a most convincing Wild Hunter. You and Thanj truly make an excellent team. And you others: superb hounds! Most convincing!." She reached the group, and clapped the one dressed as a soldier on the back. "Fantastic dance, Naka," she said. "Music is not your only talent. But what happened at the start of your charge?" Naka said, "Oh, apparently one of the other soldiers got the idea to challenge our illusory Hunter on his own. Fortunately, I was ready to go anyway, so I just tackled him, and hit him on the back of the head with my sword while he was down. I hope he didn't disrupt things too much." "Quick thinking, and quicker action," Orla complimented. "And, as I said, you made an excellent example of the fierce might of Skrnahl's hounds. "And now, let's go meet the people we just saved, and reassure them that all is well again. Right?" It was after dark when Zarilt led the representatives of Torenda's Troupe, along with Virrila, into the vault. Explanations had been given and accepted, and Zarilt still marveled at both the ingenuity of these players, and how a few simple illusions had turned Adamik from his purpose. He had already sent students ahead to reapply the coverings to the Vault's walls and floor. There hadn't been time to completely restore it to its normal appearance, but at least there weren't quite so many twisty limbs to look at now. The leaders of the troupe marveled at the sections of wall and floor still revealed. Elin, in particular, found herself fascinated by the mosaics that were not yet covered up: she thought they looked almost familiar, but she had certainly never seen them before in her life. Soon, everyone was gathered around the low stone table that looked like an altar. Five objects still rested there, thanks to the efforts of the troupe, and Zarilt intended to reward them for that service. Five objects, five treasures. The Chalice of Oronhil, a small, ornate cup linked by legend to the health of the Farevlin region somehow. The Scepter of Unity, Hekorivas, that strange piece of wood and crystal sculpture that fascinated Kend no end. The Orb of Sdanyip, a faceted metal egg suspended within a wire framework that supposedly contained the hand bones of a former ruler of Sdanyip, though no one knew to what purpose. The amber-oak, an exquisite work of art but legend less. And last, the intricately carved stone fragment. Virrila had told Zarilt about the smaller fragment that she had seen in the possession of the players, and Zarilt had known exactly what he was going to do. The circle was complete, the wheel turned around. It was right. The five representatives of the troupe gathered on one side of the table, and Zarilt stood on the other with Virrila. Four of those five were staring at the stone fragment that rested there: Kend, Elin, Naka, and Orla all ignored the other treasures for that carved cat and falcon fragment. Thanj alone was still examining the more impressive treasures. "My new friends," Zarilt began. "You have done an enormous service to the Treasury, to myself, and to Farevlin itself. Adamik has been forestalled in his efforts to steal Hekorivas from this vault, which he would have attempted at great cost of life without your intervention. As well, I believe that he has learned a lesson he greatly needed to learn -- that there is always a greater power, a larger force. Perhaps he will give up his dreams of conquering all of Farevlin, and all those who might have died in his quest will be spared. "I know that you did not do this for a reward; you did it because you felt it was the right thing to do. But I also know that you find one of the treasures here of particular interest. It is not one of the official treasures of Farevlin, however; it was left here many, many years ago as payment for a debt owed to a former Treasurer by a group of nomads called the Siizhayip. And now, I will give it to you to reward your services." Zarilt stooped and touched some of the stones on the side of the table in a certain order. There was no indication, no signal that the combination had worked, but Zarilt was sure of his knowledge. He straightened up, and reached for the large, carved stone fragment. He grasped it with no ill effects, lifted it from the table, and held it out to the people across the table from him. Orla and Kend took the fragment between them as Elin withdrew the other fragment from the ornate bag at her belt. She held it next to the larger piece, and it was clear that they were from the same sculpture. Everything about them was the same: the bands of different materials, the size, the marble-like material. The two falcons were almost exactly the same, except that they faced different directions. Naka was tracing some of the bands on the large piece and almost by accident, she found herself tracing the continuation of a broken band right onto the smaller fragment Elin held and back onto the large piece. Fingers from all four hands started tracing bands and identifying matching points, but it wasn't until Virrila said, "You know, I think I was right -- these two pieces actually belong together!" that the others realized that she was probably right. So, four hands reached in, and four hands pushed the two pieces together. Orla, Naka, Elin, and Kend all felt the slight jolt race up their arms as a flash of light obscured the two pieces. When their eyes had recovered from the flash, everyone was astonished to see that there were no longer two fragments of stone, but one large semi-circular fragment of some circular whole, bearing three carved animals -- a cat and two falcons, and intricately woven bands that filled the middle of the piece and linked the three animals together as well. The look of happiness on their faces as they held and gazed at the now-single fragment made Zarilt wonder if the stone was their own version of the Way. If so, he thought, he was glad to have given them more of it. ========================================================================