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========================================================================
 DargonZine                                     Distributed: 11/08/2001
 Volume 14, Number 8                            Circulation:        751
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 Dance of the Dead            Stuart Whitby          5th Yuli, 1018
 "A Wizard in Vibril"         Charles F. Schweppe    Vibril 30, 1016
 Talisman Eight 2             Dafydd Cyhoeddwr       Yuli 13, 1013

========================================================================
 DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
 collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
 We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
 Please address all correspondence to <dargon@shore.net>or visit us
 on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site at
 ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
 discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.

 DargonZine 14-8, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright November, 2001 by
 the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
 Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. 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
                           <ornoth@shore.net>

     If you've been on the Internet for a while, you'll know that it's
pretty normal for discussion groups to fall into philosophical debates
about abstract questions from time to time. DargonZine's writers are
just as liable to argue philosophy as any other group, but we recently
had a long discussion that I'd like to share with you, because it raised
some interesting questions and opinions about a particularly pernicious
topic that means a great deal to us: are we artists or not?
     I think forms of expression like painting and architecture would
fall into most people's definition of "art", but we found ourselves
asking first whether any literature is art. Most, but definitely not
all, of us thought that made sense, but then we started talking about
what it is that makes one field qualify as art and another not. Is
poetry an art? Music? Dance? Perhaps. Are fashion designers artists? Are
interior designers? Could cooking be art? Or psychology? Advertising? Is
it not possible that teaching is a form of art? Or the practice of
politics? Law? Accounting? And above all, *why* are they (or are they
not) "art"?
     This whole thread began when one of our contributors expressed that
he viewed his writing as more of an engineering task than an artistic
one. Other writers disagreed, but we all struggled to describe what
makes one activity art and another activity a craft, and which would
enable us to determine whether we were artists or not. In the end, we
just wound up with a half-dozen different definitions that each had
merits, but didn't encompass everything that art means to people.
However, our debate did wind up reinforcing DargonZine's mission, and
your role as readers in helping us achieve that mission.
     Of course, we started with the oft quoted "art is the creation of
something from nothing" definition, but others went further afield. One
person defined art as the creation of something that could be
universally understood, while another contradicted that by saying that
artists are people "whose work I can never quite understand". One person
defined art as something that goes beyond what is necessary for the
creation of an object; another said it's something wherein one can
discern the creator's unique signature. And still another writer felt
that art is subjective, something which only is meaningful in the
context of use or interpretation by people.
     In the end, that there were two prevalent opinions. One group of
people believe that art must have a sensory impact on a viewer, and that
writing, which is a mental exercise, didn't qualify; the other group
took a broader view, saying that all human activity can be a form of
artistic expression, which would include literature as well as many
other pursuits.
     Those two contrasting ideas were mirrored in our opinions about
whether artistry is innate or learned. Half of us believe that although
the craft of writing can be taught, you can't learn the spark of
brilliance and inspiration that is creativity; meanwhile, the rest
espouse the egalitarian view that everyone is born with the potential to
incorporate art into our work, but that only some of us nurture it.
     We spent a lot of time trying to understand the difference between
craft and art. The author who approached his writing as an engineering
task pointed out that writing uses basic, learnable skills to create
something. But anyone who has been to art school will confirm that much
of art is the learning of these structured, methodical, technical skills
whose results can be measured, tested, and enumerated. In that sense,
writing (and art) is like engineering, but is there anything more to
writing than just putting words together in the best way to make the
reader understand what the author is trying to say? Most of us think so.
     So, are we, DargonZine's writers, artists or not? I'll leave you
with several quotes as representative samples of how we felt about the
question.

     "Do I consider myself an 'artist'? Definitely not."
     "I am an artist. An artist uses both craft and inspiration."
     "I don't think anyone *has* to consider themselves an artist. I
don't, though I try like heck to be one ..."
     "We are most emphatically artists one and all, in my opinion."
     "Maybe I define 'art' as 'fine art', and I don't consider what I do
to have enough merit to fall into this category."
     "We as writers *are* all artists, though we can suppress the *art*
of writing and approach it merely as work."

     One of the definitions mentioned above asserted that art is
something that is subjective and that can only be evaluated in the
context of another person's reaction to it. While there's an objectively
measurable, technical craft to our proper use of grammar and spelling,
the vast majority of what we do as creative writers is indeed
subjective. We can't say that we did a great job at plot, imagery,
characterization, or tension without asking someone to give us his or
her opinion.
     In the final analysis, because a "good" story is a subjective
judgment, the only way for us to measure how "good" our stories really
are is by showing our work to one another and to thoughtful readers like
you who are willing to give us feedback and honest reactions to our
work. That is the mission that DargonZine has pursued since it was
founded back in 1984, and it's the reason why this project has succeeded
and is on the verge of our 18th year online.
     And that underscores how important your feedback is to us. Thanks
for playing your part in this experiment as together we help more and
more aspiring literary artists grow and learn.

     Astute readers will note that it's been about ten weeks since our
last issue. Usually, our issues come out about every six weeks, but as
discussed in the Editorial from our last issue, the pipeline of
submissions has been slow this year, and it looks like we'll be unable
to put issues out as frequently as we have in the past.
     Rest assured, however, that there are some great stories currently
in our peer-review process, and we'll bring them to you just as quickly
as our writers finalize them.
     Today's issue includes two haunting single-part stories from
newcomer Charles Schweppe and perennial favorite Stuart Whitby. The
issue concludes with the second half of Dafydd's "Talisman Eight". I
hope you enjoy it!
     And again, thank you for your interest in DargonZine. Please take
the time to rate the stories you read, because since you are the only
way for us to judge how "good" our fiction is, we really couldn't do it
without you!

========================================================================

                           Dance of the Dead
                            by Stuart Whitby
                          <swhitby@legato.com>
                             5th Yuli, 1018

     Jazz snuck into the crypt, armed with candle and tin whistle. His
friends quietly jeered him between grunts and curses of closing the
forbidding stone door. He hurriedly sparked flint to tinder in the
fading patch of starlight, a murmuring flame from its cotton depths, and
snapped it to the wick. A final heave as the door cracked shut, their
laughs and calls muffled in the still.
     Never again would he allow drink to get the better of him; not with
a mind so young and a body so old.
     The candle flared in his eyes and gleamed off the mess of massed
bones which stood silent around the room. He sat, cross-legged, and let
its flickering steady him, relaxing him in its caress. His mind drifted,
past-tense.

     "Pour me another."
     Jasper sat at the small table with three of his friends, all
students at the College of Bards. They were well into a skin of akvavit,
not quite of the promised quality but smooth in its strength, and
exchanging boasts. He didn't look as if he fit with the group: greying
hair, age-lined face and haggard beard a sharp contrast to their
cherubic features. However, they enjoyed many of the same pursuits, and
all suffered similar failures when it came to wooing women -- Magnus
wenches not being easily impressed by a sweet young voice. Not that
you'd think it from the novices' stories. They crowed of their conquest
of hearts by flattery and song, all the while vocally dismissing the
claims of the others.
     "Jazz, you're too quiet," exclaimed Carris. "What's the matter, you
never had a woman want to play with your whistle?" They laughed lewdly
as he waved them to silence.
     "Boys," he mocked them, "I could tell. But you would not believe."
     "Oh-ho!" mocked Carris. "So the great Jazz has no tales to tell, no
great stories of how he'd coerce a kiss from kith, kin or cousin?"
     "No, no, I have them. Hells, I had them all at one time," he smiled
indulgently. "They'd all dance for me. I'd work them to a frenzy by
playing my pipe, and they'd do anything, *anything*, just so the music
wouldn't stop." His friends guffawed and hooted at him, none believing
that "It wasn't just the people either. The cats would sheath their
claws and dance with dogs, hissing and howling together along with the
pipe." Jazz getting angrier, sounding righteous, as their jeers grew
apace. "I'd bring the birds from the trees, doing backflips in the air,
charm the snakes from the grass and the rats from their nests."
     Carris fell from his stool, still howling with laughter. "Yeah, and
I'm sure you could raise the sleepers and make them dance like
marionettes."
     Jasper slammed his fists on the table and stood, sending his seat
flying. "I could make a dead man dance!"
     "Want a bet?"
     Silence awhile as Jasper stared them down. The mood sombred. "Aye,"
he replied, quiet and determined as he swayed. "Right then."

     Thoughts were still there. No matter. Whistle would clear them.
     Leaden arms, too relaxed, raised the whistle to his mouth.
Reflected flame gleamed blue along its length, burning embers on his
cheek as his mouth carressed and clamped the wood. His tongue touched
gingerly, tender and teasing as a virgin's kiss, but the wood was wanton
and lustful, sucking his tongue and laving itself in his saliva. It grew
damp with expectation and opened its flavours to him: raw and spicy, yet
so familiar.
     A first-time actress.
     Opening night nerves.
     An eager lover.
     Ready to play.

     He stretched slowly for consciousness, noting only the beginnings
of sensation. The bed below him was cool, his kidneys: chilled. He
reached in dreaming to pull up his blanket, only to find he had none.
His hands felt strange, heavy and unfamiliar. His mouth opened to
breathe, taking its time to unstick his tongue from its roof.
     Thirsty. He opened his eyes to a darkness greater than the one
behind his eyelids; listened, and found himself alone in the cold and
dark. He gathered his legs and moved to perch on the edge of the bed,
his weight swinging him upright in a most unfamiliar manner. He stood,
disoriented, banging his head on the low roof as he did so, and
scratched with concern at the coarse and unfamiliar matt of hair that
covered his face and chin. He felt his way around the walls, taking
small and hesitant steps as he learned to walk in this larger and denser
form, finally finding the latch of a door. The mechanism clicked loud in
the silence. It opened to more cold and dark, and he shuffled down the
stone corridor with strange unfamiliar steps, his fingertips acting as
eyes. He felt more doors as he made his way, trying the handle of each
of them as he passed. Until one opened to a room with a window, through
which snow flurries blew.
     Hadn't it been spring yesterday?

     He sighed into the opening, nervous about the dead around him. It
was not the first time he had played for the dead, but it was the first
time he had played for their pleasure alone. The first notes susurrated
from the whistle, a tiny ripple which shattered the mirror surface of
the black pool in which he sat. The flame twitched, pricked to rapture
as the notes oozed out, each a wondrous flavour from the stirring
cauldron of his flute.
     His eyes closed, opening himself to the quiet of music, but still
aware enough to think back further.

     Jazz was trying to get to the College of Bards. He'd heard rumours
that the bards had their own magics, and it was the only thing that he
knew of that might be able to keep him sane. His tribe would hold no
court with them in normal circumstances.
     He'd been walking for the entire day, ever since being discovered
just before dawn as a stowaway on a riverboat headed for the capital.
Within menes of discovery he was afoot; cold, wet and lighter of load as
he had swum out of his jacket just to keep his head above water.
     He had wandered into the valley to get out of the wind as it
chilled his adolescent frame, and was surprised to find a castle, under
construction, hidden in its depths. He approached it, wondering if he
could prove himself of service to the lord in residence or, if he was
charitable, just find a bed for the night. However, the place looked
strangely silent.
     He entered the gatehouse to find a man sleeping there. Or rather,
lying comatose. Unable to rouse him with a simple touch, he cocked his
head and pulled his whistle from his pocket, watching the man as he
began to play. After a stanza, the man's eyes flickered and opened. It
took a while to get some sense from him, by which time an older man
arrived, asking who he was to have the talent to find the valley and
wake the man from his possession.
     Talent? Possession? He grew disoriented as he pondered these Words.
Only one other thing remained with him from that time. The name
Roharvardenul.

     His eyes narrowed as he concentrated on the tune. Enough of
laments! The dead would surely have had enough of long, slow dirges at
their funerals. These were bards he was playing to! They would
appreciate the dance in which he would lead them.
     He stood, bringing the tempo up with him. His feet beat the rhythm:
stomping and slapping in time to the tune as it started to quicken.
     Starting to lose himself as it quickened.
     Starting. Quickening.

     Rats.
     Rats were everywhere. Never uncommon, the summer of 989 had bred a
surfeit of them in Sharks' Cove, and now, close to the end of winter,
the people were really starting to suffer. The rats had got into the
grain stores, eating until they were fat and lazy. They fouled the salt
that cured the hams, and feasted when they uncovered the meat. They
chewed on the wine barrels, opening their contents to the souring air,
and infected bites grew commonplace. And in walked Jasper.
     He was well wrapped, but a day in the cold had left him wanting
something hot. He wandered into the nearest inn and squeezed between the
seated adults to get as close as he could get to the mean fire, rubbing
his hands together try to get the blood flowing again.
     "What can I get you, son?" asked the bored looking barkeep.
     "Mulled wine and a bowl of something hot, please," he asked softly,
his voice chittering.
     "No wine. We've got akvavit or ale. And whatever's hot is bread and
porridge." The inkeeper thought a moment. "Actually, the bread's cold."
     "No wine?" He looked around incredulously, checking to be sure that
he was in an inn. "Mulled akvavit then. And some meat along with the
porridge would be welcome."
     "Your choice," said the barkeep, making his way into the kitchen.
     Jasper turned himself back to the fire, now noting the muffled
laughs that the other patrons were sharing. "What's so funny?" he asked
of the nearest back before blowing the droplet of snot from the end of
his nose.
     "Ah, nothing," said the man, looking around at him. "Just that no
one here particularly enjoys the thought of eating rat." A titter
sounded from many of the patrons.
     "Rat?" Jazz asked, looking perturbed. "Would there happen to be a
slightly more upmarket inn nearby?"
     The man laughed, weakly this time. "We've got another inn, but
you're not likely to get anything better there. The only meat in this
town is spoiled, and we've stripped the surrounding farms pretty much to
the minimum they need to get by. Rats have eaten everything else, and
even the fish seem to be avoiding us right now. I guess this is what we
get for keeping the catfeast tradition alive." The man perked up as he
thought for a moment. "Don't suppose you came in by horse, did you?"
     "M'Kivar!" he exclaimed in shock. "Erm, no, I walked in. Hasn't
anyone done anything about them?"
     "Oh, people have tried. They breed worse than bunnies though. We've
killed hundreds, but that's just because there are so many that they
don't have room to hide any more."
     "I mean, has anyone thought to get someone in to get rid of them?"
     The man laughed openly. "There's no way one man could do anything
significant about *that* number of rats. If it doesn't improve soon
though, Sharks' Cove is going to be renamed Rats' Haven. We can't afford
to live like this for another year."
     Jazz was silent a moment, thinking. "I can get rid of them."
     The quiet words echoed around the room. Men looked at each other to
confirm what they'd heard. One turned to him, a sad smile on his face.
"Yeah, straight kid. And just how are you going to manage that?"
     Jazz brought his flute from his pocket. "Watch me."

     Quickening. He leapt and twirled a frenzied fling, lost in the
rapture of the dancing flame and echoing tomb. His eyes drum-rolled as
the tune sang from him, infecting and injecting itself into the
scattered bones of the bards as they started to shudder.
     Mere quivers from the bass of his feet they moved, traversing,
coalescing their original form. With tune their tissue they arose, beat
for blood and dance their deity, their ghostly glow fighting the light
as they pranced and pitched in the black. And silently they sang with
him, summoning him to stay.
     Jazz played on, lost to himself as he led the dance, never noticing
his robes slowly stripped and his flesh freely falling. He shone with
the afterlight, cavorting and decaying, never stopping playing. The beat
of his feet rang hard through the ground, twin heavy hammers sounding
out their mass. The music grew, the instrument glowing hot and bright in
his hands as it entered the very essence of the stone, ringing clear to
the outside as it crept and climbed to a cacophonous crescendo. He
sprang into the air, the last of his tissue tumbling as he pulled the
whistle from his mouth, breaking the spell as, all around, the bones
unbound.
     And the bards took him home as silence settled through the
candlelit crypt once more.

     Jasper was nervous. He was ten years old and being brought before
the assembled elders of the Gwynt Gyrun tribe. His father awaited him
with tear-filled eyes. And he'd never seen his father cry.
     Silence reigned awhile as he looked nervously at the elders. They
sat in a semicircle around the fire as dusk settled over the campsite.
Some looked sadly back at him, others harshly, and some could not hold
his gaze at all.
     "The council has made their decision, Jasper," his father said
shakily, taking him by the shoulders. "They say you're too dangerous.
That a boy with your kind of talent has rarely stayed sane, and that
whole families have been lost when they snap." Jazz started to blubber,
grabbing onto his father's cloak and mumbling negatives. "Tribal law
three generations back would have killed you. As it stands now, you're
to be exiled." His father held him close and let the love flow between
them as they each sobbed and grat into the other's shoulder. "M'Kivar! I
wish it could have worked out different. I just wish I'd never given you
that damned whistle. Take what you can carry from the caravan, and go.
With love, my boy. Always with love."

     The massed body of the college was gathered around the Crypt of the
Masters, though the bell was late. They waited in silence to see who
would be the first to approach the door to investigate the perfect
music. For to do so, they would have to cross a sea of mourning rats.

========================================================================

                          "A Wizard in Vibril"
                         by Charles F. Schweppe
                          <chschweppe@aol.com>
                            Vibril 30, 1016

     You can talk all you want about how the Night of Souls is nothing
more than a bunch of silly tales no one believes, and that sitting
around the fire telling stories is merely some inn-keeper's way of
making money on gullible fools, and mostly I'd believe you. But not all
of the stories are false, and I'd know: I've been traveling this land
for a long time.
     Who am I? My name is Haden Ley. I am, in no particular order, a
soldier, sailor, love-maker, tale-teller, horse-trainer, thief. I have
traveled from Dargon to Bitom, from Sharks' Cove to Pyridain City --
before the Bennies took it over -- and even into Comarr, and I have seen
it all. I've seen a giant beanstalk, towering in the sky, and a tiny
woman, two feet high. I've seen the fools of a king and the King of
Fools. I've seen it all. However, I should also tell you that I am Haden
Ley, notorious liar, and you will believe me or no at your own
discretion and at your own risk.
     So you ask me, what do I know about the Night of Souls? Well, my
friends, let me ask you something: where are the wizards on the 30th of
Vibril?

     You see, several years ago, I was in the employ of a wizard of some
power, called Vanshans. Now, most wizards I've run into look like
ordinary people, like you and me, and the only way you can tell if
someone is a wizard is if he does some feat of magic. Ol's balls, not
even that's always effective. I bet I could claim to be a wizard and
half the simpletons out there would believe me. I can even do a few
tricks that many would take for real magic. I wonder how many real
wizards there actually are and how many are just fakers and liars like
me.
     Old Vanshans, now he was a real wizard. Looked and acted like a
proper one. He was tall, maybe half a head taller than I, and thin, not
much thicker than a staff. He had this long black hair with silver
streaks and wore robes of deep purple and blue. Lived in a tower built
like himself, tall and narrow. Always full of himself, too. No fear in
him, but I've got to admit that it wasn't unjustified. Why I remember
the time that Old Sharky's band tried to loot the tower. Vanshans wasn't
scared, even though I was the only one with him at the time, and hardly
enough to hold off that many mercenaries. No, he just ... but that's
another story. The important thing to remember is that he could be a
nasty old bugger when he wanted.
     Anyway, I was his bodyguard some time back. An easy job, actually.
I mean, who wants to anger a wizard? Annoy him and get boils on your
butt. Hurt him and lose your sight or hearing or some such. Kill him and
-- well, I shudder to imagine. At least, that's what most people think,
and it amounts to the same thing. So, my main job was to slow down
anyone foolish enough to attack us until they realized what Vanshans
was, then let their fears do the rest. As for those who were too stupid
to get the idea ... well, my friend, Haden Ley may be no wizard, but my
sword is sharp.
     One Vibril, Vanshans became annoyed by some young upstart getting
too big for his britches and went off in a huff to take care of the lad,
not thinking about much else but his business, and I accompanied him.
While it didn't take long for Vanshans to finish, it did take some time
to get there, and we set off back for home late in the month. About
halfway back, we found ourselves in the middle of a nasty storm. Wind,
rain, and lightning, all in abundance, and us in the middle of this
large forest, no town nearby. Luckily, we came across an inn, although a
rather rickety one with gaps in the walls, and took shelter there though
the day was not much past halfway done.
     "I have never seen such a storm!" exclaimed my master, almost
losing his normal reserve as he shook the water from his robes.
     I removed my own clothes and shivered, for while the roof kept out
the rain, the walls let in most of the wind. But I dug around in our
pack and found the driest robe I could for him, then something not too
damp for me. As I hung our wet clothes on a piece of rope to dry, I
asked him if our present predicament might have something to do with his
little spat with the lad. He just looked at me and said something about
how I knew nothing about the duel arcane, and thus the subject was
closed.
     After I had dressed, I went down to the common room to get some
food for Vanshans and myself. As I waited for it, I noticed that some of
the locals were setting up in the fire pit a large pile of wood which I
could tell from the smell was nice and green. However, the walls down
there were as porous as the ones up in our room and the drafts were
blowing the rushes on the floor all around. So, when the wench came out
with the food, two bowls of a squirrel stew with onions and potatoes and
two mugs of ale, I asked her if they were going to be able to light that
fire, with all that wind.
     She just cackled and pointed to a large, rough looking man who was
setting up the wood. "See Jocky over there?" she said. "Jocky's the best
woodsman in the kingdom. He could light that fire outside on a day like
this, if need be!" She gave another cackle and said, "Don't you worry
none. We wouldn't dare not have a fire on the Night of Souls." For it
was that night, as I damn well knew. I pay attention to such things. I
thought that Vanshans did, too, but I guess he hadn't thought things
through this time.
     Anyway, I took the food and drink up to the room, where Vanshans
had dug out a brazier from somewhere and had it lit. He stood there
warming himself as I put a bowl and a mug on the table, where he sat to
eat while I sat on the floor by the door. We ate in silence, Vanshans
not being terribly talkative with the hired help. Afterwards, he went to
and sat on the cot, going into some sort of trance, while I got out my
sleeping roll and lay down, listening to the sounds of the storm. Being
a bodyguard can be damn dull at times, let me tell you.
     Eventually, I felt the day wear away and the storm seemed to go
with it. The wind had died down to a hefty breeze by the time I gathered
up the bowls and mugs to take them down before nightfall, but the rain
was still coming down hard. As I opened the door, I turned and asked
Vanshans if we should be expecting him downstairs soon.
     He gave me that look, the one people usually reserve for the really
foolish questions, like, "Will you be joining us in the town square to
throw eggs at the king as he rides by?" However, when he realized that I
was serious and had not lost my mind, he asked, "And why would I wish to
associate with the simple folk?"
     Now while I was rather used to this kind of treatment, having been
with him for quite some time, I was surprised at his attitude on this of
all nights of the year. "Why, because it's the Night of Souls, sir,"
said I. "It's time to light the green wood and tell stories 'til dawn."
Of course, as I said this, I remembered that he had never joined me and
his few servants on previous Nights of Souls. Until that night, I had
never understood why.
     When I mentioned the date, I saw something in his face that I'd
never seen before: fear. "That is tonight?" he asked quietly. "I was not
aware."
     I shrugged and told him to come down when he was ready. "The more
the merrier," I said.
     But he just shook his head and said, "No, I think not."
     Well, I went down anyway, delivering the dirty bowls and picking up
some more food and ale for myself before finding a seat in the circle
forming around the wood pile. A local priestess for some god blessed the
wood and Jocky, true to the wench's word, lit that fire right up.
Someone asked if my master would be joining us, and I said no, he liked
his solitude. Mind you, I didn't really think much about it. You see,
I've always figured that the whole Night of Souls set up was just a nice
way of passing a night, sort of a one night festival, and apparently
most of the locals had similar thoughts, for no one batted an eye at my
statement. So we started to go around the circle, telling our stories.
     Now, one thing I've learned in my travels is that the stories told
on the Night of Souls don't change much from place to place. Oh, certain
tales are told in one village that aren't told in another, and many of
the details alter, like which eye or hand the mysterious hermit had
lost, or whether it was a baby girl or boy who was killed by its mother,
but for the most part, the basics are all the same. That's one reason I
thought the whole myth about it was a load of manure. Still, I enjoyed
it. And for all the similarities in the stories, every area has at least
one story unique to it, which I have come to call "The Local Specialty,"
with some places having more than just one.
     Now, this inn was not really in a village, just in a convenient
spot on the road, and the people around the fire were mostly local
woodsman and the few farmers from the area, so the crowd wasn't as large
as some I've seen. As far as I can tell, it was getting around four
bells of the night -- hard to tell, really, since there were no bells to
give the time anywhere near -- when the Local Specialty was told. It was
a rather dull tale about a family who declined to join the fire and
disappeared during an otherwise uneventful Night, so I won't bore you
with it. But soon after the teller finished, I heard someone come down
the stairs. I turned and saw that it was Vanshans. I was about to call
him over when I noticed that he was circling around us, trying to not be
noticed. I watched him as he went around us, then realized that he was
heading for the door. While the wind and lightning had almost completely
disappeared, the rain was still coming down hard, and I knew it was not
the kind of weather one goes out in. So I called out to him.
     "Master Vanshans!" I said. "Where are you going? The night is not
fit for man nor beast. Come, sit by the fire and tell us your story."
     Well, he just turned to took at me, and I know that he was not
terribly happy with me calling attention to him. Casting his gaze at the
circle, he said, "No, I think that would not be wise. I shall spend the
night outside. Alone." And he left.
     Now I've met many people in my travels, and there are a few of them
who have a way of speaking which demands instant obedience. I don't know
if it's magic or what, but Vanshans had that knack, and he used it then,
which is why no one rose to stop him. I've always been rather spooked
when anyone spoke like that, but it was worse when a wizard did it, like
lightning just hit nearby. That tingling was a bad feeling on Vibril 30,
and from the faces around the fire, I guess the others felt something
similar. But we soon shook it off, ignored my strange employer, and went
back to the stories.
     Or rather, we thought we shook it off, but some of us seemed to
still be affected by it, because for the next bell, people kept on
looking around, as if they heard something. Even I thought I heard what
sounded like scratchings and voices at the shuttered windows and doors,
whispering strange and bizarre things, too quietly for understanding. It
was rather unnerving, but on we continued, although I saw some of the
locals looking around, as if trying to locate the source of the noises.
Near the middle of the night, one of the locals finished the Three Eyed
Monster story ... I'm sure you've heard it. I swear, I've heard it
everywhere I've been, and no one believes the silly thing past the age
of ten. Anyway, this yokel told it, amazingly believing every line from
the look on his face, while the rest of us either yawned or smirked,
waiting for the idiot's turn to end so that we could hear a real story,
when the bell tolled.
     Now, as I said before, there weren't no village anywhere near this
inn, and no bell tower, meaning no bell. So where did the bell come
from? No one knew, not even the locals. I know they heard it because
they were just as freaked as I was when that clear, deep tone echoed
through the common room. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five.
     Five bells in the night. Midnight of the Night of Souls had come.
Then things got really weird.
     The wind that had been dying all day suddenly picked up, howling
around the inn like a full gale, blocking out the sound of the rain as
it rattled the old structure. And in that wind, we heard the voices. No
doubting them now, and though we couldn't make out what they were
whispering, we weren't sure that we wanted to know. But amazingly, while
the walls of the inn had been almost useless against the wind before,
this wind, while rattling the inn, did not enter. The common room was
dead calm. Jocky added another green branch to the fire, while the
priestess said a silent prayer to her god.
     Well, we were pretty much scared out of our breeches and most of us
were just sitting there when the serving wench began to tell us another
story. I couldn't for the life of me tell you what it was about, nor the
next one, but we had silently decided that maybe telling stories really
was important. So for the next bell we sat there, scared, telling
stories about gods know what, while that, that *wind* howled around out
there. We just talked in our turn, trying to ignore it.
     Then the bells sounded again, loud and clear over the wind. This
time they tolled six, and as the echoes of the last "gong" died down, so
too did the wind. Just as quickly as it had picked up, it was gone.
Along with those awful voices.
     We all looked at each other for a while. Some wag suggested that
someone go outside to see what had happened, but no one volunteered. So
we sat there and, after a brief pause, continued telling stories.
     The rest of the night was nice and quiet. When the bells took away
the wind, the rain went with it, so all we heard was the crackle of the
fire and our own voices. Some fell asleep, but not many and not only did
no one leave the room, no one left the circle. When day finally dawned,
I was one of the many still awake. With the light beginning to stream in
through the cracks in the window shutters, I felt positively normal
again. And I realized that Vanshans never came back inside during the
night.
     Well, seeing as I was supposed to be his bodyguard and all, I got
up, stretching as my muscles protested against sitting down for ten
bells straight , and went to the door. It opened easily enough and the
front of the inn looked normal enough, just an extremely muddy road with
small branches fallen on it from the rain and wind. I walked out boldly,
which was absolutely not a show for the audience of several locals
following me, including old Jocky. I and my little following walked
around the building and noticed the large clearing behind the inn. Now I
didn't remember a clearing back there the day before, and neither did
Jocky, who had been coming here since he'd been a small boy.
     As Jocky immediately mentioned, this was no natural clearing. It
was almost a completely regular circle in the middle of the forest, and
the ground around it was bare. I mean completely bare. Not a tree, a
leaf, a bush, or a blade of grass could be seen. Except in the very
center of it, where there was a patch of green in the middle of the
desolation. On that patch lay Vanshans, motionless.
     Well, I went over to him, crossing that bare area, my hair standing
on end over the fact that while it was bare, it was also bone dry. I
looked down at him and thought that I saw the remains of some sort of
runes dug into the ground at the edge of the green patch.
     "Is he alive?" someone called out from the edge of the clearing.
While they had followed me outside, they had decided to let me cross the
patch on my own.
     I knelt down and felt his chest. Yep, he was alive, just
unconscious. So I picked him up and carried him back into the inn,
laying him on his bed. He remained unconscious for most of the day, and
we stayed there that day and that night, during which the wizard spoke
not a word. Whatever happened that night had really drained him.
     Several months later, back in the safety of his tower, I got the
nerve to ask him what happened at that inn, and I guess I caught him in
a generous mood, for he told me. You see, while many people might run
into the stray spirit now and then, some wizards, like Vanshans, deal
with otherworldly creatures regularly, and they are particularly in tune
with them. When the barriers between this and the spirit world lowers on
the Night of Souls, then these wizards act as a lodestone to them,
especially the more malignant and powerful ones. Vanshans had taken to
spending that one night in a special room, in which he would be hidden.
Thus when he realized his mistake from being so far from his tower on
that night, he knew that he needed to leave the inn, for so powerful was
the attraction between himself and the spirits that not even the
greenwood fire would be protection enough, and the building would have
been torn apart. Even with all his skill and power, he had only barely
kept the spirits at bay, and had almost died that night.
     And I believe him. Several years later, I went back to that inn,
and I've seen the clearing behind it. It's still there, and nothing
grows there. Also, Jocky says that no animal will ever cross it, nor
bird fly over it. So I believe what Vanshans told me.

     Well, that's my story, and every word of it true. I give my word.
     Now, who's next?

========================================================================

                             Talisman Eight
                                 Part 2
                          by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
                        <John.White@Drexel.Edu>
                             Yuli 13, 1013

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 14-7

     Early in the morning of the 13th of Yuli, not much past second
bell, Rhonwn charged into the clearing where he and his father were
staying, crying, "Bobere! Murntedd!" over and over. His heart sank when
he saw that no progress had been made toward readying the wagon for
travel; there were crates of wares stacked on one side of the clearing,
the horses were bare of tack on the other side, and around the embers in
the fire pit was almost every cooking utensil they owned. Despite the
urgency of his news and the consequent need for a hasty departure,
Rhonwn knew that the wagon wasn't going to be ready to leave for well
over a bell.
     After one more shout, the elder gypsy appeared at the door of the
wagon parked half-a-dozen paces from the fire pit. "What's the noise
about, murnmib? Your dawn returnings aren't usually so noisy, luckily
for me. I need more sleep than you, my son, as you well know."
     Rhonwn rushed over to his father and said, "Disaster, murntedd,
disaster for all of us, that's what. I overheard a sinister meeting
gathered by our passenger-to-be, Lacsil, and it bodes disaster!"
     "Calm down, Rhonwn, calm down!" Bobere said. "Come, sit and rest
yourself, and give me your news."
     Rhonwn protested, "But we don't have time, Bobere!" even as he let
himself be led to the folding chairs set by the fire pit. He settled
himself into the cloth sling of the chair, took a few deep breaths, and
then said, "Father, I've learned that Lacsil is a member of the Bloody
Hand of Sageeza." He was pleased that his father's expression changed
from amused tolerance to the beginnings of concern. "It's true. He
revealed that the Bloody Hand has plans to intrude upon the gathering of
our people in the forests of the duchy of Dargon this fall, with the
intent of killing as many of us as he and his fellow malcontents can
manage. That would be bad enough under normal circumstances, but with
the numbers that will attend this gathering for the union between Maks
and Syusahn, it could be completely disastrous.
     "But that's not the worst. It seems that Lacsil has learned that
you possess a map of the Rhydd Pobl trails, through an indiscretion of
my own. I've put everyone in grave danger, father. What can we do?"
     Bobere's expression had changed to deepest worry. "We can leave, as
quickly as possible, son. Lacsil must not have that map. You harness the
horses, and I'll stow the interior of the wagon. We may have to leave
our stock and our kitchen gear, but those can be replaced. We must not
be anywhere near when Lacsil comes to find us. Go!"

     Lacsil, dressed all in green as usual, rode with his assistant,
Hissek, through the woodland paths that surrounded Beeikar, the baronial
seat of Bindrmon. He rode with two of the towns-people who had been at
his dawn meeting of the newest recruits of the Bloody Hand of Sageeza.
He had sent the others at the meeting off to spread the word to other
groups of the Bloody Hand -- the word that Lacsil had finally gained the
key to striking a major blow against their foes, the gypsies!
     For ages, the Bloody Hand had sniped at the gypsies, ambushing them
here, inciting people to rise up against them there. But Lacsil was
marshaling what would be their crowning glory: an attack in mass on the
annual gypsy gathering. And he would have the means to lead each and
every Hand right to their enemies!
     All he had to do was meet up with the gypsies he had hired to
smuggle him north out of Welspeare. Somewhere along the way, he would
find the map they had, the only map in existence that cataloged the
hidden ways of the gypsies, and break away from them. Armed with that
map, and the legions of the Hand who would be gathering in Tench by the
end of Sy, he would strike a righteous blow against the "Reethe Pobul"!
     Lacsil had been told the previous evening that the gypsies would be
leaving at about third bell. Knowing that he couldn't afford to be late,
he had set out as soon as the morning meeting had ended. How could they
object to his arriving early, after all?
     Rhonwn's directions had been explicit, so Lacsil knew when he was
nearing the gypsy's clearing. He reined in his horse, signaling his
associates to stop as well. When they had all dismounted, he gathered
them around and clarified his plans.
     "I want the three of you to wait within earshot while I continue on
into the gypsy's campsite. I'm sure there won't be any trouble, but this
is too important not to have a backup plan, and that's you three,
straight? If anything goes wrong, I'll shout out, which is your signal
to come running. Got it? Fine.
     "Now then, since everything is going to go perfectly, when I leave
with the gypsies, you'll follow us, Hissek. Once again, as a, well and
well, contingency. You two have already been told where to take my
message as soon as you are finished here. Is everything clear? Then
let's be about it."
     Lacsil took hold of the headstall of his horse and set out down the
path to the clearing. His intention hadn't been stealth, but he arrived
unnoticed to see both gypsies concentrating on preparing to leave.
Bobere, the older gypsy, was hurriedly stowing items into the wagon
parked near the fire pit while his foster son, Rhonwn, was draping the
horses in blankets, and buckling straps around them.
     Lacsil knew that it was not very much past second bell, and the
haste with which the gypsies were acting alerted him that something was
not right. Surely, if his guides were still intending to leave at about
third bell, there was no need for such speed? Warily, yet putting on a
cheerful face, he said, "Greetings, fellow travelers! I didn't want to
inconvenience your departure plans, so I have arrived, well and well
early!"
     Both gypsies stopped in their tracks and turned toward him when his
voice sounded across the clearing. Was that fear on their faces? Bobere
rattled off a sentence in their strange language, which set Rhonwn to
work harnessing the horses again, though at a more sedate pace. Then the
older gypsy approached Lacsil and said, "Ah, sir Lacsil, I regret that
you have made your journey in vain. Matters have rearranged themselves,
and the upshot is that our wagon no longer has an extra seat this
journey. Here, let me return your Crowns, and I hope that you will be
able to make other arrangements."
     Lacsil cursed inwardly, but maintained his friendly mask. "Oh, but
are you sure? I fear that the forces of so-called justice are closing in
on me and I don't know how long I might have as a free man. You were my
best chance at escaping and reaching my friends in the north. I assure
you I would be no bother; I have my own gear and can fend for myself.
All I need is a guide. Perhaps you might change your mind for another,
well and well, two Crowns?"
     Bobere was backing away as he said, "No, no good sir, the sticking
point is not the amount of payment. I'm afraid that, much to my regret,
there is no leeway for compromise this time. Fare you well, Master
Lacsil."
     "So be it, Master Bobere," said Lacsil, with feigned resignation.
However, instead of turning and leaving, the man in green drew his knife
and shouted, "For Sageeza!" Not waiting for his companions to arrive, he
charged at Bobere. He didn't even regret the change in plans all that
much; after all, a gypsy dead now rather than at journey's end was still
a gypsy dead!

     Yawrab closed the servant's door of Denva Manor and turned the key
in the lock, securing the residence. As chatelaine of the manor, Yawrab
had returned early to prepare it for the imminent return of the Lord and
Lady Denva and their twin children from their recent trip to Fremlow
City. Arriving the previous afternoon, she had worked well into the
evening getting the large house ready.
     Despite being tired from her own journey from the ducal seat and
retiring rather later than usual, she still found herself rising with
the dawn, as was her habit. Faced with the prospect of sitting alone and
idle for the day -- her duties had been carried out, and the other
servants not yet returned from their holiday -- she chose instead to
take herself into Beeikar to visit her sister, Tillna. The Denva estate
was some distance from the town proper, but Yawrab faced the two-bell
walk in good spirits. She had spent quite enough time recently on
horseback, and the weather that fine Yuli morning was well suited to a
short trek.
     As Yawrab started walking, she wondered how Tillna was. Her sister
worked at an inn in Beeikar, the Ring of Swine or something similar, and
seemed to like it. There had been a time when Tillna was little more
than a trollop, using her beauty and her body to earn favors from men.
Yawrab had found that both demeaning and personally repugnant, the
latter due to a particular incident in her past, the very one that had
led to her traveling north from Shaddir Barony to Barony Bindrmon. Her
sister, as her only family, had come along, though Tillna hadn't known
why her sister was moving so far away from home.
     Things were getting better for Tillna now, though. Yawrab's younger
sister had set her cap for the handsome and dashing Lord Aldan, son of
Baron Bindrmon and heir to the title. She hoped that Tillna wasn't
aspiring too high. Could the baron-to-be really be romantically
interested in a bar-maid? Could the daughter and sister of servants
really aspire to a coronet of rank?
     Sometimes, Yawrab found herself wishing for that kind of
uncertainty in her life, but in general she was happy with the boringly
familiar. She was ten years older than her sister, but it sometimes felt
more like fifty, so set in her ways was she. Her world was well defined
by the limits of the Denva estate, where she knew everyone and
everything, and even had some small measure of control over well
delineated portions of it. The largest source of discomfort over her
recent trip to Fremlow City had been in how she had been removed from
her safe surroundings for more than a sennight. Fortunately, she was
well used to that periodic upheaval by now. She had learned to adjust to
it by confining herself to the apartments that the family stayed in. She
would take them over from the normal staff and re-create her familiar
world, as much as possible, within them. All she had ever seen of the
ducal seat of Fremlow City was the Street of Traders that they rode in
on, and Harthone Hall, where they stayed. And she was quite content with
that.
     Yawrab had trekked her way past several other estates and two farms
as she traveled along the road to Beeikar. It might have been around
second bell -- still very early, in any case -- when the road she was on
curved around some trees and neared the Renev River. She had stepped
well clear of the cover of the trees when she realized that in the
clearing between the road and a bend in the Renev there was an empty
barge pulled up on the bank of the river.
     Barges weren't normal parts of the scenery and, moreover, they
usually implied bargemen. And bargemen were only trouble. Yawrab cast
about her for a quick exit or some concealment. The trees she had just
cleared were only a few steps behind her. The road continued on past the
clearing, but the trees didn't resume for at least three score strides.
The road branched about halfway across the expanse of the clearing, but
she couldn't see anything down that branch that looked helpful.
     Her heart beating wildly, she continued on at an even pace, praying
to any and all gods of defenseless women that nothing would happen.
     Her prayers were answered. Unfortunately, the answer was 'no'.
     Two bargemen stumbled out of the trees on the opposite side of the
road from the clearing. Laughing suddenly and for no obvious reason,
they lurched to a halt almost directly in front of Yawrab but facing
away from her. One was tall and lean, the other was short and round;
both were obviously drunk, taking long swigs from the wineskins they
were carrying. The tall one turned first and spotted Yawrab, and wasted
no time elbowing his companion into noticing her as well.
     "Look, Jurce, a fine, fine filly," said the tall one. "A fine filly
for to end our respite, yas?"
     The round one chuckled, a low and utterly filthy sound. "Ah yas,
Essipt, a fit end, yas. Couldn't see getting back to the barge without
doin' for this filly so fine."
     Yawrab began to shake. It was just like before, even if it was
nothing like before. These bargemen, these scum, these filth, these
dregs of humanity shunned by almost all polite society, were as far from
Lord Cranhull as one could get, but the look in their eyes was exactly
the same. Last time it had been in a wood paneled room with fine wall
hangings and elegant furniture; this time it would be in the grass like
an animal. But it would all be the same in the end: rape!
     It wasn't until the two men actually grabbed her that she cried
out, shouting and flailing in anger and fear. It didn't inconvenience
the men in the least. The short one even said, "Good, she can talk. It's
better when they can talk, right Essipt?" The tall man's chuckle wasn't
as deep as Jurce's, but it was just as filthy.
     As the bargemen dragged Yawrab off of the road and into the
clearing by their barge, the chatelaine saw a gypsy wagon up along the
part of the road that branched away. It was a large wagon, colorfully
painted, drawn by three horses, with two people on the bench in front
and another riding along side.
     Hope dawned inside of Yawrab; she was going to be rescued! But that
brief ray of hope only made the despair that followed deeper, for the
wagon turned aside a good way from the clearing. Her shouts turned to
sobs as the golden fox painted on the side of the house-like wagon
vanished into the trees.

     Ganba of the Rhydd Pobl, the Free People, had been riding her wagon
along the paths of Bindrmon since before the sun's awakening. It was now
something like second bell by rooted-folk reckoning, on the day they
labeled the 13th of Yuli. For Ganba, it was simply early on a day in the
middle of summer, and she loved the freedom that gave her. For her
purposes, it didn't matter what divided one day from the next; she
counted days and nights from event to event, like the number of days
from her last camping spot to her next. For her, the question of when
the 13th had begun was only interesting in as much as she had to
interact with those to whom it did matter. Whether it began at sunrise
or sunset, mid-day or mid-night, it was all the same to her. But as the
rooted-folk changed their numbers at sunrise, so would she.
     Folk like those who lived in this part of the world -- Bindrmon,
Welspeare, Baranur -- grouped the passing of time into months and gave
the days within a month a number. The joke of it all was that, even with
all of their marshaling of time into twelve even months of thirty days
each, they still had to throw five, or sometimes six, extra days into
the middle so that the first of Yule fell on the summer solstice. Ganba
had never understood why the middle of their year had to be so precise,
since the beginning of their year only sometimes actually fell on the
winter solstice. She wondered how many times they had lost count of
exactly how many years had passed over the supposed one thousand
thirteen since they started trying to keep track.
     Ganba and her brothers were currently making a detour from the rest
of the bantor, or wagon group, of her family, as it made its casual way
north for the annual gathering. This year the gathering would be made
even more special by the union between Maks and Syusahn, and she was
looking forward to the ceremony.
     The detour was to meet up with Bobere and Rhonwn, who were supposed
to be stopping to sell their wares in a few cities in Bindrmon during
this second month of summer. Their last stop was to be Beeikar, from
which they would be setting out for the gathering. Of course, she wasn't
sure whether the pair had already left, or had even arrived yet; gypsies
seldom scheduled anything for a specific day beyond very large
gatherings since any number of things could delay one in travel. She
knew roughly where their camp would be though, and there would be blazes
on the surrounding trails to direct them to the right location.
     Ganba was an artisan, as was most of her bantor. She carved figures
from wood with more than a little skill, according to her family. Bobere
often sold her wares for her, and she was always eager to see which of
her fanciful creations had caught someone's eye. The money her carvings
brought was secondary in importance, but well received in any case; even
gypsies needed gold from time to time.
     Ganba's older brother, Hiranw, was driving the large, brightly
painted wagon on this trip. Ganba had the skill too, but Hiranw's touch
was more sure, especially with the larger wagons. Three horses pulled
their wagon along the wooded pathways around Beeikar, and although they
were well matched and used to the harness, Ganba was happy to let Hiranw
drive even though she had been given the leadership of the detour trip.
     Her younger brother, Shaiff, was riding alongside the wagon on his
own horse for this trip. Shaiff and Rhonwn, Bobere's son, were friends
and when the detour had been approved he had asked to go along, even
though the wagon's steering bench wouldn't hold three comfortably for
any length of time. Which meant that he was riding alongside, instead of
along with, his siblings.
     Ganba caught sight of the glint of sun on water well down the path
at the same time as she noticed the small blaze on the tree indicating
that they needed to turn away from the path they were currently on.
Since Hiranw was already coaxing the horses to slow and bear right, she
knew that he had seen the marking as well. As the wagon turned away from
their former trail, she looked back toward the sun-glint.
     She was shocked to see three figures move into view in the clearing
at the end of the path. It looked as if two men were dragging a
struggling woman between them. Ganba knew that something was wrong, both
from the knife in the tall one's hand and the sideways-circle hats that
the men wore that marked them as bargemen. That woman was in trouble!
     "Stefyll!" she commanded, indicating that they should stop.
     Hiranw pulled back on the reins, and the wagon slowly ceased
moving. Shaiff drew up beside the wagon's seat on horseback, and asked,
"What's wrong, chwrd?" of his sister.
     "Just as we were turning off the other trail back there, brwd," she
answered her brother, "I saw a woman being dragged along by two
bargemen. She was struggling, and one of the men had a knife. We have to
help her."
     Hiranw said, "Well, the wagon won't turn around in this space. Do
either of you know whether this path meets that one again?"
     Ganba sneered at her other brother. "What, has your brain shut down
from being sat on for so long? We don't need a wagon to get us down to
that clearing, Hiranw. Grab your bows, boys, and your knives too. We
need to hurry! Move!"
     The men fetched their bows from the wagon, which Hiranw hurriedly
secured. As Ganba led them through the trees toward the clearing and the
water, she hoped that nothing spooked the horses -- the locked wheels of
the wagon wouldn't hold against three frightened animals if it came to
that.
     As the edge of the trees came into view, Ganba needlessly hushed
her brothers and slowly crept closer. She could hear the bargemen
mumbling to each other, but nothing from the woman. Had she fainted, or
been gagged, or even killed?
     Ganba sidled up behind a tree and peeked around. She saw the woman
on the ground, and the two bargemen kneeling on either side of her. They
were grinning at each other and making pleased-sounding, unintelligible
conversation with each other. The fat one was pawing at the victim's
breasts, while the thin one was waving his knife around while plucking
at the hem of her dress.
     Ganba turned to her brothers, who had their bows ready and were
taking in the scene from their own concealment. She said, "Hiranw, can
you shoot the one with the knife? Not to kill, just to disable. They're
filth, but human for all of that."
     Hiranw gazed thoughtfully across the intervening distance for a
moment, and then nodded. Ganba turned to Shaiff and said, "And the other
one?"
     The younger brother took his own look at the situation, and then
said, "Sorry, Ganba, I don't see any target that wouldn't kill with that
one. The way he's kneeling and bending over ... I just don't see a
shot."
     "Fine. Hiranw, put your arrow in the one with the knife. Maybe
that'll scare them both off. If not, well, be ready for anything."
     They both nodded, and Hiranw pulled an arrow from his quiver and
nocked it. Taking a step sideways, he drew, aimed, and fired in a
smooth, practiced motion. By the time Ganba turned her head from her
brother to the bargemen, the arrow had already hit its target and was
buried deep in the knife-wielding arm. The knife slipped from the
bargeman's hand as he cried out and lurched backwards. Then he fell flat
on his back, clutching his wounded arm.
     The other bargeman straightened up and looked around somewhat
stupidly for a moment. Then he noticed his companion with an arrow in
his arm, lying flat on the ground. "Essipt!" he cried. "What happened,
Essipt?"
     The thrum of a bowstring to Ganba's left seemed almost coincidental
to the appearance of an arrow in the remaining bargeman's shoulder.
Whether Shaiff had been aiming for the same place as his brother or not,
his arrow had the same effect. With a grunt and then a grimace of pain,
the other bargeman fell over as well.
     Ganba was up and running in a trice, her brothers following shortly
after. She knelt beside the woman, checking to see that she was still
breathing. Ganba couldn't see any sign of injury, and the woman seemed
to be breathing normally. Relieved, she said to her brothers, "You two
take care of these brutes. Dump 'em in their barge and push it off the
bank, yes? I'll see if I can revive her."
     Ganba dipped her sleeve in the river and bathed the woman's face
lightly, hoping to wake her up without frightening her any further.

     Yawrab was dragged across the clearing by the bargemen and dropped
carelessly to the ground. She had ceased to struggle, ceased to sob.
What was the use, after all? These two brutes were going to have their
way with her, and she was just as helpless as she had been in the face
of Lord Cranhull's advances. But this time, if she survived, there would
be no one to be her advocate against the injustice. No one to go to the
perpetrator and shame him into getting her a job at another estate on
the other end of the duchy. No daughter of Lord Cranhull, no Lady
Shorilen, to be her bastion of courage.
     No, these bargemen would go free, back to their fellow animals,
free from recriminations, from justice. It was all so unfair! How could
this happen to her again?
     As the two grease-smelling drunks knelt down on either side of her,
looming over her like the fate she knew she was going to suffer, Yawrab
felt an all-encompassing despair flood over her, as if she was at the
bottom of a cataract being battered by the water falling on her. The
water turned into years, pummeling down on top of her, drowning her in
time. Every year of her life pooled above her, and then twice that, a
hundred years, four hundred, a thousand, more. She was trapped by the
past, by a history that she didn't know but that seemed to be part of
her, borne down until she couldn't move, crushed, pulverized like herbs
in a mortar.
     And then, the years turned into flames that ringed her all around.
But instead of bringing fear, they brought calm, safety, release. She
felt reassured, comforted, happy ...
     The strange dream faded away slowly as Yawrab felt something cool
against her forehead. She opened her eyes to find the face of a young
woman hovering over her. Brown hair, brown eyes, pretty in a swarthy
way, something about the face connected with her fading dream and made
her feel safe, despite her sudden recollection of the bargemen and their
intentions.
     "Are you all right?" asked the brown-haired face in a
slightly-accented voice. "Did they hurt you?"
     Yawrab stared into the brown eyes and answered, "No. No, they
didn't actually hurt me. Are you ... are you from the golden fox wagon?"
     "Yes, I am. I'm Ganba, and these are my brothers, Hiranw and
Shaiff. Do you think you can stand?"
     Yawrab sat up with Ganba's help. She looked around and found no
sign of the bargemen or their barge. Ganba's brothers were squatting a
couple of paces away, and Yawrab was grateful that they had the sense
not to crowd her just at this moment. Even though she knew that they
were no threat, they were still men and she had just been through quite
an ordeal.
     Yawrab was next helped to her feet and then, slowly and
solicitously, up the trail and to the gypsies' wagon. The back was
lowered into a platform, and Yawrab was given a seat on the steps while
the older brother, Hiranw, fetched her an herbal concoction to drink. It
smelled horrible, but tasted fairly neutral and she did feel more steady
once she had it inside her.
     She said, "That does help, Hiranw. Thank you. And ... well, I ...
ah, I don't know how to thank you enough for rescuing me. It was ...
well ..."
     Ganba said, "No need, no need. We were there, and able-bodied
enough to help, so we helped. What else could we have done?
     "So, where were you headed when you were ... when it ... ah, this
morning?"
     Yawrab smiled at Ganba's stumbling phrasing, and said, "I was
headed for Beeikar to visit my sister. Were you headed that way?"
     "Well, honestly, no," said Ganba. "But, in the interests of not
having our good deed wasted by giving some other ruffians the chance to
attack you, we'll happily give you a ride into the town."
     "That would be most welcome, Ganba. Thank you again. I just ...
thank you."
     Ganba just smiled, and then the three gypsies were bustling around,
getting the wagon ready for travel again. Soon, the caravan was on the
move again, carrying Yawrab into Beeikar.

     The sun was sliding past its zenith, what the locals would call
fifth bell, by the time Ganba and her wagon were once again among the
roads and paths through the forest around Beeikar, looking for the trail
blazes that would lead to Bobere's camp. She didn't regret the time
spent rescuing Yawrab, nor getting her safely to the Boar-Ring Inn where
her sister worked. This was just one of many things that could delay a
journey, and it was all for a good cause.
     As Hiranw drove the wagon expertly through the forest, finding the
blazes left by Bobere with ease, Ganba couldn't stop thinking about
Yawrab. There had been something about the woman, something just on the
edge of familiarity even though they had never met before. Yawrab's
black hair, pale skin, and most especially her differently-colored eyes,
one blue, one brown, had struck a chord deep within her. That wasn't why
she had put herself out helping the woman, of course, but it was why she
couldn't get Yawrab out of her mind.
     The older woman hadn't revealed much about herself during the ride
into Beeikar. Ganba had learned that she was the chatelaine of an estate
a short distance from the town, and that she had recently been to the
ducal seat of Welspeare with the noble family that lived at the estate.
Yawrab had also mentioned that Tillna was her younger sister, and worked
at the Boar-Ring Inn. But that was all, despite a ride of more than a
bell.
     Ganba hadn't pressed, knowing that despite the woman's tough
exterior, she was probably still unsteady after the attack. They had
said farewell in front of the inn, then Ganba had left, probably never
to see the woman again. But that, too, was the way gypsy life was, ever
traveling, ever meeting and departing.
     Her thoughts were still on the enigma of Yawrab when Hiranw said,
"Chwrd, we've arrived. But ... by the ocean's depth, what's happened?"
     Ganba looked around, and gasped. Bobere's campsite was a shambles.
A stack of wooden boxes on one side of the clearing had been smashed
open, revealing the kinds of wares Bobere usually sold, including some
of her statues. Kitchen gear was scattered about the fire pit, and it
looked as if half of the contents of the wagon itself had been thrown
around the clearing. Several holes had been smashed into the side of the
wagon, and one of the wheels had been cracked. There was no sign of life
anywhere -- not Bobere or Rhonwn, nor the horses.
     Ganba and her brothers hurried into the clearing and started
looking around. Shaiff called out, and Ganba raced over with Hiranw to
the back of the wrecked wagon. They found Shaiff kneeling next to
Bobere, who was breathing very shallowly and looked very pale as he lay
amongst the debris of his caravan. It was easy to see why; the older
gypsy's multicolored tunic was reduced to but one color by the blood
that soaked half of it, blood from a knife that was still impaling his
side and which was probably the only reason he hadn't yet bled
completely to death.
     "Take a look around," said Ganba, "and see if you can find any
reason for this. Also, see if Rhonwn is lying under something, similarly
wounded. I'll see what I can do for Bobere."
     As her brothers did her bidding, Ganba wondered what she might be
able to do for a fatally-stabbed man. This wasn't going to be made
better by a damp sleeve across the forehead. She touched his neck
gently, and could barely feel his life-beat. She could hear that his
breathing was raspy, even bubbly, which wasn't a good sound at all. She
took his hand, and it felt cold. She tried rubbing some warmth back into
it, as if that would heal his wound, but she knew that it was too late.
Only magic would have had a chance to reverse Bobere's course now, and
there was none to be had.
     The older gypsy stirred, his head turning weakly. His eyes opened,
and focused with some effort on her. His lips moved slightly, and then
he said in a very faint voice, "Cytwer Ganba, is that you?"
     "Yes, Amdan Bobere, it's Cousin Ganba. What happened, uncle? How
did you end up like this?" The gypsy convention of referring to the
members of other wagon-groups as cousins, and the leaders of those
groups as uncle, was even more poignant here, with her good friend
grievously wounded next to her.
     "Attacked. Bad man, Lacsil, of the Bloody Hand of Sageeza, attacked
us. He wanted us to guide him north, to get away from some bad business,
but Rhonwn found out what he really wanted, who he really was. Where's
Rhonwn? Rhonwn!"
     "Quiet, uncle, rest. I'll ask my brothers if they've seen Rhonwn.
You conserve your strength." Ganba looked up, but both Hiranw and Shaiff
shook their heads. She turned back to Bobere and said, "No, uncle,
Rhonwn isn't here."
     Bobere said, "Did he get away? Did they take him?" He struggled
briefly to sit up, but cried out in pain as fresh blood oozed out around
the knife. "Ahh! Uhn, did they ... the map ..."
     "Map, uncle? What map?"
     "I didn't see. Lacsil stabbed me, I didn't see. Did they get the
map? Look, cousin, look for a map case. Tell them to look, and I'll tell
you ..."
     Ganba gave her brothers the new instructions, and then sat beside
Bobere as he gasped out the story of the map. How he had set down the
hidden ways of the Rhydd Pobl onto parchment because of his bad memory.
How Rhonwn had let that information slip, and how Lacsil of the Bloody
Hand of Sageeza now knew about it. About how Rhonwn had overheard
Lacsil's plans to gather his fellow Bloody Hand followers and attack the
northern gathering in force, with the map as their guide.
     Ganba was appalled. Bobere probably wasn't the first gypsy to set
the secret trails to parchment, but to have the bad luck of having a
fanatic like this Lacsil find out about it! She checked with her
brothers, but they had found no map case yet. There was a lot of debris
to search through, but since Lacsil had left, he had probably left with
the map.
     Bobere squeezed Ganba's hand, drawing her attention back his way.
"Cousin, you have to find that map. That, or stop Lacsil. He's heading
north. Follow him and stop him. This is all my fault, but I can't do
anything about it any more. But you can. Promise, Ganba. Please?"
     Ganba looked into Bobere's eyes, holding his hand tightly. There
was no question about her answer. She said, "I promise, uncle. I
promise."
     Bobere smiled, and then he died. She felt it happen. She felt the
strength leave his hand, saw his chest halt in mid-rise, watched the
light fade from his eyes. In an instant, he was gone, leaving an empty
husk behind.
     It happened so suddenly that Ganba was unprepared. Having his life
leave him like that, where she could all but feel it go, wrenched a sob
from her. She couldn't help herself, and soon she was crying full on,
bent over Bobere's chest.
     Suddenly, Ganba seemed to be standing in the rain. Except it wasn't
rain falling on her, it was chips of wood. The sawdust piled up, higher
and higher, faster and faster, and she knew that each chip was a day,
one day of her life. The days piled up around her ankles until she felt
like she was standing in her lifetime's worth of sawdust. But it kept
spilling down from above. Another lifetime, and another, and the pile
around her rose higher and higher, to her knees and up her thighs, and
even higher. Decades of chips, and then centuries piled up, and just
kept piling higher and higher. She felt the constriction of so much
sawdust, so light one chip at a time, but smothering in their abundance.
A thousand years of sawdust, fifteen hundred years, and the sawdust rose
to her neck, squeezing her chest until she couldn't breathe. Higher and
higher, covering her mouth, her nose, almost to her eyes ...
     And then, the chips turned into flames that flared up all around
her. But instead of bringing fear, they brought calm, safety, release.
Ganba felt reassured, comforted, happy ...
     The strange vision faded, and she realized that she was no longer
kneeling over Bobere. Ganba was sitting on the rear platform of Bobere's
wagon, and she saw Hiranw covering the older gypsy's body with a
blanket. Despite the death of Bobere, despite the disappearance of
Rhonwn, and despite the threat of Lacsil's minions of Sageeza, she felt
hopeful, serene, at peace.
     Ganba looked around and found one of Bobere's favorite carvings
lying on the platform next to her. It was a fragment of a strange stone
sculpture, about a foot and a half across and comprising perhaps a third
of what had once been a fully-circular, plate-like carving. It had a
series of glass, gold, and silver bands interwoven across the inner
two-thirds of it, while the outer third had a stylized fox facing a
stylized cat carved as if they were sitting on the outer, curved rim.
She remembered the piece well, because the shape of the fox was the
exact shape she had chosen as her primary decoration; the golden fox on
the side of her wagon looked exactly like the fox on the stone. The
memorable part was that she hadn't seen the stone until years after she
had chosen the shape.
     Pulling the stone next to her, she decided to keep it in memory of
her Uncle Bobere. Ganba knew what needed to happen next. She would
return to her bantor with the news of Bobere's death and the news of
Sageeza and the map. And then she would head north to Dargon to find
Lacsil and avenge Bobere.

     It was half past fourth-bell when Yawrab walked onto the grounds of
Bindrmon Keep. She instinctively walked up to the servants' gate, and
was admitted with no questions. Perhaps it was her serious manner, or
her severe expression that won her past the guards, or maybe it was her
unconscious air of 'I belong here,' gained through years as chatelaine
of a noble manor, that got her in.
     Once in, however, she was at a loss as to where to go. Bindrmon
Keep was far larger than the Denva estate, with all manner of
outbuildings and store houses within the outer walls whose purpose she
didn't recognize. She did know the stables, though, so that was where
she headed.
     Yawrab was at Bindrmon Keep because of what she'd learned at the
Boar-Ring Inn. She had asked the gypsies to drop her off at the inn
because Tillna often worked during the day there, and because even if
Tillna wasn't on duty, Yawrab had felt in need of a good hearty
breakfast after her morning ordeal.
     But what she had found first at the inn was a stranger waiting
tables. She knew Aivney, the older barmaid that Tillna worked with, but
this willowy redhead was not Aivney. Yawrab had asked the newcomer about
her sister, and had then received the shocking news that Tillna was
dead.
     "What?" she had asked. "Dead?"
     "Yes," said the redhead. "Some man that Aivney said was Lord Aldan
came in last night and said that Tillna was dead. Then, he ran out
again."
     "That's all? Who did it?"
     "I don't know anything more. I didn't even know who Lord Aldan was
until Aivney told me that he was the son of the baron. I only just
arrived in Beeikar a few days ago, you know ..."
     "Tillna's dead. No, it can't be true ..."
     Yawrab had stumbled to a seat, overwhelmed by the realization that
the only family she had left was gone. The redhead had fetched Oablar,
the owner of the inn, whom Yawrab also knew. The unhandsome, but
basically kind, man had done his best to comfort her, while revealing
that there wasn't actually any proof that Tillna was dead save for Lord
Aldan's word, though she hadn't been seen anywhere for almost three
days.
     Eventually, after some good, cold ale and some bread and cheese,
Yawrab had recovered from the shock and formulated a course of action.
Lord Aldan had brought the news, so Lord Aldan was the one she had to
find. After thanking Oablar for his help, she had set out for Bindrmon
Keep.
     Entering the stables of that keep, she searched for someone to talk
to. In the tack room, she found a man repairing some leather straps. He
noticed her standing in the doorway, and said, "Good day, good lady. Can
I assist you?"
     "Perhaps," Yawrab said, hesitantly. "I'm Yawrab, the chatelaine of
the Denva estate, and also sister to Tillna."
     The man didn't seem to have any particular reaction to the mention
of Tillna's name, which puzzled Yawrab. He said, "My name is Ricce, and
my job is stablemaster to the Bindrmons. I've heard of the Denvas, and I
believe I've heard of your sister -- she works at the Boar-Ring down by
the river, right?"
     "Ah, yes. Yes, she does," Yawrab said, not wanting to tell the
whole truth just yet. She continued, "I was wondering ... my sister has
mentioned the son of your employer, Lord Aldan, several times. I was
wondering if you knew where he was? I'd like to speak to him, ah ....
well, concerning Tillna."
     "So those rumors are true, are they?" Ricce's grin and chuckle told
Yawrab that the rumors weren't of her sister's death, but of her
involvement with Lord Aldan. Ricce continued, "I can see why you'd want
converse with him; just looking out for family, straight?
     "Just now, though, Lord Aldan's away. He came bursting in here in
the last few bells of last night, rousted me out of bed, and demanded
that a horse be saddled for him. I'll say that he was acting somewhat
strange, asking me how far away Dargon was, and all. Never been out of
Welspeare myself, so I couldn't tell him.
     "Anywise, I got busy putting saddle to horse while he left for the
kitchens over there. By the time he returned with a few bundles, his
mount was ready. He thanked me over his shoulder as he swung up onto the
horse, and then he was galloping away.
     "Of course, I wondered what the hurry was, but it wasn't my place
to detain him. Do you think that he and Tillna have eloped? Between you
and me, and no slight to you or your family, I doubt that Baron Bindrmon
could possibly have approved of his son and your sister. Have you heard
anything?"
     Yawrab said, "No, no, no I haven't. Lord Aldan's gone, then? Fine.
My thanks, Master Ricce. You have been a great help. I'll take my leave
now."
     She turned her back on the stablemaster and retraced her steps out
of Bindrmon Keep. Lord Aldan had fled to Dargon a few bells before dawn,
which could mean only one thing; he was fleeing the town because he was
guilty of murder. The murder of her sister!
     Yawrab started walking back to the Denva estate, but she had no
intention of stopping there for long. She was headed for Dargon just as
surely as Lord Aldan was. Noble or not, Aldan was not going to escape
justice!

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