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 16 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 1 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 3/21/2003 Volume 16, Number 1 Circulation: 682 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb For the Love of Amante Victor Cardoso Firil 10, 1018 Talisman Nine 6 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Sy 24-Seber 4, 1013 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc., a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondence to 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 16-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright March, 2003 by The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Jon Evans . DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs- NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb January and February always seem to be a fallow time for us. In the preceding months, our writers often set aside their writing and critiquing in order to celebrate winter's seasonal holidays, and the first thing we do when we return is to sit back and set our goals for the coming year. That means that we usually don't have very much material to print until well after the new year has begun. There's always a longer than usual lag between our last December issue and our first issue of the new year. However, during the twelve weeks since the publication of DargonZine 15-11, we've done a whole lot of work, and I'd like to share some of the changes with you. The biggest announcement is that DargonZine has finally been incorporated. While this might not sound like a big deal, incorporating opens several doors for us. It will allow us to apply for funding from various grants for the arts, and open bank accounts under the organization's name. The official set of bylaws that we were required to develop will ensure the stability of the group, even if something should happen to the editorial staff. We are presently in the process of applying for nonprofit status, which means that any financial contributions from our writers and readers will be tax deductible. It should also assure everyone that we aren't running the magazine to make money for ourselves. Speaking of contributions, there's now a link on our home page that will allow you to donate money to DargonZine using the popular and safe transaction service provided by PayPal. Over the years, readers have occasionally expressed a desire to help the zine in some fashion, and we've decided to give this method a try. If you want to help us defray the costs of attracting new writers and running our Web site, we encourage you to use this facility. If you're not interested, don't worry about it. Donations will never be required, and we aren't going to harass you to contribute. DargonZine will always be entirely free and noncommercial. The costs for running DargonZine have gone up a little this year because in January we began placing ads for DargonZine on the Google search engine. Our longtime readers will know we hate advertising of any kind, but we had to finally admit that we needed to find a better way to get the word out about the magazine. In the past few years, we haven't been very effective at letting people know about DargonZine, so we decided to test whether ads on Google would bring in more readers and a cadre of new writers. Nine weeks later, the ads are definitely working, so we're continuing to run them. An enthusiastic welcome goes out to the dozen or two new readers who discovered us through those ads. Thanks for taking the time to check us out, and we hope you enjoy the zine! You might overlook two more changes that are hidden in our issue masthead, which appears above. The first one, of course, is that we now describe ourselves as "The Dargon Project, Inc.", but there's a second item that is yet another significant development for us. We are now releasing DargonZine under the terms of a license developed by the Creative Commons corporation. Creative Commons gives artists an easy yet reliable way to tell the world that the artist permits certain uses of his or her work, while prohibiting other uses. DargonZine, in particular, will allow people to copy and distribute our stories, but only if they are distributed as entire unmodified issues, the original authorship attributions are kept, and no commercial gain is made. For specific details about Creative Commons or our use thereof, see our masthead, above, and the link to Creative Commons. One change that you're sure to notice in this issue is the addition of a new illustrator. David Nelson, a 34 year-old graphic artist from Houston has volunteered to illustrate our issues free of charge. Loyal readers will know that our new stories have been devoid of artwork since longtime writer and illustrator Carlo Samson left the project a year ago. Although he doesn't aspire to write for us, David is an enthusiastic reader, and his illustrations will definitely bring life to our stories. We hope that our partnership is rewarding for him and lasts for quite some time. I'm proud to start the year by announcing so many positive changes. Things have looked a little rough around here lately, with readership slowly declining, a reduced number of writers, and correspondingly fewer stories to print. However, as you can see, we are putting thought, time, effort, and money into fixing those problems and making DargonZine better than ever. All these changes are just the beginning of a bunch of improvements and lots more good news that I look forward to sharing with you in the months to come. Thank you for your interest and your support, and I hope our stories continue to entertain and delight you as we begin our unequalled 19th year on the Internet. We open this year with two exceptional stories. The first is brought to us by Victor Cardoso, whom you should remember from last year's haunting "Jakob Sings of Monstrous Things". His new work, entitled "For the Love of Amante" is another masterful tale of wonder and mystery. It also ties in with the series of recent stories that relate to Dave Fallon and P. Atchley's "Heir to Castigale" storyline. The balance of the issue contains the sixth and final part of "Talisman Nine". As the name implies, this six-part story is itself the ninth chapter (well, actually tenth) of a very long ongoing storyline that began back in February 1999 in DargonZine 12-1. Dafydd, its author, has been with DargonZine since 1986, and is our single most prolific writer, having printed over fifty stories in these pages. Although this part completes another chapter, "Talisman Nine" still isn't the end of the larger "Talisman" story arc. Still, everything is starting to come together, and like you, I'm very anxious to see the text for the much-anticipated "Talisman Ten", which Dafydd hopes to produce this year. It also looks like our next issue is beginning to come together, as well, so you shouldn't have quite as long a wait for DargonZine 16-2. All I'll say about it right now is that you can look forward to the first piece from a brand new and gifted Dargon writer! With that, I'll leave you to enjoy this issue and the excellent works these two Dargon veterans have crafted for you. ======================================================================== For the Love of Amante by Victor Cardoso Firil 10, 1018 AMANTE (DEITY, MEMBER OF THE BEINISON PANTHEON) Amante, once the god of love and beauty, kidnapped the goddess Alana out of selfish, unchecked desire and sparked a battle that raged through the heavens. Following his defeat, a tribunal of gods stripped Amante's powers from him and appointed him god of criminals, executioners, and torturers as punishment for his treachery. Beinisonians commonly refer to Amante as the Masked God, for he hides his face to conceal a hideous wound struck by the flaming sword of Gow, Alana's husband, during the battle to free her. --Kebero of Heahun, from the tome "History of Beinison" "Why have you brought me here, Skyler Gatney?" Deep under the earth, in a cave whose ceiling hung low with fangs of glistening stone, a man and a woman sat upon a rock ledge, gazing upon a pool that stretched long and still before them. The water glowed faintly, shedding soft, blue light that sparkled on the rippled ceiling. "I wanted to take you away from the castle," Skyler whispered, looking down at his hands that were black with dirt. "I believe you should rethink your decision, Pythia." The woman's face hid behind a white silk mask, laced with pearls that draped in bows down her cheeks. Ribbons were tied at the corners of the mask, one of which wrapped about a white, painted stick she held in her gloved hand. "Evelain always tells me that I think too much. Do you not think that an odd thing to say? Sometimes I think about the sky or about the grass. People are cruel to walk on it. What a grotesque practice to step on a thing whose only fault is to be cool and green." "I can only think of how cruel you are to me," Skyler replied. "Haven't we danced in the ballrooms where the servants do not go? Did I not take you outside on the night of the full moon, even though it is forbidden? I've given you much, my love." "Yes. Well. Of course you have given me much," Pythia said abruptly, derisively. "You are a subject of the Castigales. It is your *duty* to serve us." She was evidently disturbed by the man's comments, however. With her free hand, Pythia absently twisted a strand of dark chestnut hair and rocked her body back and forth. "How else am I to feel towards our subjects?" "I cannot help how I feel." "And I cannot help who I am." Skyler's face blushed in embarrassment. A bead of moisture gathered at his temple and he raised his hand to it. His fingers came back red and wet and he found himself beset with a piercing headache. "I found a map," he murmured, rubbing the blood between his digits. A wave of dizziness overcame him. "It led to these mountains. I thought to mine some gemstones and take you away from here. " Pythia laughed in astonishment. "You cannot take me away, Skyler." She gathered the folds of her gown and stood up. Skyler, his temple throbbing and the pain in his head increasing, looked up at her and saw that she had grown to the size of the cavern. She towered above him, her frilled shawl billowing like a thousand pale serpents about her shoulders. The fangs on the ceiling sparkled. "I am far beyond your reach in position and prominence. You are a foolish man to attempt to court me." Skyler, his legs trembling, tried to stand but failed. He suddenly felt weak and sick, as if he had not eaten for days. His worn trousers ripped as he fell to his knees, gazing upwards at the dark beauty of Pythia Castigale. "What, is there another? A noble?" Skyler shouted. "I'll challenge him, Pythia! I'll call him out to the marches before all of Castigale and unarm him! I'll break his shield with my bare hands and cast the remains of his coat of arms into the grass! I'll let none come between you and I." The daughter of Castigale lowered her silken mask and startled him with a face hideously scarred and disfigured. Her flesh sagged under the right eye and looked melted, as if a great fire had laid a glancing blow to her cheek. "But he already has," she whispered, raising a hand as if to strike him. The mask became a flaming sword that guttered and sparked in the cool, cave air. Skyler Gatney's eyes opened abruptly, the assault rousing him from sleep and his twisted dream. The pain flared quickly, a strike from a blunt staff spraying droplets of blood at his feet. His hands were bound above him to an iron ring driven into the bedrock. He had been stripped to the waist and sweat glistened on his scarred chest. A woman stood before him, dressed in a black cowl and cloak, her hand holding a staff with a bloodied end. She passed it back to a guard standing behind her. "Please try to remain awake," she said coolly, "or I will strike you again. I ask you one more time: who else knows of this cave and the gems you have stolen?" Skyler tried moistening lips that were chapped and dry from several days of questioning. "I told you ..." he croaked. "There are dozens in Myridon and Northern Hope. We have an ambassador on his way to the duke. If I do not return, they will come looking for me." The guard leaned forward and whispered something to the woman. She smiled patiently, as if hearing the answer she sought. "We are finished," she said simply, looking directly at Skyler. Walking up to him, she placed a pale, ivory hand against his grime-ridden, blood-speckled face. Her fingers felt cool and soft to his bruised skin, and a brief scent of jasmine tickled his nose. "You are a clever man for a dirt-farmer, Skyler Gatney, but not clever enough. If there were others, they would be here, helping you. You expect me to believe that they would trust you, alone, with this treasure? And if the duke of Asbridge knew of your little discovery, he would seize it from your clumsy, callused hands." He rolled his head back, eyeing her suspiciously. "Do you speak for the duke?" The woman's smile narrowed to a smirk. "No," she replied. "Then I don't give a fark about a woman's opinions on the matter." She pulled her hand away as if stung. "So bitter," she said, her voice pitying. Skyler leapt forward at her, pulling against his restraints. The woman stood a hand's breadth from his face. "Tell me," he gritted. "You do a fine job of reading men's hearts, whore-bitch. Is it taught to all your sex in the womb? To read a man and know how to destroy him?" She did not flinch at his outburst but merely stood there, gazing into his eyes. From her robes she pulled out a laced handkerchief, wiping her hands delicately. "Only to those who listen carefully." Her lips curled into a mocking smile. "Guard," she called back, "when the time comes, take him with the others. We will use him this evening. " She then turned from Skyler and she and her formidable companion departed through one of the seven tunnels leading from the roughly-hewn, low-ceilinged cavern. Skyler and two other prisoners were manacled to a wall, a foul, flickering lamp their only source of light. The tunnels led to many, similarly interconnected chambers under this offshoot of the Darst mountains. Mustering his strength, Skyler pulled again at the tightly wound cord that looped around the black ring. Dust fell from his effort, but nothing else. He sagged in resignation, certain that he would die here. His dark eyes darted over to the other prisoners in the chamber. They were two men, their clothes in tatters about their bodies. On occasion he saw them move, drink water that was given to them or relieve themselves where they sat, but never did they respond to his attempts at conversation. Nor did the lady ever seem interested in questioning them. He shook his head. "Dead to the world," he muttered, his glare focused on them. "Might as well get used to it, I s'ppose." He did not know what the lady wanted to use him for that night, but felt certain it would be the end of him. Still idly looking about the room, Skyler spied the decaying remains of a mouse pressed against one of the irregular walls. The creature's eyes were nothing but black sockets and half its minuscule face was torn away to reveal brown-white bone underneath. Saliva gathered in Skyler's mouth, a testament to his hunger. He grinned. "Did they torture you, too, little friend?" he asked the corpse. "Were you also here to find your fortune and escape Asbridge?" Skyler shifted his arms, trying to regain some feeling in them. "No doubt the lady did you in," he said, perturbed. "Don't trust their sex. They'll betray you every time." To Skyler's dismay, he thought he saw the little body convulse. Its claws seemed to jerk, as if roused by his words. He watched the thing for several long moments, trying to discern if he had really seen movement or if it was a trick of the uneven light. The body lay still. Finally shaking his head, he looked away, calming his quickened heart. "I'm going mad," he said, closing his eyes. "Perhaps you are," a small voice answered. Skyler did not open his eyes immediately. Instead, he took a few long breaths and slowly opened one lid. At his feet sat the thin and emaciated corpse of the mouse, looking up at him with those dark sockets. Two sharp teeth gnashed the air at the front of its ruined face. Thin, soiled fur clung precariously to the creature's head and body. "Ol's balls," Skyler swore. The mouse continued looking up at him patiently, its rib cage quite visible under its skin. Skyler tried making a sign against evil but his bound hands fumbled the gesture. Small, wheezing laughter escaped the mouse's form. "That ward will do nothing against me, Skyler Gatney." "What, it wasn't enough to be tortured by the living that I must now be tortured by the dead?" He kicked his legs at the creature, trying to shoo it away. The mouse jumped nimbly out of his reach. It paused to scratch at an ear, taking extra care not to remove any of its sagging fur. "So defensive," it said calmly. "Who is to say that I'm here to torture you?" "Could there be any other reason?" Skyler exclaimed. "Are you a machination of the lady's, you undead fiend? Trying to get more information out of me?" "And so very paranoid," the creature sighed. "No, Master Gatney, I believe she's done with you. But do tell me, what happened to turn you so completely against their sex?" Skyler narrowed his eyes. "Nothing a dead rodent would know of, of that I'm sure." "Ahh," the mouse said, "you've had many opportunities to speak to dead rodents in your tenure as dirt farmer?" At his stunned silence, the creature continued. "Don't be so surprised, Master Gatney. Being dead gives one plenty of time to listen to the living. I was able to learn much by just lying in my haphazard grave. You blurted out quite a bit in your dazed sessions with the lady. Let's see," the creature began counting off on its tiny hands, "you worked for the Castigales as groundskeeper when you could not make enough of a living on your own lands. Your brother, Cyrus, was murdered for having a deformed son --" "Watch your words, mouse," Skyler growled, his arms tensing the cords. "Gaergor was the sweetest child a father could hope for and, dead or no, don't you say a thing to malign the boy." The mouse paused and wiggled its nose. "You did not answer my previous question. Why do you harbor a hatred towards all women?" Skyler kept mum, staring at the creature at his feet. "Stubborn thing, aren't you? Why don't you answer some of my own questions?" The mouse tilted its head. "What would you like to know?" "Why are you here?" "To free you, of course!" Skyler snorted. "Out of the kindness of your unbeating heart?" The creature's skull seemed to grin at him. "One could say that," it replied. The mouse hunched down on all fours and approached him, making as if to climb onto the man's bare feet. "What are you doing?" Skyler asked, alarmed. The little creature leapt onto the ruined trousers and began scurrying up. "Bend to let me onto your shoulder." "I most certainly will not!" "Would you rather I scrambled up your skin?" Skyler frowned, imagining the creature digging its sharp, little claws into his bruised flesh. Cursing all the while, he did as he was told, lifting his knee and letting the rodent hop onto his shoulder. It smelled rank as it moved up his neck and onto his head, clawing through his hair. The sensation was almost too much for him. The mouse rose on spindly, hind legs and grasped the leather cords on Skyler's arms, lowering its exposed teeth to the tough hide. The man felt the rodent gnawing on his bindings. After a short time, one of his hands came free, followed by the other. The rush of blood into his lowered arms made them sting and he took a moment to rub them. The mouse jumped off his head and landed on the ground with a hollow thud. Picking itself up without a hint of pain, it started towards one of the tunnels that spawned from the room. "What are you up to, mouse?" "Follow me," it called back to him. "I will show you a way out." Skyler shook his head in disbelief, laughing. "I'm grateful for my freedom, but I'm not so sure I should be following you deeper into these caves." His rescuer stopped and turned in its tracks. "Why?" it asked simply. "Do you still think me an apparition of your madness? Perhaps a trick of the lady's? Of what significance is this? I might very well be the guide that leads you over the covered bridge to the otherworld or I might be a fanciful delusion that will pass the time until your death. Does it really matter? You will die soon in either case." Skyler stood there, thoughtful, examining the mouse's logic. He looked over at the other prisoners who were still tied to the wall, having shown no reaction to the spectacle before them. He nodded in their direction. "What about them?" The mouse raised its head as if sniffing the air and looked at the two ragged figures. "If you'd like, I will free them as well." Skyler paused a moment, thinking. "Let them find their own way out," he finally muttered, turning from the men and walking to where the mouse waited. As he passed the lamp, Skyler picked up one of the raw nuggets of stone that had been lying next to it. The rock's surface glittered with a thousand facets of unfinished gems. "Might as well take this, just in case I have to bribe the gatekeeper to the otherworld," he quipped, pushing the stone into his pocket. The mouse shrugged and scampered down a dark passage, Skyler following in its fetid wake. The creature led him down passages illuminated by various breaks in the rock. Some passages were narrow, barely allowing the dirt farmer from Castigale to squeeze through, others were cavernous, held up by stone columns a dozen times his height that grew from floor to ceiling. Infrequently, outside sunlight poured into the depths in shafts of brilliance that lit the passages in a warm, lazy glow. The deeper the two companions ventured, the fewer of these breaks they encountered until, at last, there were none. After that, Skyler climbed through tunnels dark and heavy with the mountain's presence, the mouse's tiny form glowing dimly to guide him. At one point, while pushing himself between two smooth columns like the fangs of some enormous, buried beast, Skyler thought he heard angry shouts far behind him, echoing in the crevices of the surrounding stone. They soon faded. Strangely enough, he felt secure with this undead creature that had come to his rescue. After what seemed like a bell, the two came upon another vast chamber whose ceiling vaulted away into darkness. If mountains could have hearts, Skyler swore that they had stumbled upon one. The room had the feeling of a place of worship, so quiet and powerful was the presence that filled the air. Around him, he felt the weight of the stone bearing down upon the walls. A dozen man-sized alcoves dotted the walls, their entrances shimmering like the air that surrounds a burning fire. Behind the roiling walls of force lay immobile figures. Through the haze, he could make out men and women in various kinds of dress -- some in fashions he had only seen in paintings in Castigale Keep, others dressed similarly to what he would have found in Myridon. "Mouse?" Skyler asked a little sheepishly. "Where have you brought me?" The undead creature made its way over to him, looking at what had caught his attention. "A holding area," it replied, quietly. "The men you saw above have been prepared for the lady's ritual. They were once here. These await preparation but their fate will be the same." "Ritual?" Skyler asked. Curiosity got the better of him and he wandered over to the alcoves, trying to get a better look at the inhabitants. "Yes, ritual," the mouse answered. "The lady and her husband seek something in these caverns greater than gold or gems. The ritual aids in their quest." "Haphazard graves seem to teach dead rodents much. Do you know what it is the lady seeks?" Skyler asked. When there was no response, he looked back and saw the creature sitting there on its haunches, waiting for him. "Mouse, I asked you if you knew what this treasure was?" Again the creature did not answer but merely looked back at him from hollow sockets. Skyler shrugged. "No matter," he muttered. "It means nothing to ..." As he came upon the last alcove, he let his voice trail into silence. Lying in the vertical grave, as if asleep, was a woman in a soiled and ruined dress. Her long, chestnut hair tumbled, disheveled, to her waist. Pale, blossom-white cheeks, free from the disfigurement of his dream, were streaked with dirt. Although her eyes lay closed, Skyler knew their color in his heart. "Pythia ..." he whispered, amazed. His hand went to the glowing barrier, as if to pass through and touch her. "Do not break the barrier," the mouse warned. Skyler turned, his mind still astonished at his discovery. "How did Pythia Castigale come to be here?" The mouse tilted its head. "Is this the Lord Castigale's mad daughter?" it asked. Jumping over some small rocks, the undead guide made its way over to the alcove. "Hmm. I would've thought she'd be older. Or not as pretty. She *is* the mad one, correct? The lady's men found her wandering the mountains, calling out for her lover." Skyler's face tightened at his companion's words. His dark eyes surveyed the shimmering alcove. "Stupid girl," he said softly. There was no anger in his voice, only indifference. The mouse tugged at his pant leg. "Is this the woman in your dreams?" it asked. "What are my dreams to you?" The creature was silent. "I have no woman in my dreams, only a foolish memory." "So, she is the cause of your embitterment?" It was Skyler's turn to not answer. The little creature laid a fragile paw on Skyler's foot. "The exit is still far from here, Skyler Gatney. If you wish to escape, we should leave." "It would serve her right," Skyler snorted, "to leave her here." He backed away from the alcove, a numbness growing inside of him. Pythia was the last person he imagined to find buried under the mountain. Backing into a stone outcropping, he sat down, never taking his eyes from the alcove. The mouse continued staring at him quizzically. "I was in love with her," Skyler said aloud. "Does that answer your question?" He looked at his companion and smiled a sad smile. "I was in love with her upon my first glimpse of her bedraggled head in a tower window." He recalled the moment clearly: tending the hedge bushes and catching the sight of a pale-skinned, wild-haired woman peering curiously at him from the north tower -- the one forbidden to all visitors and most servants by order of Lord Castigale himself. "I had heard the rumors, of course. Pythia was the eldest daughter of the Castigales, gone mad after the death of her husband in the war with Beinison. Borroll, a groomsman, swore up and down that she had cursed his mare into bearing only dead foals. Some of the maids even claimed they had glimpsed her dancing naked on top of the tower in the light of the full moon." "Did she?" the rodent asked, its voice full of wonder. "Dance? Perhaps. Curse? No," Skyler snickered. He rubbed at his dirt-smeared arms, as if he could clean them. "This girl who talks to the air and loses her way in a closed room is not a witch. Only broken." Another memory swelled in the man's head. "She and I would dance together sometimes, in one of the shuttered halls in the north tower. She kept this one dress -- cream-colored, with strands of pearls along its bodice --" Skyler's hands sketched the air, as if drawing it for his companion. "She kept it secreted away and in fine condition. Most of her other clothes she ruined. It used to drive her personal maids to tears. But this one dress ... it matched a ring her father had bought her in Dargon, before her troubles set in. She only wore that gown when we danced." Skyler could almost hear Pythia's humming in the distance even now. He envisioned the tower's ballroom: tall ceilings criss-crossed with lumber that shed dust when the wind blew too fiercely; several tables covered in linens to protect them from the passage of time. He and Pythia would light an old candelabra and sweep tracks in the floor with their steps. Only the two of them. The man remembered that sometimes she would put her head on his shoulder and he would smell the sweet scent of her unruly hair. "And yet your love was somehow poisoned?" the mouse asked, this time with sadness in its voice. Skyler sighed. "Lord Castigale," he said wearily. Around him, in the shadows of the mountain cave, a night sky bloomed. It was near dusk and the scent of the apple blossoms lay heavily in the air. Involuntarily, Skyler's fist tightened. "The lord came upon us one evening in the orchards. Pythia was forbidden to leave the castle, but I would sneak her out sometimes when no one was looking." There was a shadow of a figure at the end of a row of apple trees, darker than the evening sky. A flurry of images followed: the lord's angry face, the spit hurled at Skyler, the brawl that ensued. The dirt farmer swallowed. "The lord threatened to have the Lady Dagny drag me halfway across Asbridge, naked, to leave me dying in some ditch. He took Pythia away and I was left with no work." He heard Pythia softly weeping, stumbling after her father through the trees. The vision ended. "An unfortunate encounter," the mouse said. "What did Pythia do?" Skyler laughed harshly. He leaned back and shrugged. "Several nights later, I snuck back into the tower and tried to get her to run away with me. I promised to protect and provide for her -- I told her that I had found a map ... She said that I could not possibly care for someone of her stature. Her father had forbade her to ever see me again and so she could not go. To top it off, she said that if I didn't leave her that instant, she'd call the guards! Stupid girl," he echoed. "Then good riddance to her!" the mouse exclaimed, twitching its tail. "You should be glad that the lady's men found her and brought her here. Skyler Gatney, I must tell you again: if you wish to escape, we must leave immediately. Your captors could come upon us at any time." The dirt farmer from Castigale ignored his undead guide's warning and looked long and hard at the woman in the alcove. For the first time in sennights, since he had left Castigale land, he felt his heart beating again. It ached within him, worse than the bruises or the cuts he had received at the hands of his captors. The Castigales were better off with Pythia's death. Skyler would be better off with Pythia's death. He stood up, ready to leave, and paused. In the alcove, she looked peaceful, asleep. He idly wondered what she would do when they pulled her from that place. How would she feel? Skyler sighed, feeling emotion snag its hooks into his heart. "How do these barriers work, mouse? Something tells me that you know." The little creature cried out in exasperation. "Ah, the trials of the living! I am but a simple rodent, Master Gatney. I only know what I have seen and heard. I believe these alcoves are protected with barriers of sleep and warding. Should someone remove their contents then the barriers will break and those who raised them will know and come to investigate. They would arrive much more quickly than I could lead you out." Skyler scratched his stubbled chin. "That's not acceptable, mouse." "I did not say that rescue was impossible," the mouse replied. "To free Pythia Castigale, if that is truly your wish, then you must trade places with her." Skyler frowned at his companion's statement. "What?" he asked. "You joke." "I am sorry, Skyler Gatney. I have only seen what the lady and her men have done. They only exchange prisoners, and once, when one of her men sought to take a beautiful woman for his own, the lady came to find him. Should you wish to free Pythia without alarming your captors, then you must pull her out of the barrier while you go in." Skyler's heart sank. A part of him had imagined her expression when he freed her. Perhaps she would be elated? Then again, perhaps she would not even remember why she had come out to the mountains. "Will you lead her out if I free her?" "Of course," the mouse said quietly. Skyler nodded in satisfaction. Gathering his courage, he reached out and took hold of Pythia's shoulder. The barrier enveloped his arm with crawling tentacles of lightning, tingling his flesh like a thousand roaches probing his skin. He felt it drawing him in as he pulled the woman forward, the barrier wanting to claim him for its own. The entrance to the alcove was narrow, so Skyler brushed up against Pythia as they traded places. The smell of her hair almost caused him to stop, to hug her fiercely before he lost her, but he settled for a brief brushing of lips as the prickly feeling spread to his neck and his hair, across his chest and down his legs. And then he was in and she was out, and he closed his eyes, awaiting his fate. Nothing happened. Skyler opened one eye. The shimmering barrier was gone and the cavern was dark. Even his guide's glowing form had disappeared. Skyler tentatively poked his head out. "Mouse?" Skyler whispered fervently. "Mouse, are you there? What's happened?" He heard his guide's voice giggle, although it deepened as it broke into echoes. From the walls, Skyler saw something flit. A small, bright flash broke the darkness of the room, clear to the far off ceiling. The flash ran through thin veins lacing the stone walls, moving too fast for Skyler to see clearly. He was left with the distinct impression of a white cloak that trailed behind a man. "I am here," a voice boomed. Skyler cringed as he emerged from the alcove, frightened by the loud voice. "Mouse, what is going on? What are you up to?" "Skyler Gatney, you are not the first to enter my lair," the voice answered, "but you will be the first to leave it. Despite your pain and bitterness, despite your anger and callousness towards life, you did not fall victim to vengeance and attempt to harm the one you loved, even though she did not return your affection. There is a part of you that still loves, and loves truly. That is a deed that not even I, a being far superior to you, was capable of accomplishing." "What? Who are you?" Skyler asked incredulously. "A demon? Devil? Where are Pythia and the others?" Another laugh echoed in the empty space. "The Pythia you saw was an instrument of my judgment, Skyler Gatney. It was a figment to see if the bitterness that encompassed you was complete. I am no demon. Nor am I a god. I am a shadow left behind by an act of power." Another flash leapt across the face of the rocks. Deep gashes in the walls were revealed, wounds that looked far too straight and square to be natural. "There were priests who cleaved this very rock for Amante's worship. Before the god's disgrace. They called upon him in this room and part of him remained after they left. Skyler Gatney, I am the memory of lost Amante, god of love and beauty." Skyler felt the blood drain from his face. Unconsciously, he stepped back towards the alcove, as if to hide from this strange power that crawled through the veins of rock. "Do not fear me," the voice assured him, as if reading his mind. "It is true that I am also a part of the Amante that is: the butcher, the thief, the assassin; he who would steal a mortal's mind and warp it to his own end, but I do not share his lust for vengeance and blood." Skyler looked around. "Then this was a test?" he asked. "Pythia was never here?" He straightened his back. "What would have happened had I failed?" The voice laughed. "I think you know the answer to that." Around Skyler, the alcoves glowed briefly, although there was no one in their depths. "Who were those people that captured me?" Skyler asked. "They worship the true Amante," the voice answered, "the god who has forgotten love under the layer of scars that enwrap his soul. I am the treasure they seek. "The nugget of stone in your pocket, the one you stole from your captors? It will fetch you a duke's ransom, and do not let any pawnbroker tell you otherwise. When you sell it, buy a home and health, both for you and Pythia for the rest of your short lives. Ride into Castigale Keep in hose and finery, on a white horse. Find Pythia and take her away from Asbridge, never to return or to speak to anyone of this place. Ever. While all my power is bent to prevent my dark self from finding me, I still have ways in which to exact revenge." "But Pythia," Skyler said, taking the rock out of his pocket. "She has rejected me. I'm not even certain she will know me. If she did not truly come looking for me ..." "The ring that Pythia wears," the voice said. "It is a corrupt ring forged by hands that found a shattered stone in an alley where a madman died. Pythia treasures it above all else because her father gave it to her, and yet it is the cause of her madness. Dispose of it and you will have your true love in all her health. In her lucidity, she will know you. Even now, though she will not admit it, I hear her dreams call out to you." Skyler felt his throat clench. He was astounded. His dreams were within his grasp. After so many years of hardship and pain, happiness seemed right before him. He swallowed heavily. "I do not know what to say." "Then say nothing and leave me to my hiding," the voice replied, softly. "My light will lead you to the surface, away from the lady and her minions. Thank you, Skyler Gatney. You have given me hope for man. Hope that I have not had for millennia ..." "He is gone, milady." Nimieta, wife of Lord Curran of Dargon, held the desiccated remains of a mouse in her fist, gazing deeply into its hollow sockets as if they spoke to her, whispered of something she could just barely hear. There was something of power left in this fragile corpse of an animal. She and another guard stood in one of the many tunnels snaking through the mountain's belly. "Lord Curran will be displeased by this," she said shortly, crushing the creature's skull in her hand. It cracked into dust. "The guard who was charged with watching over the dirt farmer, has he been beaten for his laxity?" "Yes, mistress." "And has he been prepared for the ritual in place of Skyler Gatney?" "Yes, mistress." "Good," she said watching the dust from her fist fall to the floor. "At least the noisome man is lost to the tunnels here. He will die a slow death, but at least a death it will be. Come, we have much work to do." She started to lead the way out, the guard in tow, when she heard something. Nimieta turned where she stood, her eyes searching out the dark depths of the cave tunnel around them. "Did you hear that?" she asked. "No, milady. What was it?" "Nothing," she said grimly, but in the back of her mind she thought she heard laughter, a deep laughter that mocked her from the darkness. ======================================================================== Talisman Nine Part 6 by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Sy 24 - Seber 4, 1013 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-7 Rhonwn was jolted awake by a kick to his foot. Pain coursed through him, but he was used to it. He had lived with a broken leg for the past month and at times he felt the pain in his sleep. He didn't cry out because his healthy leg had been the one kicked; by that he knew that Flane had launched the blow. Rhonwn opened his eyes and looked around the camp of Lacsil and the Bloody Hand of Sageeza. It was a warm night near the end of summer but there was a large fire burning in the center of the clearing. The night was dark, made darker by the moon in its new phase, but light wasn't the only thing the fire provided: it was also a source of comfort. He knew that these men needed that comfort more than the food it cooked or the light it provided. They were in the middle of the woods, far from their homes and far from what they called civilization. They only had each other, their fire, and the maps. And a gypsy map reader that each and every one of them despised. Rhonwn looked at Flane then. The man had a plain face, brown hair, and an ear whose top had been removed by a sharp edge of some kind. He held a bowl in one hand, a scroll tube in the other, and had the same scowl on his face that he always had when it was his turn to feed the prisoner. Rhonwn the despised gypsy prisoner said, "Hello, Flane. Nice night, isn't it?" He didn't extend a hand to shake, or rise from leaning against the tree at his back. The reason wasn't rudeness; he simply couldn't do either of those things. After the escape attempt that had earned him his broken leg, Rhonwn had been trussed up like a pork loin except when absolutely necessary. Aside from the debilitating pain of his broken leg, which had been immobilized but not set properly, the gypsy had been wrapped in rope to secure his arms to his sides, with a loop linking his wrists to his neck. His good leg was bent double and circled by rope as well. As a final precaution, short loops were staked to the ground and attached to his other bonds to prevent him from rolling away into the woods or some other impossibility. Flane actually answered Rhonwn's question, saying, "Passable." The man knelt next to the gypsy and made himself comfortable. The waxed leather tube was set to one side and Flane took hold of the spoon in the bowl to feed the prisoner. Rhonwn swallowed the first spoonful, grateful that it had all gone into his mouth. The soup was thin and tasteless but it was better than nothing. In an effort to distract himself from the ignominy of being fed like an infant he said, "You don't treat me as badly as some of the others, Flane, but I know you don't like me any better. Why?" "You may be scum, gypsy," said Flane as he spooned more soup into Rhonwn's mouth, "but that's all. I might treat my worst enemy like a diseased dog, but you're not worth the effort." Rhonwn was surprised by being answered as much as by what that answer was. For the past three fortnights he had been talked at but never listened to unless it concerned the trail or the maps that his father Bobere had made to supplement his faulty memory. Perhaps he should have tried talking to Flane earlier. "That's an interesting point, Flane, if not a flattering one," said Rhonwn. "If you don't mind my asking, why are you part of the Bloody Hand? If it's too much trouble to torment me, why throw in with a group that wants to destroy all gypsies?" Half of the bowl was fed to Rhonwn in silence before Flane answered that question. He finally said, "Because you don't follow the rules." More silence followed, and Rhonwn thought he wasn't going to get anything more, but eventually Flane did continue. "You gypsies ... you're too different. You move around the kingdom, never staying in one place long, never suffering the consequences. You know about Lacsil, right? How he lost his right thumb because he was blamed for gypsy mischief? Well everyone here has a similar tale. And it's all down to consequences. We just want to give you what you deserve." Four more spoonfuls of the tasteless soup later, Rhonwn finally asked, "What's your story?" His eyes strayed to the man's cut ear. "My sister," said Flane without a pause, and Rhonwn's gaze snapped back to Flane's face in surprise. "She was happily married until a gypsy seduced her. Wouldn't have been more than a brief storm in her relationship if she hadn't had a baby." Rhonwn's own romantic escapades made him feel a little guilt at Flane's story, but he had to interject at the last bit. "We try our best not to leave children among you. Draughts, sheathes, even charms. How are you sure the child was not her husband's?" "That was the problem, you see," Flane said, his eyes on the bowl in his hand. "Ahleen and Imaad, my sister and brother-in-law, were both blond and fair-skinned, while the baby, Weerit, was black-haired and somewhat dusky. But he looked like his mother, and his father's family had its share of dark hair. And yet, there was the matter of the dalliance which cast doubt on everything. Maybe the child was Imaad's but no one could tell for sure. He left Ahleen, said he couldn't take the talk. Ahleen killed herself in shame. "Consequences, gypsy. Consequences." Guilt flared up again, even as Rhonwn tried to blame the stranger's death on the ridiculous morals of the rooted-folk. Then he recalled that the expedition he was now an unwilling part of had been enabled by a liaison of his own. A young woman in Beeikar, somewhat plain but pleasing in bed, had expected more of him than one night of pleasure. He had neatly avoided contact with her without thought to her feelings. The consequences of letting slip the secret of his father's maps to her, combined with the consequences of ignoring her, were obvious; she had been well motivated to reveal that secret to the Bloody Hand of Sageeza. How many people had he left in similar circumstances, but without the power to strike back at him? Certainly many of his dalliances knew the nature of his attentions and wanted no more, but he had left lovers like Merilee behind him in the past: lonely, shy, plain, freshly de-flowered. His only thought had been for his own pleasure, his conscience salved by meaningless congratulations at bringing happiness to otherwise unhappy folk. Maybe he should have started thinking beyond the simple consequences of his own dalliances much earlier. He ignored the next spoonful of soup, pondering consequences. Flane said, "I'm not allowed to return with anything in this bowl. Either it goes in you, or on you. Your choice." Rhonwn looked up at Flane, and opened his mouth. He looked past his temporary servant as he swallowed, and caught sight of something on the underside of the branch over his head that didn't belong. He focused on it and discovered that it was a Rhydd Pobl trail blaze: the symbol for attention. While he ate the last few spoonfuls of soup, he scanned the part of the campsite he could see. He found the signs almost everywhere he looked: green leaves tucked into flaps of bark, sticks piled over acorns and honey locust pods in specific ways, feathers sticking out of pine tar stuck under the branch of a maple tree. He counted a dozen intact blazes, and a score more that had been disarrayed by unaware feet. Each one contained the same information in its abbreviated trail code: ten people in four bans, or gypsy wagons, were on his trail, no more than five days to the south. The scouts who must have left the blazes couldn't be more detailed, but Rhonwn knew his people wouldn't be following unless they knew about Lacsil and his mission, which was very good news indeed. Flane had set the soup bowl aside and was drawing a map out of the scroll tube. He spread it out in front of Rhonwn and said, sweeping his hand across the chart, "What are those red marks?" Rhonwn knew what Flane was asking about without even looking at the map. He glanced at it anyway, noting the scattering of red dots all across the parchment. They represented angwleriddan, areas of strange, intermittent, usually dangerous, magic that were found only in this area of the forest. "They're former campsites, that's all," he lied. "As you can see, this map doesn't have a single village marked on it. We wanted to be sure we knew where the best campsites were since there isn't anywhere else to stay." Flane said, "Fine. Which way do we go tomorrow?" Rhonwn gazed at the map, glad that none of these men were the type to bother learning even the rudiments of the Rhydd Pobl language or they would know that the rune next to each red dot meant danger. He said, "Same as yesterday. Tench is still to the east, and the next time we need to switch trails isn't for two days." "I'll let Lacsil know," said Flane as he rose and walked away. Rhonwn closed his eyes and rested his head against the tree behind him. He reviewed the nearby trails in his mind with his new knowledge that Lacsil was being pursued uppermost in his thoughts. He plotted the best way to steer the Bloody Hand's minions into the arms of his own people. "We shouldn't have left her!" The five people who remained in Bresk's Band rode single-file along a narrow dirt path between trees that pressed too close. The man who had spoken, tall, broad-shouldered, brown-haired, led the group with a scowl on his face. "We had no choice, Bresk," said the man at the back of the line, who was black-haired and had a scar in the middle of his left eyebrow. "Meelia was surely killed in that cave-in. We all miss her, but she's gone. And we have business in Dargon that we might as well be about." "But you don't know she was dead, Voesh," said Bresk. "She might have survived for the past three days behind those rocks." He twisted his body around and looked back at the others. "Why couldn't we have spared a bell to try to dig her out? What is so pressing about this quest of yours that we had to leave not knowing?" The question hadn't been asked before, but Voesh was ready with an answer. "We were being followed, Bresk. We needed to get away. I heard rumors as we were preparing to ride out to the canyon, rumors of another group who were also hunting after the Margre Chalisento." "That's nonsense, Voesh!" the man in the lead shouted. "You just didn't want to get your hands dirty. We've been looking for this legendary Margre for five years, but we've known Meelia for twelve. We shouldn't have abandoned her without even looking!" Bresk twisted forward again and flicked his reins. His horse began to trot toward the curve in the path about two score paces away, gaining distance on the four behind. The rider next in line after Bresk, a beautiful woman with short white hair and an aristocratic bearing, had been looking thoughtful since before the group's leader's outburst. She said, "Does anyone else think there was something ... odd ... about that fallen tree that diverted us onto this path? I mean, what could have knocked it down? It seems like we haven't had any rainstorms all summer, and the dirt on its roots looked fresh." "Are you sure, Yera?" asked the wiry, blond man riding behind her. "I didn't notice that." Yerianolya said icily, "Yes, Joal, I'm sure, else I wouldn't have said it. Now what --?" She was interrupted by a scream from up ahead. All four looked up the path to find that Bresk was no longer to be seen. The screaming didn't stop either, and it was the unmistakable sound of a horse in agony. Yerianolya and Joal spurred their horses on and dashed ahead. The man riding in front of Voesh, large-bodied and dark-haired, turned for a moment to ask a question. Voesh spoke first, saying, "We should get after them, Shan. I think Yera might have been right about --" He didn't get the chance to finish; at that moment, three figures appeared out of the woods. Two came from the sides of the path, darting out between the two horses. The third dropped off of a branch that Voesh was riding under, landing behind the black-haired man and reaching for his neck. The sudden movement and the slamming of weight on his haunches made Voesh's horse rear up and flail with his front hooves. Voesh and the attacker tumbled off and, landing very badly, neither moved again. The horse's hooves impacted the head of one of the other newcomers, and that man fell too, unmoving. Shan, still ahorse, drew his sword. All of the members of Bresk's Band were armed, though some were better with those armaments than others. Shan was the worst swordsman among them, but he had the advantage of height and an ironic surprise. The last attacker, astonished at how quickly he was alone in his banditry, was easily run through. Shan tried to gain control of Voesh's frightened and bolting horse, but he missed. He dismounted and made sure that the three bandits were dead. Then he knelt beside Voesh, who had a broken neck like his assailant. The dark man was motionless for a few moments, listening to the screaming from around the bend that suddenly stopped. Then, moving stiffly, he bent forward and reached into Voesh's robe. He found what he was searching for, and when he touched it, his whole body convulsed briefly. A moment later, he withdrew three items from the man's body: an old book with a blue cover, a small rock, and a stone cup. He reached for Voesh's hand and removed a silver ring with a blue-grey stone from his finger. Standing, Shan stashed his discoveries in his belt pouch and got back up onto his horse. He sat for a moment, and then, kicking his horse into a trot, he rode around the bend, putting a look of fear onto his face. He found Yera and Joal standing next to Bresk's dead horse. Bresk himself was lying limply against a nearby tree. Shan said breathlessly, "Bandits attacked us. We killed the three of them, but Voesh died in the ambush. I was checking his body when I heard hoofbeats from around the other bend. We need to get out of here, now!" Joal said, "But, what about the bodies? What about Bresk? His horse broke its leg on these ruts the bandits must have dug, throwing him into that tree. We don't have a leader now without Voesh either." "We can decide who leads later, Joal," Shan said, frowning. "Those robbers aren't going to give us time to vote right now. Let's go!" Yera and Joal hurried into their saddles, the latter staring in concern at Shan's frown. He said, "Wait, Shan. When did you get a scar in the middle of your left eyebrow? It looks just like Voesh's." "Ride," said Shan, ignoring Joal's question. The three galloped away, Joal hesitating slightly, leaving the bodies behind. "As soon as we knew Rhonwn was alive, we started leaving signs for him," said Leedlan. Ganba of the Rhydd Pobl was receiving the young man's scouting report while the bantor, or wagon group, she led rolled down the road toward her target: Lacsil and some members of the Bloody Hand of Sageeza. "At first, we only left one or two, hoping he would see them," Leedlan continued. "We soon realized that the men with Lacsil have no woodcraft whatsoever. They never even noticed the blazes, so we started leaving them all over the most likely campsites they might use. Finally, six days ago, Rhonwn contrived to leave us an answer that let us know he had seen our messages." "That's good news, Leedlan," said Ganba. "How far ahead are they now?" "Two days, three at most. It seems as though Rhonwn has begun leading them slightly astray; they're no longer heading due east, but slightly north, even though eastern paths exist. I think he's trying to slow them down." "He may well be," Ganba mused, "but he doesn't have very much leeway. They are, after all, following maps. Still, whatever he can do will only help. Thank you for the news, Leedlan. Replenish your supplies and get back out there." The young man grinned, nodded, and rode off. Ganba turned to Yawrab, who was sitting next to her on the driving bench of the wagon. She told the middle-aged, non-gypsy passenger with the mismatched eyes, "We are gaining steadily. It won't be much longer before we catch Lacsil." "And then?" asked Yawrab. "And then we eliminate the threat." Ganba didn't relish that thought, but Lacsil and his men had attacked her uncle, Bobere, and his son, Rhonwn. Bobere had died; Rhonwn had been taken captive. From what her scouts had reported, Rhonwn was not being unduly mistreated, though he was wearing a splint on his leg. Beyond her personal feelings, there was the threat that Lacsil posed to the annual gathering of her people at Eariaddas Hwl. Bobere had reported before he died that Lacsil and the Bloody Hand of Sageeza intended to attack that gathering with as many of their followers as they could muster. The maps that Lacsil had in his possession made the threat a real possibility. The bantor passed the rest of the day as routinely as it had the last month and more. They reached a suitable campsite just before sunset. Ganba called the bantor to a halt instead of pressing on into the evening as they had for the past fortnight, a practice that, along with early morning departures and well-chosen trails, had helped close the distance to Lacsil. She had planned an early halt even before Leedlan's news of how close Lacsil was; it was the autumnal equinox and the gypsies would be celebrating the change of seasons that night. Long practice had the camp set up quickly, and soon the evening meal had been cooked and consumed. As the stars appeared and the moon, nearing its first quarter, rose, musical instruments were brought out. Skirling pipes and pounding drums soon filled the clearing with wild gypsy music. Ganba joined her fellow travelers as they danced in celebration of summer and anticipation of autumn. Gypsy dancing didn't have set steps or even partners. The dancers moved their arms, legs, and bodies to the beat of the drums and the rhythm of the music. Ganba let herself be moved by the sounds that surrounded her and wondered how anyone could think that anything else was truly dancing. She knew that dancing among Yawrab's people was more formal and ritualized, but she had heard that some of the young folk of Baranur had taken to dancing like gypsies, calling it 'dervish dancing' to separate it from its origins. Ganba danced briefly with everyone, including her brothers and Ruthodd. When she danced with Yawrab, the Baranurian woman grinned and gyrated like a born gypsy. Ganba noticed that she was being flirted with as well, which she found very encouraging. The leader of the bantor soon separated herself from the celebration and sat by the fire. She watched the revelers, keeping an eye on both her brother Hiranw and Yawrab. As she had suspected, the pair seemed to be more friends than the lovers they had been. Hiranw spent a fair amount of time dancing around Lewro, the only other woman in the bantor, while Yawrab spread her attentions around equally. Ganba was pleased to see how uninhibited Yawrab was acting; it was a huge change from the dour, serious woman whom she had first met. She watched as Yawrab excused herself and came over to the fire. Yawrab said, "You gypsies certainly know how to celebrate!" As the woman settled into one of the sling chairs next to Ganba, the gypsy made up her mind to act. Ganba reached over and set her hand on Yawrab's shoulder. Leaning close, she put her other hand on Yawrab's knee and said, "It is a night of endings and beginnings, and we always celebrate such." She slid her hand up Yawrab's leg slightly, watching her face and smiling when she didn't react negatively to the motion. Ganba continued, "Beginnings more than endings, usually," and leaned closer, sliding the hand on Yawrab's shoulder around to the back of her neck. She began moving her fingers in a slow circle, caressing the bare skin, slightly sweat-slick and warm. Yawrab's eyelids closed halfway as a look of pleasure came over her face, and Ganba smiled wider. Leaning even closer, whispering breathily into Yawrab's ear, Ganba said, "I was wondering whether you might like to celebrate a beginning tomorrow?" She slid her hand on Yawrab's leg back to her knee, cupping the joint and then running her hand down Yawrab's shin. Her fingers still moving on Yawrab's neck, she said softly, "In my bed?" Yawrab turned her head so that they were nose to nose. She said, "That would be ..." She tilted her head slightly to the side and moved closer, and continued, "... perfect." Ganba felt their lips touch, and she knew it would be. Aldan and Nakaz came upon the bodies three days after leaving the cave-in site. Aldan recognized one of the four corpses that were scattered across the path as Voesh, the man who had visited his and Nakaz' table four nights previously. The other three were roughly dressed, with unkempt hair and scraggly beards. Nakaz dismounted and examined the bodies. "I'd say they died sometime today," he said. "Bandit attack. There's something different about Voesh, though." Aldan didn't notice anything different. He watched as the bard searched all four bodies and then remounted, shaking his head. "Whoever killed these four, they were in a hurry to leave. No one has been stripped, save that Voesh is not carrying the book or any other artifact, not even the silver ring. I wonder why they felt they had to leave without burying their companion?" Aldan frowned as he followed Nakaz along the path, worrying at the new mystery. They were on the trail of a group of people who were trying to resurrect an ancient evil called the Margre Chalisento. Thanks to the bard's tracking skills, he and Nakaz had been able to follow them, but that was all they could do. Nakaz' maps didn't show the trails they now followed and the dense trees meant that they couldn't travel very long after dark to try to close the gap. Aldan didn't begrudge the detour. Though it was taking him away from his primary goal of reaching the city of Dargon, he knew that it was important to stop these people: more important than his own need to locate the men he was following. They rounded a bend and found two more bodies, a man and a horse, along with ruts cut across the path. Nakaz checked quickly and reported, "The horse was lamed by the ruts, probably throwing the rider. The curse Meelia mentioned seems to be taking its toll." Nakaz was soon moving forward again, and Aldan followed silently. He felt useless in the chase, since he couldn't track and had no more knowledge of the paths in the area than Nakaz did, but he wanted to find the people who had so casually left their companions behind almost as much as he wanted to find those who had murdered his bride-to-be. Two days later, the pair were riding along as fast as they dared when Aldan heard a strange noise to the south of the trail. It sounded like running water, but not quite like a river: more like a hard rain even though the sky was clear. In moments a southward path came into view and with it, the source of the sound. The path only extended for a few paces before it vanished into an area of roiling grey, like a cloud that touched the ground. This area extended to either side of the path and upwards for a short distance before curving away at maybe three man-heights. Aldan turned down the path and approached the strange, grey area. As he got closer, he saw that it seemed to be raining within the limits of that region: a downpour fit to drown an ox. There was no runoff, however; all of the water stayed inside. A few dead trees stood in the rain, little more than rotted stumps. Nothing else besides mud and water seemed to exist within. Aldan rode right up to the edge of the region, fascinated by the aberration of nature. He watched the rain as it pounded down, splashing off of the dead trees and the standing water. He was reaching toward the edge of the area when he heard the word, "Magic," right next to him. He started violently, making Firesocks fidget, and looked over to see Nakaz, who had ridden up beside him. The bard continued, "Ancient, strange magic." Blushing from being startled so badly, Aldan turned away. He stared at the unnatural rain for a moment before asking, "What kind?" "I don't know. No one does. The vaults of the College of Bards contain the answers to a great many mysteries and legends, like the Margre, but the origins of these magical loci are not recorded there." Nakaz turned to go back to the main path. "People have studied them, written books full of theories. I've even heard of an unsuccessful attempt to recreate one. So far, they remain utterly unexplained." Aldan continued staring for a time, before eventually following the bard. He realized that of all of the new experiences he had had since leaving his father's keep, this was the weirdest. He grinned, wondering if he would get to see any more of these loci. Two nights later, the pair made camp a bell after sunset. Thinning trees and a waxing moon almost to its first quarter provided enough light for that much extra travel. When dinner had been prepared, eaten, and cleaned up, Aldan sat comfortably by the fire listening to Nakaz play his lute. After a particularly sprightly tune, the bard said, "Do you know what day this is?" Aldan thought carefully, trying to count, but found that he had lost track some time ago. "I've got no idea, Nakaz. Why?" "Because it's the 30th of Sy, the autumnal equinox. Last day of summer." "You're not serious, are you?" asked Aldan incredulously. "You mean, I've been chasing the Menagerie for half a season?" "The Menagerie?" asked Nakaz. "Ah, never mind," Aldan said, flustered. "So, um, do bards celebrate the seasons in any special way?" He looked away from Nakaz' penetrating stare. The bard said, "No, not really. But in Bivar, where I was born, we have a tradition of bonfire jumping, for luck, you know, and the traditional king of summer festivities. Nothing very unique, really. How about your home?" "Bindrmon isn't much different from the rest of Welspeare," said Aldan. "We have a large harvest celebration, even though harvest doesn't really begin for a fortnight or more. There are rites to propitiate the gods of growth and the weather, intended to earn a good harvest before the fact. Lots of food and dancing, but no bonfire jumping. I've heard they do that down south, though." Halfway through Aldan's reply, Nakaz stopped plucking his lute and stood. Aldan watched the bard fetch something from his saddlebags and return to the fire with it. Setting it between them, Nakaz returned to his playing. Aldan looked at the item curiously. It was a wedge-shaped fragment of something larger, perhaps a third of the plate-like original, judging by the curve of the outer edge. The stone of the base was topped by interwoven strands of silver and gold metal and what seemed like glass. On the outer edge of the piece were relief carvings of a stylized cat and fox facing each other. Aldan said, "What is this?" as he reached out to run his fingers along the glass band. "A memory," Nakaz answered. "A memento. It belonged to Shorel; when she died, I took it to remind myself of her." Aldan started to ask about Shorel, but before he could voice his question, Nakaz stopped playing and reached for the sculpture. He touched the iron banding, and Aldan felt the strangest sensation vibrate into his fingers where they rested on the glass strip. Aldan heard music through his skin where it rested on the fragment, but even stranger was that he could feel the sound entering Nakaz' arm as well. The notes were wild and strange, like no song he had ever heard before, and they seemed to flow up his arm and into his body, filling him with an ethereal melody. As the music filled him, he felt it fill Nakaz as well. It was as if he rode with the notes, occupying space within the bard along with the music. It wasn't until the melody entered the bard's head that he realized that Nakaz was within him as he was within Nakaz. The song reached its crescendo and Aldan felt his mind merge with Nakaz'. He knew the way it felt to make music; he understood the knowledge that Nakaz had absorbed in his studies and his travels; he grasped how Shorel's death had left the bard feeling sad but not heartbroken. The melody ended and the connection broke. Aldan lifted his hand from the sculpture in awe; he knew that the stone fragment was much more than just a broken decoration. He also knew that Nakaz was more than just his guide to Dargon. He felt more complete than he ever had in the past, but he knew that there was still something missing: something or someone he still had to search for. He knew that Nakaz felt the same need, and he knew that he wouldn't be searching alone. "That way leads north, and that's where we should go!" "The path is too narrow, Joal," said Yera, "and I don't think I like the look of that clearing. We should continue west until we find a better path." "Shan, you decide. You're the one in such a hurry to get to Dargon after all." Joal scowled petulantly as he eyed his lover, who had been acting very strangely since the death of Voesh five days past. "I agree with Yera," said Shan. "There's something strange about that trail." "Are you kidding? I mean, it leads north and we want to go north. Why go around? Look, there's nothing odd about that clearing at all. See?" Joal started to ride along the narrow path, heading for a very bare clearing several paces away from the main path. "Wait!" called Yera. "Stop, Joal! Look closely: there's nothing at all in that clearing, not a stray tree, no grass or flowers, no animals at the edges. Just bare dirt." Joal didn't register Yera's comments until he had already ridden his horse into the clearing. He looked around and realized that she was right; nothing encroached on the circular area of the clearing at all, and that did seem very unnatural. His horse pawed at the ground uneasily, raising a low cloud of dust, far more than even the very dry trails they had been riding had produced. An eerie sensation rippled up Joal's spine, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir. This clearing was wrong, and he needed to get out of it. A flicker of motion behind him made him turn in the saddle, and he saw a little plume of dust fountaining up from the center of the clearing. The plume sank back down, and a ripple darted out to the edge of the area forming a line. The ripple started to move, sweeping around like Shan using a compass to scribe a circle in one of his illuminations. The ripple passed under him and he shuddered as every hair on his body lifted and fell again. Joal shook himself when the sensation had passed, and gathered up the reins of his horse. He kicked at its flanks, ready to quit the strangeness, but before the horse could react, a shivaree howled out of the brush at the edge of the clearing right at him. The large, weasel-like predator leapt at the horse, causing it to rear. Joal tried to hang on, but the best he could do was control his slide from his mount's back. He ended up on his back, but the fall hadn't hurt. The ripple had circled around again and it swept over Joal as he lay in the dust. This time the uncanny sensation as it passed lasted longer than before. He climbed to his feet and backed away from the still battling shivaree and horse. He got his bearings, helped by Yera's frantic shouting, and started towards his companions. The ripple passed Joal again, but this time the weird feeling didn't stop. He continued running, but when he got to the edge of the circle, he ran into something he couldn't see. He hadn't been moving fast enough to hurt himself. He tried to exit the clearing again and again, but he couldn't move past the edge of the empty space. He looked to Yera and Shan, but they didn't seem to be moving at all, though there was a concerned look on Yera's face. The sounds behind him changed from two animals fighting to fright and then silence. He turned around and saw the two combatants standing next to each other, shivering. The horse's ribs were showing beneath a sway back, and the shivaree's fur seemed to be falling out in clumps. The horse's mane and tail grew long and shaggy, and its knees grew all knobby as its fetlocks seemed to shrink. The shivaree got thinner and thinner under its mangy fur, its eyes rolling in fear. Joal watched, sickly fascinated, as the two animals became more and more gaunt, bones showing under shrinking skin. As he stared, he felt a tickling at his ears and his neck. He brushed absently at the sensation, and noticed that he was flicking hair around that was far longer than it should have been. He looked at his hands and gasped to see his nails curling well beyond the tips of his fingers. Joal's hair grew down over his eyes just as he noticed the shivaree fall over dead, its corpse shrinking in on itself, looking mummified before the decay continued. He panicked and curled his hands into fists, wild nails cutting into his wrists, and hammered on the solid air in a frantic bid to escape. Before he could bruise himself futilely, he felt his elbows and knees begin to ache, and a gnawing hunger in his middle. He fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around his stomach, and thought he felt his spine creak in the process. He was trapped and he was dying, and he didn't even know why! His horse died next, whickering out its last breath and falling to its side next to the bones of the shivaree. Joal began to crawl toward the corpses, confused, his vision beginning to cloud and his gums hurting abominably. His arms grew suddenly weak and, with a sob, he collapsed into the dust. He levered himself back up and turned to look at his companions, still frozen on the outside of the circle. He held up an imploring hand that looked like sticks inside a thin glove, and called out, "Help! Shan, help me!" He heard his voice weaken and crack even across those few words. Yera watched, horrified, as Joal aged before her eyes. His hair grew long, as did his fingernails, while his face and body grew gaunt. She slid down from her horse and ran over to the area, but she had no more success trying to get into the circle than Joal in trying to get out. She watched him collapse to his knees as his skin seemed to shrink around his bones. When he fell over, he was no more than a withered skeleton, sunken lids covering eyes that could no longer see. Yera backed away from the magic circle, a scream struggling to escape from her throat. Eyes wide, she turned and looked at Shan, Joal's lover, but the large man was just staring stone-faced. He blinked slowly, then turned away from the sick spectacle to look at Yera. "We go west," he said, and started in that direction. Yera stared after him and shook her head. She debated turning around and going back to Valdasly and finding work at an inn. This quest was too strange and too costly. Four of her companions were dead, and the one she had left wasn't acting like himself at all. Furthermore, these woods were dangerous, what with the bandits and the strange magic that had killed Joal. Nothing was worth this. Eventually, she started after Shan, still pondering. Later that afternoon, Yera still hadn't decided whether to leave or stay. Suddenly, she heard hoofbeats at a gallop behind her. She turned in her saddle and saw two men ride into view. One was blond and wore the trappings of a bard; the other was brown-haired and seemed fit. She looked closer and realized that they were the pair she and Voesh had petitioned for help back in Valdasly. The bard called out, "Stop! We know your purpose and you must abandon your quest for the Margre Chalisento!" Shan's eyes narrowed, and he cursed. "We need to split up," he said. "Go!" He spurred his horse to a gallop and sped away. Yera cursed in turn, at her luck and at Shan. For all that she had been contemplating desertion, she was angry that she had just been abandoned; there was no way that she and Shan could meet up again unless it was in Dargon itself. The bard and his friend were still behind her. Yera kicked her horse's flanks, urging it to follow Shan. She took the first side path that presented itself, and the next one after. She looked behind her to check the pursuit, and when she turned forward again, she was just in time to see the low tree bough that knocked her from her horse and into the next life. Shan rode hard, his former companions, even his lover, forgotten. He had a quest, and now it was his alone to fulfill. He rode with little care for his ultimate heading, only that it be away from his pursuers. He needed to get to Dargon, but the Margre was in no hurry and at the moment his freedom was more important. Shan continued his random direction changes, knowing that at least for a time the bard and his friend would be too busy trying to catch up with him quickly to take the time to actually follow his tracks. He hoped that his flight would throw them off completely; at the very least, he was gaining ground on them with every mene he ran. He made a late, cold camp that night and slept uneasily. The next morning Shan set out early, somewhat more confident but still sticking to no set direction. Just after midday, he unexpectedly came upon a group of travelers. They had one wagon and a number of riders, and the man driving the wagon was dressed all in green. One of the riders came up to him and said, "Greetings, traveler. Who are you and what are you doing here?" "My name is Shan. I am looking for the way north to Dargon. I lost my guide four days ago and have been wandering ever since." The rider looked over to the man in green, who nodded. "I'm sorry for your loss. We can't turn away a man in distress. I'm Flane. We're journeying to Tench and you're welcome to go with us that far. I'm sure you can find your way from there." "My thanks, Flane. I humbly accept your hospitality." Shan had no idea who these people might be. They didn't act like traders, or players, or any kind of casual travelers he could think of. They kept to themselves and seemed fairly grim. He knew that there was someone inside the wagon from the occasional groan he heard from there, but that didn't tell him anything helpful about them either. Fortunately, he didn't much care who they were. They would provide a buffer between himself and his own pursuers as well as additional security on the trail. Flane stayed beside Shan as the augmented group continued on their way. He was as dour as his fellows but Shan wasn't in the mood for conversation anyway. The silence continued for bell after bell, until shortly before sunset, as the shadows of the trees stretched long across the path, that silence was shattered. Ten strangers on horseback burst out of the trees all along the path, crying out in a strange language. Waving clubs and swords, they laid into the travelers. Shan saw two ride up to the back of the wagon and disappear inside. Moments later they returned with a third man, well trussed up, between them. One of them took the bound man and rode away; the other joined his fellows in their assault. Shan heard Flane mutter, "Filthy gypsies!" as the man drew his sword and chased after the dark-haired attackers. Shan took the opportunity to veer away from the confrontation, slipping between the trees carefully, searching for a path away. Flane saw his new riding companion dodge into the trees, and saw one of the gypsies follow the man. He followed in turn, sword at the ready. He wasn't in time to save the stranger from a club to the back of the head, and he also managed to miss running through the gypsy who dealt that blow. The gypsy rode back toward the fray. Flane thought to follow, but suddenly he got the idea to search the dead stranger. He worried when he could think of no reason for this notion as the man hadn't exhibited any signs of wealth, but his concerns soon vanished from his mind. When he found the artifacts that the body was carrying, a new purpose found him. Gathering the stone, the cup, the book, and the ring to him, he remounted and started riding north. He forgot about the Bloody Hand of Sageeza and his hatred of gypsies. Flane needed to get to Dargon, for the Margre Chalisento was calling him there. Lacsil watched as one after another of his men was cut or clubbed down by the attacking gypsies. He should have anticipated pursuit and set scouts, but he had been too proud, too certain that no one knew of his mission: the mission that wouldn't succeed now. His eyes rested on the scroll tube at his side, and he realized that there was still a chance. Grabbing it, he leapt from the wagon, cornered a riderless horse, and propelled himself into the saddle. Taking up the reins and ignoring the blood on them, he spurred the horse to a gallop and rode away from the carnage. The path twisted one way, and then another. It was getting hard to see in the gloom of twilight, but suddenly there was light ahead. He steered toward it, hoping it would be help. He galloped around a tight bend and saw a wall of flickering yellow and red in front of him. He didn't even know what it was until he felt the warmth, like a small fire. As he neared it, he saw little motes of color, bright bits of flame that danced through the air like a strange reversal of snow. He never realized the danger until it was too late; it was too beautiful, and it didn't radiate nearly the heat it should have. But once he crossed the boundary, his scream was brief as the fire consumed him, his horse, and the maps. A new bit of flame joined the others bobbing through the air. Yawrab had ridden with her gypsy friends against the Bloody Hand of Sageeza's men, but she hadn't participated in the ensuing carnage. Her help hadn't been required, either, for which she was grateful. Shortly after sunset, she sat on horseback beside Ganba as the results of the raid were given. "We can account for all but one of the Bloody Hand," said Ruthodd. "There are the right number of bodies, but one is a stranger dressed in a scribe's robe. No one knows when he joined the group, but he wasn't at last night's camp." Ganba said, "You're sure Lacsil was not the one who escaped, yes?" Hiranw answered for Ruthodd. "I saw the man in green myself, and he was carrying a tube in his free hand. He rode into an angwleridd, a magic area, of fire. The eldritch flame faded soon after, leaving only ash within. He couldn't have survived long enough to ride through it." "The maps aren't here either," said Ganba, "but it stands to reason that Lacsil would have had them with him, so they must have been in that tube. I would say that we have succeeded in our mission. Without the maps, a single fugitive isn't going to pose any more of a problem than the Bloody Hand ever has." "Then we should head for Eariaddas Hwl and the gathering," suggested Ruthodd. "We're not very far away, after all." "I agree. Hiranw, you and Lewro remain here long enough to see the bodies taken care of; you can catch us up later." Ganba then turned to Yawrab and said, "Do you mind a detour? I did promise to get you to Dargon." Yawrab said, "I think I would like to see more of your gypsy celebrations, Ganba. Also, I think that as Aldan has fled to Dargon to hide, he intends to remain there for some time. We can search for him after the festival." And she was looking forward to the additional time with the gypsy leader. As soon as Nakaz saw the pair on the road before him, he called out, "Stop! We know your purpose and you must abandon your quest for the Margre Chalisento." The large man in brown robes said something to the woman with white hair whom Nakaz recognized as Yera, and galloped off. The woman scowled, waited a moment, and then followed. Nakaz urged Riesta to even greater speed, hoping that Firesocks and Aldan could keep up. He followed the path the other two had taken. He rounded two quick bends, but when the path straightened out again, neither rider was in sight. He glanced around and spotted a side path breaking the green to the left. He grasped at the possibility and galloped onto it. Hugging Riesta's neck to keep himself below the overhanging branches, he navigated the twists and turns of the new path at an unwise speed. He cleared a final bend and saw the path stretching away in front of him with no sign of his quarry. A gust of wind drew his attention to another side path, and he chose that route. Nakaz reined Riesta in hard when he made the second turn, seeing the limb and the body at the same time. Aldan came to a halt behind him as he checked Yera's corpse, and then her horse, which had come trotting back. Turning to his friend, Nakaz said, "She's dead, and she doesn't have the artifacts. The man must have them, and he must have taken a different turn from the last path." Nakaz was soon back in the saddle and on the path. He rode frantically, but couldn't catch sight of the man. Worse, he couldn't find a single track either; he must have lost the man's trail somewhere. He returned to Yera's body, and took his time searching for the man's trace. Nakaz and Aldan followed it until it was too dark, and then continued the next morning. Late that afternoon, he found where the man's trail joined another group of travelers. In the middle of the next morning, both trails ended at the site of some kind of conflict. As Nakaz entered the area of the trail where the battle had taken place, he encountered two Rhydd Pobl, a young man and woman, who were carrying stones to a cairn just inside the woods on one side of the path. "Hail, brethren," he called out in their language. "What happened here?" The man said, "Greetings, bard. Our bantor encountered a group of followers of the Bloody Hand of Sageeza and defeated them." "Were any of your people killed? That's a large cairn you are working on." "No, good bard, none of our own were more than slightly wounded." Nakaz knew about the enmity between the Bloody Hand and the gypsies, and wondered what event had gathered so many of the fanatics together. Then he remembered the joining of trails, and asked, "Did you notice the presence of a large man with dark hair, wearing robes, among the dead?" The woman said, "Yes, that one was killed, though perhaps by accident. He wasn't with the Bloody Hand yesterday according to our scouts and there are no towns or inns in this area. He was probably just a lost traveler and not part of our conflict." "Was he carrying anything odd? A rock, a stone cup, or a blue book?" "He carried nothing on his person, good bard, and his horse had only food and clothes in its saddlebags." "My thanks, brethren. Clear trails to you!" He turned and rode back to Aldan, who was looking very bewildered. Nakaz said, "They are Rhydd Pobl, gypsies, and they told me that our quarry was killed in the conflict that happened here. But he wasn't carrying the artifacts or the book. I wonder what happened to them?" Aldan said, "Perhaps they are on their way to Dargon. Just like we are." Nakaz looked at Aldan and nodded. "Just like we are." ========================================================================