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 4 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 10/17/2003 Volume 16, Number 4 Circulation: 663 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb The Pirate Conclave Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 4-5, 1014 Our Secret Shore Nicholas Wansbutter Yuli, 1007 Mixed Results Jim Owens Firil 20, 1016 ======================================================================== 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 16-4, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright October, 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 Not very often do we have the opportunity to bring you an issue full of short stories that stand alone. Much more often, our writers choose to write longer works whose multiple chapters span two or more issues. DargonZine usually requires that our writers split up any story that exceeds 50,000 words. We imposed that limit about ten years ago, during DargonZine's earlier days, at a point when 100,000-word stories that filled an entire issue were common. After four such "single-story" issues in quick succession, we learned that those issue-filling works were ponderous and awkward for our readers. Instead, printing two or three different stories at a time gave each issue more variety and made them much more pleasant to read. We wanted to allow longer works, because they give the author room to produce deeper and more interesting storylines. Therefore, we decided that from then on exceedingly long stories needed to be broken up and serialized. However, splitting lengthy works into multi-volume sets can make for disjointed reading. It can also frustrate new readers when their first issue features part two of one storyline and part three of another. For these reasons, we have tried to ensure that each part of a longer series is able to stand on its own, having sufficient backfill to bring even new readers up to speed on what has occurred in any previous chapters. Our writers' preferences unquestionably run to lengthier pieces, and for the most part serialization has worked very well. However, our issues are regularly filled with serialized stories, and that can get a little tiresome if none of the stories in an issue reaches a climax or conclusion. However, about once per year we are able to schedule an issue without any multi-part stories. I consider issues like this one, where we have three standalone works, a rare treat. Our regular readers don't have to try to recall the details of previous chapters; our new readers can enjoy their first issue without feeling like they've come in partway through a film; and every story reaches its conclusion, giving the whole issue a satisfying sense of closure. And we have some wonderful short works in this issue. We lead off with the rarest of treats: a short story from our longtime master Dafydd Cyhoeddwr. Dafydd is by far DargonZine's most prolific writer. His motive when he joined the Dargon Project back in 1986 was to try his hand at writing short stories, for even then his tendency was to write voluminous works. Well, that experiment hasn't been terribly successful; of the amazing fifty-four stories he has printed in our pages, only two were not serialized, and both of those were still tied into his other works, and appeared more than fifteen years ago! Therefore, I take great pleasure in sharing with you the first standalone short story that Dafydd has printed in decades, and the shortest of his three attempts. Of course, those of you who are familiar with Dafydd's work will know that he's not cured yet: his Talisman epic continues. Ironically, we plan to make an exception to our own rule and next year we will devote an entire issue to the final chapter in this 38-part saga. Following Dafydd's story is another, very short piece by Nicholas Wansbutter. In his five years with us, Nick has published four serialized stories totaling nine chapters, but this, too, is his first standalone story to appear in DargonZine. While Nick hasn't been with us as long as Dafydd, it's still exciting to see each of our writers expanding their boundaries and growing as writers. Jim Owens, one of DargonZine's founders, provides this issue's final piece. Unlike Dafydd and Nick, for whom this is new ground, Jim is our undisputed master of the one-part story. In his many years with the project, Jim has given us seventeen single-part stories and only two serials. Jim's very active imagination fuels his writing, and you never knows quite what you'll find inside one of his works, but it's guaranteed to be delightfully unique and memorable. As these dedicated writers will tell you, writing great short stories is much more difficult than logic would lead you to believe. I hope you enjoy this issue, because it's a very rare and special treat for us to be able to print an issue with a collection of shorts from these gentlemen, unquestionably some of our best writers. ======================================================================== The Pirate Conclave by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 4-5, 1014 The slap echoed through the noisy common room. The ensuing laughter covered the thud of the woman's body hitting the floor. Waaj winced in sympathy as the pirate named Bronak, dressed in slovenly gaudery, disciplined Tora, the newest barmaid at Jo'nass' Tavern. He sidled closer to his fellow employee as Bronak shouted, "When I ask for spirits, I don't want ale! Got that, ya stupid slattern?" The other pirates, who filled the room, went back to their raucous activities, the amusement of Tora's humiliation being short lived, so Waaj was the only one who saw the look of utter hatred on Tora's face as she started to pick herself up. Bronak, still standing above her, wasn't in position to notice the grimace. The chief pirate said, "Now, go get me spirits, even if you have to break into the owner's stock. Or I'll give you and Jo'nass more of the same!" Waaj took Tora's arm and helped her gain her feet. He was surprised at the strength he felt under the barmaid's sleeve; her arm was rock hard and bulged with muscle. He looked at Tora with amazement and wondered if maybe she had formerly worked for a blacksmith. Once she was standing again, Tora shook off Waaj's arm firmly but with a hasty smile of thanks and turned toward the back room. Waaj mumbled placatingly, "Be right back, Captain Bronak, sir," before following. The heavy curtain dropped behind him and dulled the noise from the common room of the tavern. Waaj found Tora searching harshly through the cabinets, shoving jars aside and poking into piles of produce. He said, "You won't find any private stock here, Tora. Jo'nass always said his type of custom don't have the tongue for spirits." Tora turned her furnace-hot glare on him, and he threw up his hands in mock surrender. "I know, I know, Bronak won't lie down for that. I can get some hard stuff, no trouble. Relak's bar's just a few blocks away. He's gone now, and no one's been in there since, for true. Not after he just vanished in front of our eyes ..." Tora dropped her gaze to the floor as Waaj trailed off into silence, remembering that singularly strange day three fortnights past. The moment stretched awkwardly, and he was about to quietly leave when Tora said, "At least they're finally all here." "Who?" he asked. Tora lifted her head and said, "The pirates. I heard Bronak say that the last of his new captains just sailed in this afternoon, and now his new fleet is all here. Now it can ... Er, well, now their occupation of Port Andestn is complete. If they're gonna stay, they can't keep acting like animals, right?" Waaj nodded in agreement, and then remembered a question he had been wanting to ask. "So, Tora, just what were you before you came to Port Andestn?" Tora looked at him with eyes gone suddenly doe-soft and wide. "Serving tables and cleaning rooms, Waaj, just like you. Now, weren't you going to go get some juice to make Bronak happy and keep me from getting slapped again?" When she looked like that, she was very pretty, and Waaj let himself be seduced away from his question. He smiled at her, grabbed a lantern, and left the tavern, determined to eventually find out just where she had come from. Waaj walked toward Relak's bar through the quiet, dark streets of Port Andestn and thought about the way things used to be. It was only the third bell of the night, but the city seemed deserted. That was not how it once was. He wondered whether the city would ever recover. He remembered that night in the month of Naia, sitting in the tiny corner bar with no name other than the owner's. He had been sitting in the dim room, sipping a wine sweet enough to unpucker a lemon, commiserating with his friends about how the war had hit them so hard. True, the fighting hadn't yet come close to their port town, but the levies and musters had stripped the bulk of the fit population away. And then it had begun. First the barmaid, crossing the room, had walked into the shadow of a pillar and not walked out, just a short scream marking her passing. Then two patrons had slowly dissolved, their anguished yells persuading most of the people in the bar to leave before the strange plague struck them too. The pot boy vanished next, writhing against a wall and then disappearing as if falling piece by piece through it. Finally, Relak himself had gone, shouting in surprise rather than pain and fading away quickly. The tankard he had been filling dropped to the floor to smash amidst the ale pouring out of the open tap. Waaj hadn't lingered after that, and he had yet to return. He learned eventually that several score of the port's residents had also disappeared that night, further crippling the city. He crossed the wide, empty Merchant's Lane and his eyes went automatically to the right, toward the harbor. There was enough light from the moon and stars for him to see the masts rocking there, but they didn't provide the comfort the sight usually did. Port Andestn lived on trade, and a forest of masts in the harbor normally meant markets full of goods and taverns full of people, but these weren't the masts of trade ships. The pirate invasion hadn't been sudden but it had been irresistible. They came and never left. He remembered the first ship to sail into the harbor with a yard of scarlet rope tied to its tallest mast, and how everyone had marveled at the audacity of its captain to openly flaunt the pirate standard. That ship, Bronak's own, had arrived a fortnight ago. Others had soon followed. The pirate crews had filled the city and the taverns, right enough, but their coin stayed in their ships and they supplied the markets with nothing. No one could find the strength to stand up against their taking ways. Waaj had learned by listening that Bronak had decided to take advantage of the war by attacking shipping on the eastern coast of Baranur. Heartened by the easy pickings, he had started to take over the ships he attacked, building a fleet of pirates by doling out his own officers to lead his new crews. The fledgling pirates had learned their trade quickly, and soon Bronak and his fleet dominated the waves. Then one day Bronak had sailed into Port Andestn, intending to make the crippled city his headquarters, a goal he had easily completed. Waaj continued past Merchant's Lane, leaving the view of the harbor behind. His mind drifted back to childhood games of floating chips of wood with leaves for sails, and pretend assaults against other fleets, or armies on shore. With a secret grin, he fantasized about solving the port's current pirate problem by assaulting the harbor with a fleet of giant bark-and-leaf ships crewed by acorn-armored ants firing pine needle catapults loaded with blackberries that exploded into flame on impact. He pushed through the unlocked doors of the bar that Relak had owned, ignoring the squeaking of rats scurrying for cover. There were no signs of looting, just tables and benches and a dried stain around the bar from a drained keg of ale. Waaj wasn't surprised; there wasn't any sign outside, nothing to reveal the place as a business of any kind. It had been a regulars' bar, and all of the regulars had been well and truly frightened off. As Waaj crossed the room, his thoughts turned back to Tora. He wondered again where she had come from. He couldn't recall ever seeing her around before; she had arrived at the same time as the first of the pirates. As he rummaged behind the bar for Relak's stash, he imagined that she had been fleeing from something horrible, hence her reluctance to tell about it, like an attack on her tiny fishing village, where she had been the blacksmith's only child and so apprenticed to him. A pirate ship, emboldened by their successes raiding the trade lanes, had decided to despoil her village. She had watched them slaughter everyone she had ever known, and had fled in terror. It had only been sheer bad luck that she had just accepted Jo'nass' job offer when Bronak's ship had sailed into Port Andestn. Waaj smiled to himself. He collected up an armload of bottles and started back. He knew that he was only dreaming, but he decided to provide Tora a safe haven from the wreck of her former life, even amid the very scum who had enacted that ruin. The harbor of Port Andestn was a large, rough oval of calm water well protected from the ocean's storms and tides. A narrow cliff extended out in a long arc from the southern part of the city to form one breakwater. On the north side, a shorter, thicker stonework mole had been built out from the city. A modest fort capped the tip of that mole to command the quarter-league gap that gave access to the dredged depths within the two arms. While the serving man from Jo'nass' Tavern walked the dark streets of the city out of sight of the harbor, a small boat rocked gently against the tip of the southern breakwater. Six black figures occupied the boat, watching the shore. Suddenly a light appeared in a window of a building just beyond the wharves. It winked out and then brightened again. A moment later, it briefly stuttered, shone steady again, and then went out. The six figures started moving. One slipped around the ledge at the waterline until it and its unlit lantern were hidden from the city by the cliff. Another eased a long, wide board with four handles on its edges into the water, and then joined three more figures in entering the bay, grabbing a handle, and slowly propelling themselves and their float toward the ships at dock. The last opened the door of a dark lantern, flashing light briefly back at the third story window a few blocks from the water. More than a bell had passed since Waaj had returned to Jo'nass' Tavern. Bronak was happy with the selection Waaj had provided and the other pirates were even more drunk on Jo'nass' ale. Tora had thanked him when he'd returned, but he hadn't seen much of her since. When he thought that the crowd in the room wouldn't notice his absence as well, he slipped up the stairs to find her, imagining himself providing comfort to the poor refugee. He had to climb to the third floor before he found her standing in front of a window that faced the water. He came up behind her and thought he saw a flash of light from out across the bay. He caught sight of her reflection in the glass and saw her smiling as she gazed into the night. Then her eyes lifted and their reflected gazes met, and she whirled around and said, "What?" "I just wanted to see ... where you were," he answered. "You've been gone for a while." Tora frowned and said, "Has Bronak been looking for me?" "No, no. I don't think anyone but me noticed. Ah, what were you doing up here, looking out to sea like that?" Her frown vanished, but she didn't answer right away. She seemed to be concentrating on the center of his chest. Finally she said, "Thinking about before, wishing about after." Waaj wasn't exactly sure what she meant, but he took a step closer to her and said, "I'm sure everything will be fine, Tora. One way or another." "One way or another?" she repeated, her voice hard with anger. As she continued, though, it quickly softened to a scared whisper, her head bowed, face hidden by her hair. "How many ways are there, Waaj? This city is filled with pirates and no one to rescue it 'cause of the war, and that isn't fine, now is it, Waaj?" Waaj hesitated, raising his arms to embrace her, then dropping them again. When she just stood there, he took one more step and wrapped his arms around her. She stiffened for a moment, and Waaj smiled, imagining her blacksmith's pride asserting itself. He didn't clutch at her, and was rewarded by having her arms come up around him and her head press into his shoulder. "We could always run away, Tora," Waaj said softly after a bit. "Find another town to settle in, buy an inn where you could run the stables and I could manage the bar." Tora gave a short, strangled-off laugh, and said into his shirt, "We could flee, sure. But that wouldn't help everyone else in Port Andestn, now would it?" Waaj liked how Tora felt, pressed into his front, her breath warming his shoulder, her arms lightly clasped around the small of his back. He wanted to stay like that for a very long time, but he didn't know how. Tora would never be happy with him. How could she? She had courage and ideals. She had survived the destruction of her family and tried to start a new life, and now wasn't willing to leave the port to its fate. He hadn't done anything more exciting than live in Port Andestn his whole life, drifting from job to job, wherever unskilled labor was required. No, Tora needed a hero, someone to save the city and win her heart. If only ... "Maybe ..." he ventured. Tora looked up, her brown eyes wide. Her voice was gentle when she asked, "What, Waaj?" "What if we, or just me, ran ... or, rather, left to get help? Take word to the duke, or even the king. If they knew about Bronak, knew what he was doing to Port Andestn, surely they would send an army, or ships to bottle the pirates in the harbor and execute them all?" She shook her head, her pretty lips turned down in a rueful frown. "Not possible right now, Waaj. The war with Beinison is straining the kingdom's resources. Duke Monrodya's soldiers are all fighting the more dangerous enemy with the rest of the king's armies in Pyridain and Magnus and Kiliaen. And the duke's ships, the entire eastern fleet, are all sailing north, around the top of Cherisk by Dargon, to join the conflict with Beinison's navies. We are alone in this, Waaj, at least until Beinison is no longer a threat. Of course, by then, Bronak might have a real, unified force, instead of eight ships with new captains and green crews plus his own seasoned men and women. In other words, it might be too late." Waaj wondered how a barmaid in a nest of pirates knew so much about the business of the nobility. As he was about to ask her, though, she began to run her finger along his jaw and he forgot his question to concentrate on the feeling. After a moment he turned his attention to finding another way to be Tora's hero. "How about an uprising? I could talk to some friends, spread the word, try to gather together people willing to stand up to the pirates. I'm sure we could find enough to rout those misbegotten scum right out of here!" "Shh!" hissed Tora, looking around. "Not so loud. Come, this way." She deftly slipped out of his arms and, grabbing his sleeve, started down the corridor and away from the window and stairs. She dragged him around a corner and into a room that seemed already prepared for sleep with linens on the bed and candles already lit. She let his sleeve go and climbed onto the bed, sitting tailor-fashion near the wall. She gestured to the bench at the foot of the bed, and Waaj sat. Smiling sweetly, she said, "Now, what were you saying about finding support in the city?" Disoriented from the abrupt location change, Waaj fumbled for an answer. He was unfamiliar with going from idea to execution, so he fell back on his imagination. His eyes unfocused and he began to speak. "Whispers and suggestions first, I suppose. Feel out sentiment, figure out how to separate spirit from bold words. Organize slowly, keep groups of rebels small and separate. Learn capabilities, count numbers, and eventually begin to plan." Waaj focused on Tora to find that she was staring at him, her eyes and mouth narrow. "Very good, Waaj. Time consuming, but good. Unfortunately, the time you take building your rebels is time the pirates are consolidating their hold on the port." Waaj nodded, seeing the truth of her words. He opened his mouth to provide another option, but she continued, "Suppose, however, that you have organized some people. You have a double-handful, fifteen at the most, of your best rebels, and you know you have to strike now. Your rebels against nine pirate ships, Waaj. How would you do it?" Waaj wondered why she was asking him this. She didn't seem frightened and looking for reassurance. She looked more curious, if anything. He pondered her question, and realized that she was playing a game with him. Of course, that was it! A game of question and answer, and if he won, well, the setting predicted the reward, didn't it? He turned his imagination to answering her question, and found himself stumped. Fifteen rebels against nine pirate ships and their crews was an impossible proposition. Then again, this was only a game, straight? Waaj recalled the stories he had heard all of his life, stories that sailors told, that entertainers and bards recited, that grandpas told their children's children. This was just another story. Straight. "First, we block the harbor mouth," he said, "so no one can get in or out. We conjure a stone spirit, who makes the cliff flow down to join the fort wall on the mole to the north ..." Out on the moonlit bay, the two figures on the end of the northern mole climbed the wall of the fort situated there. A few moments later, they exited the fort again from a shadowed niche at the base of the wall, carrying a thick coil of rope between them. They piled its length into a boat, one end trailing behind them back into the niche. They climbed in after, and began rowing across the mouth of the bay, paying the rope out behind them. Reaching the other side of the harbor's mouth, the two black-clad figures clambered out of the boat, carrying the rope with them. They looped the rope around the narrow middle of the bollard, keeping its length taut. Then they began to haul on the rope, its loop maintaining the tension. Back on the northern mole, the other end of the rope appeared out of the niche in the wall, fastened to a chain with links that were each the length and width of a hand. Pulling hand-over-hand, the two figures dragged on the rope which drew the chain across the water. Soon, Port Andestn's defense chain was securely blocking its harbor mouth. "Next, deal with the ships themselves," Waaj said. He remembered more sailors' tales, and continued, "Nine ships to sink quietly, stealthily. Find some Mandrakan fire starfish and affix a few to each hull. Give each some slow poison, and when they die, boom! Silent bombs just waiting to go off. "Or maybe some heat-seed to feed to the barnacles, so they'll burn through the hulls and ignite them? No, that would take a sennight or more. Well, you could just hole them direct. Some drill-nose sharks ..." Out on the bay, the four figures with the board float had long since reached the docks after moving with agonizing slowness across the harbor so as not to attract any attention. They singled out one ship with "Stars Standard" lettered plainly on it. Two went to the bow, two to the stern. In each position, one slowly climbed the side of the ship to affix a small oilskin bag inconspicuously near the deck rail. The other used a well-oiled wide-bore auger to drill a hole through the planking of the hull well above the waterline. When the hole was complete, another oilskin bag, trailing a length of rope, was pushed through. The scaling figures came back down, tacking a length of rope down the side of the ship with gum. At the waterline, these ropes were joined with the interior rope, and then the pair at the bow began to tack their rope along to the stern, where all four ropes were joined. A hand-span wide balsa wood box was fixed to the rudder and the ropes were fed into it. Finally, the four figures grabbed their float and began to gradually drift across the bay again. "Wait, Waaj," interrupted Tora. Waaj set aside his mental catalog of tall-tale creatures and listened. "Your rebels don't want to sink all of the ships if they can help it. The pirates have been hard on shipping; their ships would help restore it." Waaj frowned and thought harder. Sinking was out. What then? Those sailor tall tales flashed through his mind, and he came up with an idea. "Separate the officers from the ships first," he said. "Lure them all together, maybe with some treasure, or hints of secrets to be revealed. Lock them up in a dungeon somewhere, with chimeras and gryphons and cunning, magical traps for guards, secure from everyone." "Go on," Tora said. Waaj realized that she was no longer sitting up, but lying across the bed, her head next to his elbow. He stared, then realized that she was smirking at him. She said again, "Go on," so he did. "Well," he said, "sailors are a superstitious lot. Pirates are sailors, and from listening to the crowd below these past sennights it is clear that there isn't a more superstitious sailor than a pirate. With their officers locked away, the common crew of the pirate ships will be very vulnerable to anything out-of-the-ordinary. With the right incentive, they should be easily persuaded to flee their ships for their lives." Tora had begun stroking Waaj's arm. She said, "And what incentive did you have in mind?" "It occurred to me that the legend of Prayan's Revenge would work." Tora laughed and rolled off the bed and to her feet. She stood in front of Waaj, pulled him up, and kissed him. She dragged him over to the bed and tossed him into it. Climbing back onto the bed and straddling his hips, she said, "Tell me about that one, Waaj." He found it very difficult to comply, since Tora was proceeding to undress herself and him by turns. He found his situation very exciting, almost too much so, and he realized that he needed to concentrate on something else very quickly. "Prayan was a wizard a long time ago," he said. "He lived in a tower by the sea and had a grown daughter. One day his daughter was coming to visit when her ship was attacked by pirates. She was taken by them as part of the ship's treasure." Waaj forgot what came next when Tora's blouse came off. She stopped and stared until he resumed his tale. "Ah ... Prayan ... learned of the theft, and set out to right the wrong. He conjured up an ancient ship from the depths of the sea by his tower, a giant ship with oars and a beak. He sailed it alone, with only his magic to row and steer. He chased the pirates down, but the effort cost him: his magic had driven him mad. He destroyed the ship, but without rescuing his daughter first. His grief further twisted his mind, and they say that he and his ship roam the seas, looking for his daughter and taking revenge upon all pirates." Had there been any more of the story to tell, Waaj couldn't have told it. He was far too busy concentrating on his body, and Tora's, to put any effort into tale-telling. He enjoyed his reward greatly, and he knew from Tora's screams that she did, too. When silence had returned, except for heavy breathing, Tora slipped from the bed. Waaj sleepily looked around, wondering where she'd gone. He found her standing beside the bed, several scarves in her hand. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, then took his wrist and began fastening it with a scarf to the bedpost. She said, "I like your thinking, Waaj. You have an amazing imagination. But just at this moment, that imagination needs to be kept in check." She worked on his other wrist, then moved to his feet. Waaj was too confused to protest. Tora continued, "I don't think your guesses would do any harm at the moment, but I don't like to take chances either." She was back at his side, leaning over him again, smiling into his confused face, a last scarf in her hand. "Everything should be over by fourth or fifth bell tomorrow. I'll come back up here then and let you go and tell you how your predictions went. Maybe I'll let you be my second mate, should I decide to take up the pirate life for good. "By the way, you didn't have any of that ale downstairs, did you?" Waaj let himself be gagged without resistance. His fantasy of Tora's past had slipped away, but he didn't know what to replace it with. She had been a pirate? Then why had she let Bronak slap her around? And what would be over by the middle of tomorrow? He hadn't been predicting anything, just playing a game with her. Tora dressed quickly in dark, tight-fitting clothes completely unlike her barmaid uniform and walked out of the room, leaving the candles burning on the shelf by the door that she shut behind her. Waaj wondered, yet again, just who she was. At two bells to dawn, an enormous ship sailed into Port Andestn's harbor. Those on watch on the pirate ships had never seen anything like it, nor had any of the rest of the hastily-roused crew. Its deck was as high as the lowest yard on the deepest-draw of the pirate ships, and its stern-castle mounted several decks above that. Three banks of oars protruded from either side of the hull, and the two huge masts had a single lateen sail each. It had large, luminous eyes painted on the bow, and a wicked, sharp spike jutted out just at the waterline. The entire ship was black, from sheets to sails to hull. An alert pirate noticed that the ship had no bow-wave nor wake. Another realized that the oars made no splash as they dipped and rose, nor did they move water. It was not an hallucination, not with every single pirate seeing the same thing. The whisper of "ghost ship" was the only logical conclusion. The pirates all milled about in confusion, not sure what to think or do. The senior watch on Bronak's ship, the Stars Standard, debarked and hurried through the streets to Jo'nass' Tavern. She found the place utterly silent, all of its windows and doors boarded up from the inside. She tried to break through one, but an eerie moan from the docks drew her back to her ship. A figure had appeared on the ship. A shining white man in a white robe with flowing white hair stood on the stern castle, calling out in a loud voice, but no one could understand the language he spoke. He raised a hand as his voice grew harsher, more angry, and lightning flickered around him. He pointed and exclaimed, and all heads turned to see another ghostly figure on the deck of the Stars Standard, a woman hovering above the deck. More angry shouts from the huge, black ship. Demands sounded, more lightning flashed. The hand pointed, a command rang out, and the Stars Standard exploded. No one noticed the arrow that flashed from behind the luminous eyes, hitting the balsa wood box on the rudder with a spark which completed a complex bit of sorcery, made the four ropes shine briefly, and ignited what was in the four oilskin bags. The archer's platform was a small, rocking boat, and his sight lines were obscured by the illusion that surrounded him, but his skill was up to the challenge. The desertions began slowly. As the crews nearest the Stars Standard tried to keep their own ships from catching fire, those farthest from the conflagration began to slip down the gangplanks and vanish into the city. When the ghostly woman appeared on another deck, that ship emptied before the shining man's hand could begin to point. Leaderless and frightened, the pirates deserted the docks in ever greater numbers. Seeing the regular pirates fleeing, the conscripted crews didn't take long to follow. A few hardy souls made attempts to free their captains from Jo'nass' boarded up tavern. Silent, dark, and deadly figures, one with a bruise on her face, darted from the shadows to make sure no one succeeded. By the time the Stars Standard sank a bell later, the decks of the other eight ships at dock were empty. Waaj managed to free himself from Tora's knots eventually. He wondered whether she had purposely left them loose, or perhaps her mention of being a pirate was just another tale. He left the room and encountered daylight. He found the window Tora had been at earlier and looked out on change. The first thing he saw was a ship moored by the northern mole's fort, outside of the harbor. It was flying the flag of the Duchy of Monrodya, and from the end of a yard of dangling scarlet cord was a bannerette indicating direct ducal sponsorship. Only eight ships floated dockside, every deck empty. Waaj could see over the warehouse between him and the water well enough to see the masts of the ninth ship jutting up out of the water at an angle; apparently that ship had sunk. He could see no other damage to account for the abandoned ships. The next thing he saw made him stare in disbelief. Standing at the land end of the largest dock was a small group of people backing Tora. She wasn't dressed like a barmaid any longer, nor in the dark clothes of the night before. She wore leather leggings and tall boots, with a white shirt under a tightly laced leather vest. She had a sword at her side and a dagger at her knee in the top of one of those boots. She looked commanding, menacing, beautiful. Waaj knew by her bearing, and by the standard of Monrodya that one of those behind her bore, that she was the captain of that ship by the fort and therefore the author of the destruction on the docks. In front of her were the bound and gagged bodies of the officers and captains of every pirate ship in the harbor. Waaj could see that Captain Tora was talking, but he couldn't hear her. When she lifted her arm to point at her captives, he imagined that she was berating them all for trying to band together under Bronak, and not her. Their punishment would be banishment from the water until they could raise the funds to buy new ships. And until then, she would be Queen of the Ocean! She pointed at the bound officers, her arm moving up then chopping down. He only watched what happened next for a moment. His gorge rose, and he turned from the window doubled over, clutching a hand over his mouth. He knew that he would never forget the image of Tora standing there gazing impassively as her order was carried out, blood pooling around her boots. He straightened and glanced around, unsure of what to do next. His foremost thought was to find someone to protect him from the refugee-turned-ruthless Captain Tora. A tear formed in his eye as his dream of being her hero finally died. Then he bolted out of Jo'nass' Tavern and out of Port Andestn. Thornodd, who had masqueraded as Tora the barmaid as well as the captain of the carrack anchored just outside of the bay, stood in front of her captives and the demoralized, broken remnants of the crew of the ships behind her. Her mission, given her by the son of the duke, was over. She no longer owed Masrobak a favor. She had already given her speech, decrying the worthless cowards before her, denouncing their attempt to band together in the face of the kingdom's crisis of war, decrying their abuse of Port Andestn, condemning their wholesale assault on the shipping along the east coast of Baranur just when the kingdom needed it most. She could see how dispirited the few remaining crewmembers were as they stood there, bound together and well guarded by her people. But she could also see the fire and hatred in the eyes of those bound before her, the captains whose ships she had won, the officers whose men and women she was haranguing. Then again, perhaps they were simply angry at how they had succumbed one by one to the dosed ale. Even Bronak, who was now lying directly in front of her, hadn't escaped; she had simply slipped the same potion into the bottles that funny, fanciful Waaj had brought back for him. She gave the order as her arm chopped down: "Kill them now." Her own sword left her side and repaid Bronak for the slap of the previous night. Her "crew", her raiders, stepped forward and completed the task, ending the threat of every bound officer before her. Not one of the standing pirates moved or made a sound. When the killing was over, she looked at the remaining flotsam and nodded. The score or so bound pirates were herded along by her people; they would be freed on the outskirts of town. She saw no reason to kill these few who had been slow, or unlucky, enough to be caught. They had simply chosen the wrong people to follow. Maybe some of them would end up going south or west to join the fighting against the Beinison invaders. Some would surely remain in the area to cause more trouble, but she would deal with those consequences later. She led her raiders to Jo'nass' Tavern to celebrate their victory. She thanked Rhand for contributing his excellent archery to the success of the illusion of the ghost ship, then sent him up to the third floor to release Waaj. She directed Dzory to be sure to remove the bad ale keg before giving everyone a drink. Just as she was about to question Jerek about his performance as a legendary wizard, Rhand returned. "There's no one there, Thornodd. Every room above us is empty." "Thank you, Rhand. I wonder what got into him?" She looked at her raiders sitting around the common room, cleaning blades and drinking ale, and muttered, "Maybe my reality and his fantasy just don't mix." ======================================================================== Our Secret Shore by Nicholas Wansbutter Yuli, 1007 "... and so, we commit these our friends to the Pit of Rise'er, ever prayerful that Ol will have mercy on them and make their stay in Gil-Pazulyrken short." The priest bowed his head at the conclusion of his sermon, as did the large gathering around him. Devron looked at the ground for a moment in prayer, then raised his eyes back to the funeral pyre upon which a good two dozen bodies had been placed. Acolytes of the Olean temple touched torches to the carefully laid logs, which quickly took to the flame. "Goodbye, Fiona," Devron whispered. The flames would see that his beloved wife and all the others on the pyre with her made it to Gil-Pa'en, the fiery, burning pit where all souls went to meet their judgement. It seemed intensely unjust that after suffering so much through the Red Plague that she should now be served as food in the Feast of Rise'er -- punishment inflicted on those in Gil-Pa'en until they became truly repentant -- before she could finally take her rest in the pleasure of Kisil-Doon, the gods' realm. His eyes heated with tears. He closed them and listened to the crackling of the fire, accompanied only by the wheezing coughs of those gathered around him. Why did Ol have to take his Fiona away from him? How on 'diar could he go on living without her? He looked over to where Fiona's parents stood. They were not wailing and pulling their hair the way they had when Fiona's younger sisters had died in Yule. Like everyone else, they had seen so much death that they only stood and stared at the funeral fire. Devron could not go over to them, for he did not know what to say. He was ashamed of his tears as well; he had only lost a wife, while they had lost four children this summer. He wondered if a wife could ever be "only". Who was that standing just behind Fiona's parents? Devron had not noticed anyone standing there before. Like everyone else, she wore mourning blue and had a shawl wrapped around her head so that he could not see her face. He shifted his position to get a better look, filled with a sudden and unexplained sense of curiosity. This woman seemed to be family; indeed, she placed a hand on Fiona's mother's shoulder in comfort. Then she looked in his direction and he could see her face. Sad, but still very, very beautiful. Pale and sickly, but unmistakably Fiona. Devron froze and he stared. He felt as if his body had been suddenly encased in ice. Only his eyes could move, growing wide in disbelief. "Fiona?" he mouthed, for he could make no air pass his lips. No, she was on the funeral pyre! He had nursed her through the last, terrible days of the Red Plague ... In the end she had been so feverish that she didn't even recognise him. And yet, there she was. She still bore the telltale rash of the plague, but stood otherwise alive, a hand resting on her mother's shoulder. Could she have returned to Makdiar as a ghost? She saw him, her gaze locking with his. Her eyes, too, widened as if in surprise. Her ashen lips parted as if to say something ... Devron turned and ran as fast as he could away from the funeral grove and the people gathered around it. The city of Dargon was not far to the south, and he sprinted towards the protection of its buildings. It didn't take long for him to reach the outskirts of the city at Murson Street, then the busier Traders Avenue. His heart pounded in his chest as he scrambled past a dog and a pig fighting over a discarded bone lying in the gutter. The dog abandoned its claim and barked at him as he passed, but it did not pursue him. He pushed his way through the crowded streets of Dargon until he was lost. He huddled in an alley that stank of excrement and death and cried. What fear had gripped him so at the sight of the one person who might give him comfort? He looked out onto the street where a body cart trundled past, men in blue walking beside it striking pieces of metal together and bellowing for people to load the recently deceased of their households on the wagon. People hacked and coughed as they shambled by; peddlars loudly announced the sale of rare ointments that could cure the dreaded plague; and self-proclaimed prophets exhorted people to repent of the wickedness that had brought the plague. What could possibly be worse than this life, that he would run in terror? The Feast of Rise'er could be worse. Devron shuddered. It was an old tale that he had been taught from childhood, that husbands and wives would sometimes return shortly after their deaths to retrieve their loved ones and take them to the Feast of Rise'er -- to Gil-Pa'en -- with them, there to be feasted upon by the ancient tyrant, then brought to life again and served once more as one of the thousands of courses in that never-ending and unholy banquet. He had never been a particularly religious man, but now that he had seen Fiona, raised from the dead, he believed with terrible certainty. The realization that Gil-Pa'en existed -- oh gods! If only he could live long enough to appease Ol and the other gods, that he might be feasted upon by Rise'er for but a little while before moving on to Kisil-Doon. "Oh, Celine," Devron prayed to the goddess of tranquillity. "Please give my wife your peace; send her to Kisil-Doon; let me live a while longer before facing the terrible meal!" Devron stood in the stone-flagged kitchen of his home some time later. He wasn't sure exactly how long it had been since the funeral. He had lost track of time, wandering the streets aimlessly before arriving back at home somehow. He supposed his feet had walked the streets of Dargon so many times before that they could find their own way to the dilapidated three-storey building with its black timbers that framed dirty, white-washed walls. He stood over the hearth, staring at the cold ashes lying at the bottom. He should start a fire and prepare some food, but he was not hungry. He was not cold either. He could not muster the energy to do much of anything except stare into that wispy, grey soot that had once burned with the flames of life. He felt as if a part of him had been cut violently from his chest, leaving a large, empty hole there. He had known life with Fiona for so long, nigh on five years, that he now felt like a ship without a rudder. He didn't know what to do. The single door to the little cabin banged against the wall a couple of times, blown by the wind. Devron realised he must have neglected to close it properly. He turned around to come face-to-face, once again, with his beloved Fiona. Her hands moved up to cover her mouth, and her eyes welled up with tears. As when he first spotted her at the pyre, Devron could not move. Fiona was garbed in the mourning blue that he had seen her in before. She did not speak, but only looked back at Devron. He had never seen a ghost before, having only heard of them in tales meant to scare children, but he was amazed at how lifelike she looked. The same as before she had succumbed to that last fever: her large, dark eyes as deep and inviting as always, her pert lips ... Of itself, his hand reached out to touch her, but she drew back like a timid dog. Of course, Fiona knew the legends as well. If she had allowed him to touch her, he would have died and gone to Gil-Pa'en at once. Devron nodded his head in understanding and closed his eyes, whispering a quick prayer of thanks to the father, Ol. Fiona's ghost turned away and moved over to where a small shrine to Olean gods rested in a niche where two walls of the house met. She knelt there in prayer. "Yes," Devron thought. "Repentance is the only way out of Gil-Pa'en, and up to Kisil-Doon. I believe now, father! Give me but a while to show you!" He moved beside Fiona and knelt before the grouping of statues. He begged Celine to set Fiona's spirit free and take her up to the celestial castle, Kisil-Seed, and release her from her captivity here and in Gil-Pa'en. Devron opened his eyes. Apparently he had fallen asleep while praying, for he was now lying on the cold flagstones that made up the floor and what light there was trickled in from an east-facing window. He rose to his feet and looked around. Fiona's ghost was not beside him any longer. In fact, she -- it -- was nowhere to be seen. He was alone once again. He hugged himself and looked down at the rushes that were strewn on the floor. He could feel the searing heat of tears forming in his eyes and his vision began to blur. By Ol, how was he supposed to live like this? A muffled thud from upstairs interrupted Devron's thoughts. He looked quickly towards the narrow stairwell; perhaps Fiona was still here after all, visiting their bed chamber one last time before going to Rise'er? He scurried up the stairs, only to find the room empty, save for the meagre belongings that he and his wife had shared: two chests, only one that they owned; three stools, one broken; a lavarium; a few changes of linen; and a faded wall hanging showing Balphiryon and Hengnra that had been given to Fiona by a client of hers who had not been able to pay his fee otherwise. On one of the plaster walls hung Fiona's striped lawyer's cloak. Devron walked over to it and took the heavy gown in his hands. He held it to his face; Fiona's gentle scent still clung to it. He could remember her putting her lawyer's uniform on each day and heading down to the Harbourmaster's Building where she would loiter for bells, trying to attract custom. Devron looked up at the ceiling. She would often sit for bells up in the garret under the eaves, which served as her study. If they had finally been able to conceive, that was going to be the children's room. At that thought, Devron could feel a tightening in his throat. Then he hurriedly replaced Fiona's cloak on its hook and returned to the narrow passageway where stairs led both up and down. Perhaps the sound he heard had come from Fiona's study. He wouldn't touch her if he saw her, but should he see her again, if only for a brief moment, he would talk to her this time and tell her how much he loved her. Then, maybe, she could return to Gil-Pa'en and speed her journey to Kisil-Doon. Unfortunately, the small room was also abandoned, but it bore more familiar smells that made it seem as if Fiona had not left. Though he did not know how to read or write, the parchment, vellum and leather were a comfort to him because of the smell. He moved over to the small desk and sat at the chair behind it, looking at the finely honed quills, thin cutting knife, and grey stone of pumice for smoothing the white-scrubbed parchment beneath. He noticed that there was something written on the piece of parchment lying at the centre of the desk. It bore only a few lines. He wondered if it was perhaps a document she had been preparing for a case. But no, she had been too sick to have any clients for some sennights before she finally succumbed. In fact, Devron suddenly realised that he had carefully packed all of Fiona's parchment away while she was sick, fearful that rats might get at it. How had this gotten out here, he wondered. Perhaps Fiona -- Fiona's ghost -- had taken these things out in remembrance of her life? He took the parchment with writing on it and, after carefully folding it, placed it in a pocket on the front of his jerkin. On his way outside he considered taking some bread from the cupboard on the way out, but he was not hungry. He wasn't even sure why he left the house, except that there seemed nothing better to do. The street was full of the regular noise and bustle of the city. A group of the local children were tossing around an inflated pig's bladder, while two clerks hastened past the game towards the castle. A woman emptied a chamber pot out an upper-storey window only to be cursed roundly by a passing couple who were nearly hit by the cascade. Devron's neighbour, John Mawsby, stood just opposite Devron's house, shouting at his apprentices who scurried back and forth with bales of cloth, leather belts, purses, and other clothing. John did not look Devron's way, and Devron moved quickly down the street before the merchant noticed him. He did not wish to talk to anyone, let alone his wealthy neighbour with his large, healthy family and overly cheery smile. Devron wandered for a time through the dirty Dargon streets before finding himself on Temple Street. He had to step off the road to avoid a cart as it trundled by, bodies piled high on it. The men pushing the cart shouted loudly for people to bring out the bodies of household members who had died in the night. An acolyte from the Manifest shrine, who was not very healthy-looking himself, staggered up to the cart carrying a body wrapped in fine robes. He kicked aside a large rat that tried to nibble at his toes and tossed the corpse atop the others. Devron shuddered and wondered to himself if he was not already in Gil-Pa'en. He continued down Temple Street, eventually coming to the gates of Dargon Abbey. As with the other houses of worship along the broad avenue, it was surrounded by a bustle of activity. At the best spot for attracting custom, right next to the open gates, sat a middle-aged man on a stool with a small wooden table in front of him. On the desk were several inkwells, quills, and piles of paper and parchment. Devron recognised the man as Tozak, a notary and friend of Fiona's who had sometimes assisted her in drafting complex writs or warrants. Devron remembered the parchment in his pocket and he removed it. He looked down at it for a few moments, examining the graceful curvature to the letters Fiona had drawn on it. He had never been able to read, but he still appreciated the gentle touch she'd had with a quill. He approached Tozak and placed the parchment just to one side of something the notary was writing. The older man didn't bother to look up, but continued to scribble with his quill. "My fee is nine Sterling for transcription," he mumbled. "I don't need a trans-- whatever," Devron said. "I just need you to read it for me." Tozak didn't react, but instead continued working on his document. "Sir," Devron said. "You knew my wife, Fiona. I was hoping that you could just take a mene to read this for me." Devron had never felt ashamed of his inability to read before. As a miller, he had no need for the skill, and besides, on the rare occasion that there was anything that needed to be read, Fiona would do it. But now, being ignored by the notary, he felt his cheeks heat. "I accept payment in kind if you haven't any silver," Tozak said, still not looking up from his work. "Ah, go roll with yourself!" Devron growled, his embarrassment turning to anger at the pompous scribe. "I'll get someone else to read it for me. It's not like you're the only one on 'diar that can cipher!" As Devron reached for the parchment, a soft breeze pushed it away from his finger and onto Tozak's document. "Oh, all right," the notary adjusted the glasses perched on his nose and took Fiona's parchment into his free hand. "Let's see what it is, anyway, then we can discuss a price: "'My love has gone away, but I will see him again soon, at our secret shore' ... "What is this supposed to be, poetry?" Devron could hear the scribe continue to speak, but the miller was already walking swiftly away, losing himself once again in the crowd. "Our secret shore" was a little inlet in the Coldwell River, not far from the causeway that linked the Old City and new, where Devron had asked Fiona to marry him. It was hardly secret, but it was a quiet place where they had often been able to spend time alone together. She was summoning him; it seemed fitting that he would join her in the afterlife at the place where their life together here on Makdiar had begun. The giant bells in the tower behind Dargon Abbey's stone walls began to clang loudly. Devron looked up to watch them swing mightily back and forth, sending forth a rich clamour. The buzz of the crowd around him changed in tone, and the flow of traffic seemed to swirl around the main gate. He turned to look back at the gate and noticed that people were making a path leading out of the abbey. Of course, he thought, the tune the bells were playing was for a wedding. He had not recognised it immediately, since worshippers of Ol preferred to mark marriage with lutes and drums. But sure enough, through the gates emerged a young man and woman clad in traditional yellow clothes for marriage. A few of the Stevenic monks, wrapped in their white habits and black cloaks followed behind, along with throngs of dancing and singing family members. They threw flowers in the air and hugged and kissed the onlookers standing on the street. It was a lovely sight; it made Devron remember his and Fiona's wedding, and how wonderful things had been. For at least a brief time, the people here had forgotten the ravages of the plague, the struggles of daily life ... Devron turned and ran through the crowd; he rushed down Atelier Street, then followed the Street of Travellers until the causeway was in sight. He didn't pause for a breath the entire time he ran; somehow he felt light on his feet and his legs did not tire. "I am coming, my love!" He broke off the street and hurried through the bushes and trees. He finally emerged into a clearing that led to a small, sandy beach. Beyond the beach he could see the Coldwell River, and Dargon Keep standing proudly on its cliff. And there, waiting on the shore, was Fiona. He ran up to her, stopping but a few hand-widths away from her. For the first time since he had seen her ghost, she spoke, "Devron, I prayed to Ol and he led me here. And you have come." Devron marvelled at how beautiful she was. The marks of the plague were gone from her face and a slight blush warmed her cheeks. Her dark eyes, no longer glazed-over with fever, were a marvel to behold. "Fiona," he said. "I can't be without you any longer. Even if it means going to Rise'er's Feast to be with you, I welcome it!" They came together and kissed as passionately as on their wedding night. "You say this is Fiona, the lawyer?" Mariam Byer, captain of the town guard asked. "Yes, it certainly is," Tozak, the notary replied. "Why, I saw her only yesterday, a sennight after her husband was taken by the Red Plague." Captain Byer moved around the lone body laying peacefully on the sand, but did not draw too close. "Did she also suffer from the plague?" "She did," Tozak replied, "but she was one of the fortunate few who recovered. Last I saw her, she appeared quite healthy! Do you suspect foul play?" Now Mariam knelt and turned the body's head so she could examine it. As the notary had indicated, it was free from blemish. There were no signs of violence, either. In fact, quite the contrary, for the dead woman looked content, a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips. "Foul play? I doubt it." Mariam looked up at Tozak. "Have you ever heard the Olean legend about spouses being reunited in death?" ======================================================================== Mixed Results by Jim Owens Firil 20, 1016 Nain looked out across the flat floor of the valley at the distant light of the other furnaces and frowned. Behind him he could hear the crackling of the clay in his own furnace as the howling flames beat hotter and hotter. He turned back to look at it. As he did, the accursed wind caught his heavily greased hair and flapped it against his face. He slicked it back into a queue and frowned even deeper, fingering the heavy silver plates of his necklace. The morning was not going to be a good one. The contest had started out as it did every year. Tobol had approached Nain as soon as the last of the monsoon rains had dried, asking him if he planned on entering. As the new village smith, Nain appreciated his father's deference. As village elder, Tobol could have merely ordered it, but instead had approached his son as he might an equal. Nain had replied that he would build his furnace even bigger than the furnace from last year. Tobol was no smith, and had offered no objections. The villagers had been curing the ore all during the monsoon season, and piles of charstone were ready to be shoveled into baskets. Everything seemed to be leading to a great victory. Now that victory seemed in doubt. Marah ran up to him, her skin glistening with sweat. "Father, the fire is below the top flue. Should we add another charge?" She stood beside him, rubbing her newest tattoo absently. Nain looked down into her upturned face, but had no reply. He looked out into the early morning darkness to avoid her gaze, and was startled to see a figure approaching. His heart sank. It was Jarusalah, the master smith. The contest was hardly the only time that Nain met with the master smith. The old man had a circuit he traveled continuously, passing from village to village in the red, desert valleys of Thool, on the eastern coast of Mandraka. Jarusalah's title belied his importance. It was his word that set the price for the steel each village would make, and it was his word that called the traders in each year to buy the steel. His word was not disputed, for only he knew the tongue of the seafaring clans, men from such remote places as Baranur and Kimmeron. Without his favor a village would be reduced to digging for jamot roots for food, rather than buying pressed dates from Beinison or salted mutton from Lord Farley's high oasis. He decided disputes between the villages, and had final say over who held what office. The people of Thool had no king: they had a master smith. Nain enjoyed good favor with Jarusalah, and was happy to see him any other time of the year. Now his presence sent dread into Nain's heart. Nain looked back down at Marah's face, his fingers nervously stroking the necklace that was his badge of office. Although she had only seen ten summers, Marah was wise enough to know that things were not going well. He wondered how she would react when he lost the contest. She had never known anything but unmatched success from him and his work. She had grown up in a world of luxury and prosperity, as had all the children of the village. What would they see now? He adjusted the heavy silver necklace, but still its weight pressed against his collar bones. How did the other smiths bear such weight? Nain didn't think he would ever be comfortable with the burden. "How goes the burn, Nain?" Jarusalah's voice came from behind him, and Nain turned to face him, genuflecting reflexively. Marah followed his example with a deeper bow of her own, dropping to her knees and touching her wet forehead to the ground. "Differently," he replied, then turned back to Marah. "Yes, add another charge. Be careful you don't get burned. Wet your head before you go up." She nodded and ran back to the furnace. "Only one other time have I ever heard such a noise of burning from a furnace, Nain," Jarusalah said. "Eye of the Sun," Nain replied, nodding, following the older man as he walked down the slope toward Nain's furnace. "Yes," agreed Jarusalah. "Not that yours is that hot yet, mind you," he added. "I don't think, anyway. You would need to build twice as high and use bellows like no one here has ever seen. But yes," he said, squinting into the glare from the fire, "I think you are too hot." "It's the wind," replied Nain, looking up at the cold, unmoving stars. "I had not expected this much wind." "The others are happy for the extra heat," Jarusalah said. "But I think you built just a bit too high this time." The two men stood a chain or so away from the furnace. It was built up the side of the small hill that Nain's family had used for decades of contests. Nain and his daughters had raised the flue of the furnace higher by a head than the actual top of the cliff. Now the bricks at the top of the flue glowed red in the night. Nain could see where bits of the topmost row had actually eroded away in the intense heat. In his mind's eye Nain could see the ore inside burning away, leaving behind not the normal bloom of sponge iron, but instead a less valuable melt of moon iron. "I see that Tobol has blessed you with office," Jarusalah said, pointing at the wide silver plates lying across Nain's collarbones. "Yes," Nain replied, stroking them self-consciously. He fingered the large black and green stones set into the metal plates, noting again the worn runes carved into their polished surfaces. "Bororel has spoken his last." "He is dead, then?" "Not dead," Nain replied, glancing up briefly. "Not yet, I don't think. But the poison has finally taken his mind. Father granted me the title and badges to go with the duties." "You don't wear them well." Nain looked up, stricken, but Jarusalah continued, "But then neither did Bororel, when he first wore them." Nain relaxed a bit. "No?" "No. He took his responsibilities seriously also." Nain considered this for a moment. "One ought to. When our iron is our food, a smith can starve a village." "Or feed it. And Bororel did. That's why Bororel now has an apprentice as wise and responsible as Nain." Nain looked up at him, but Jarusalah was focused on the furnace. "I assume you have stopped working the bellows." "Yes, I told the girls to stop pumping a watch ago." "You could knock down that extra stack," Jarusalah said, pointing upward with his staff. Nain shook his head, releasing his tense grip on his smith's necklace and straightening his leather apron. "I would, but what you don't see is that the back of the furnace is made with long slabs of stone. If I try to knock the top off, the whole furnace would come down." "Ah." The two men stood watching as Marah worked the pulleys to dump another charge into the core. A cloud of sparks flew into the air, and the roar of the flame edged up another note. "Have you tapped it yet?" "No." "You will need to, you know." "I wanted to ask ... talk to you first." Jarusalah nodded. "You are a cautious man, Nain. Very wise of you. But you will need to tap it." Nain nodded, then turned and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Beelah! Bring water!" As Jarusalah watched, Nain tossed aside his leather apron and picked up a heavier set of leather clothing, including long leather gloves. The heat of the furnace was almost unbearable where he stood, and he needed to get even closer. His daughter of eight summers waddled up with a bucket filled with water, Nain's youngest tagging along behind. Jarusalah took the bucket from her and held it ready. Nain turned to Beelah as he tied the apron in back. Unlike her older sister, Beelah was quick to earn her tattoos with her eagerness to accept family responsibilities. "Take Talet to your mother and wait for me to come get you. Go now." Beelah nodded, scooped up her baby sister, and ran off into the darkness. Nain looked up as Marah skidded down the dusty hillside and ran up. "Go get another bucket of water and stand here with Jarusalah. I must tap the furnace, and I may need the water." She also nodded and ran off. "How much moon iron should I expect?" Nain asked. "Hard to say," replied Jarusalah. "I have never actually fired a furnace this large myself." "You mean to say I have exceeded the grasp of the master?" Nain bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a smile, but came out more as a grimace. Under the heavy leather he was beginning to sweat monstrously. The weight of the armor ground the smith's badge into his collarbone, and he pulled it out and let it hang down across his protected chest. "That is every master's wish, Nain." "But if all I make is moon iron ..." Nain began. "Your children will not beg, nor dig roots," Jarusalah finished. "Your village will survive." Nain looked off into the darkness toward the cistern where Marah's thin figure could barely be seen drawing water. "Even I cannot afford to lose a bloom such as this," he said. Jarusalah startled him by slapping him on the shoulder. "I know you, Nain, son of Tobol. Your pride is rooted deep within you. Even if you fail, you will not break. Your spirit is not brittle like moon iron. You are much tougher than that." Marah trudged up, the bucket suspended between her bowed legs. Nain looked from one to the other, old man and young girl, then picked up his long iron staff from the dust. He nodded to Jarusalah, who carefully and efficiently doused him with water. Nain turned and approached the furnace. The roar of the blast and the heat of the fire drove thought out of Nain's head as he approached. He wanted to make the tapping a single, smooth movement, requiring as little time near the furnace as possible. The heat of even a small forge could blister, and this monster made his forge at home seem like a dung fire. Jarusalah had said that it paled compared to the great Eye of the Sun furnace, kindled years ago at the great gathering of tribes in the center of Mandraka's eastern desert, but Nain had never felt such a heat. He rushed at the arch and thrust his pole at the small gate, jamming the chisel point of the staff under it and levering it up. The furnace was intended to burn the iron ore that Nain and his brethren dug from the hillsides of the valley and convert it to bloom, a mass of iron and slag that could be wrought into useful and clever things. What instead flowed from the now open gate was moon iron, a weaker metal formed when the furnace got too hot and burned the strength from the ore. Blazing a brilliant white-orange, the liquid gushed out into the small trench before the gate. Nain danced away from it as it hissed and popped, throwing droplets of molten iron at his booted feet. As he did so, the pole slipped and the gate fell back down, shutting. Nain ran back to where Jarusalah and Marah stood. He was greeted by a bucket of water tossed in his face. "You will need to do it again, I fear," Jarusalah said quickly. "From what I see there is much more inside. If you release it now you may still get a small bloom when the wind dies down." Nain nodded and hefted the iron pole in his right hand. He turned back and rushed at the furnace. The pool of moon iron still glowed before the gate, red encrusted with black. Nain saw that he had somehow reversed the pole, and he spun it around as he approached the furnace, accidentally smacking himself in the chin with the end as he did so. He then leaned in, jammed the pole under the gate, and lifted. Once again the molten iron poured out. Nain could feel it burning his forearms even through the leather gloves, but he held his ground until the flow slackened. Only as it slowed did he lean back, releasing the gate. As he did he switched his grip on the pole, and saw a flash of silver. The smith's necklace, his badge of office, had come loose when he hit himself with the pole. As he watched, it fell directly onto the molten iron. Nain's skin was screaming, but when he saw the necklace fall he forgot the pain and swung the iron staff down, trying to scoop the precious item back up again. Instead the pole struck the badge and drove it under the surface of the melt. Even as it went under, Nain could see it fall asunder, melting like butter on a roasting lamb. Nain stood for a fleeting moment, aghast. Then he saw that his leather clothing had actually caught fire, and he ran. By the time he reached Jarusalah, Nain had beaten the flames out, but the edges of the leather were still glowing, and Nain stripped it off. Jarusalah blessed him with a shower of cold water as he dumped the smoking armor on the dusty ground. "My necklace fell in the iron!" he shouted, immediately regretting his tone and yet still feeling his anger and frustration. "I tried to get it out but it melted!" Jarusalah shook his head. "This night is evil for you, Nain. Listen." He pointed skywards. Nain listened. The wind was blowing even harder, and now Nain could smell a hint of salt in the air. "The wind blows from the ocean tonight. Your furnace will run even hotter than before now." "It doesn't matter," Nain said, his shoulders sagging. "It took most of my charstone to charge the furnace the first time; it's so big. Even if I were to start over, I could not fill it full enough to burn a bloom now." "What will you do?" Nain looked back toward the cistern. Marah staggered up with a bucket of water, which Nain promptly used to douse the remaining embers on his leather suit. He then dropped the empty bucket on the ground and stood staring into the flames inside the furnace. The villagers had labored all during the rains digging the ore and mining the charstone. He thought about the days and days of hauling the baskets of rock from the mine to the village, of the sennights of roasting the minerals in preparation for this one day. The traders came into the desert only once a year, at the time of the contest. How much money would a puddle of moon iron bring? If he made more bloom later, he would have to brave the dust of the desert and the mercy of the fishing folk to reach the incomprehensible traders of the sea. Nain felt a touch on his skin and looked down into the upturned face of Marah at his hip. Her wide eyes carried her concern into his heart. "I will decide." The contest had three parts, each carefully watched by the master smith. First, each village smith would build a furnace. The whole village could help him. Then he would fire it for sponge iron. This started at nightfall and only he and his children could attend it. Then each smith alone had one day to take the sponge and forge a rough blade. The master smith would judge the blades and declare the winner. Not only was the contest a matter of pride, but the victorious village would win the right of first choice of locations to mine that year. It was capricious and arbitrary, but a better way than fighting for the mines, as had been done in centuries past. By first light, Nain was already working the ingots of moon iron. Inferior in strength to the more ductile bloom, the moon iron was so called because when it snapped, as it almost always did, the broken edges showed gray and pale, like the light of the moon. He had broken the iron into chunks and had carried them to his forge. Now he worked sheepskin bellows with his foot, while with his arms he held the first piece of iron to the flame. Across the flat valley came the ringing sounds of metal being struck. Nain glanced over his shoulder at the other forge sites. He could see the other smiths working at their own fires, heating and striking. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tobol coming up, his face neutral. "Forgive me, father, for not bowing," he said conversationally as the older man approached, "but the iron is hot, and I must work it while I can." "As you should, as you should," came the reply. Nain turned the ingot in the fire carefully. "Last night I dropped the smith's necklace. It fell into the fire and was lost." "So Jarusalah told me." "Did he also mention that the bloom all burned into moon iron?" "Yes, he did." Tobol was not a smith, but as a son of a smith in a land of smiths he knew what that meant. "We have had many good years, my son. Perhaps it is time for another village to earn the bragging rights." Nain blushed at the comforting tone in his father's voice. For decades he had felt the glow of his father's affection and had never truly felt worthy of it. Still, it was good to feel it now. "They have not earned them yet," he replied with a grunt, lifting the glowing iron from the fire. He dropped it on his anvil and gave it an experimental tap. It tolled dully but did not snap. "Well," Tobol replied, satisfaction his voice, "I can see you have work to do. I'll go see what my granddaughters are doing." Nain nodded and struck the iron again. Again it rang but did not dent. He placed the metal back into the fire and worked the bellows. The flame roared. The cold night air was gone, driven away by the heat of his work. Nain waited until he felt the heat of the fire climbing up the tongs, then set the iron back on the anvil and swung. The piece shattered. When Jarusalah arrived a few menes later, Nain was sitting amid the pile of iron he had made. One by one he was picking up the bits, examining them, and setting them back down. His unattended fire burned a dull red. Jarusalah watched silently for a moment. "So, will you sell your moon iron to any trader who will take it?" Nain looked up, his hands still working the piece he held, scratching it with a steel pick. He pursed his lips and stared into the distance, deep in thought. "If I have any left, yes." "So you will still compete?" Jarusalah looked at the cooling forge. "The others have already begun the welding. Issaret has nearly completed a bar." "Issaret is a good smith. I have learned a lot from him," Nain replied. "For instance," he said, setting aside the piece and selecting another, "it was he who taught me how to scratch for steel." He went ahead and did just that, scratching away bits of dross from the chunk in his hand. "Is there any in your batch?" Nain shook his head. "No." There was silence for a while as the older smith watched the younger continue to sort the iron. Finally Jarusalah spoke again. "Perhaps you might remelt it and cast a blade." "There is no time, and I haven't the charstone for it," Nain replied. "But my arm is still strong, and the day is new. I will take the best parts, and work it as I can." He looked up unblinkingly at the older smith. "It is what I must do." Jarusalah nodded. "May the one bless you," he intoned, and walked away. The sun was fully up above the horizon when Nain shoveled more charstone into his forge and set the next bit of iron into the flame. He did not have as much experience with the moon iron as with bloom iron, but Nain had scratched enough metal to know that not all of his failed melt was composed of the same metal. The pick had shown him that some chunks were less brittle than others, and he had selected these for use. When the iron was hot, he laid it on the anvil and struck it hard. It flattened slightly. He struck it hard, again and again, as if daring it to break. After it had cooled slightly, he thrust it back into the heat, pulling it out when it glowed. Nain worked more cautiously now, but with growing hope. He had tried working moon iron once before, and this was different. With each blow it became more and more obvious that this was something new. It was softer, more ductile. Nain added a second chunk to the flame. Together he beat them, welding the two into one. It went quickly, much more quickly than Nain expected. In fact, the iron was softer even than a normal bloom. He welded more bits to the growing ingot. Soon it was the right size for a blade. Nain traded his heavy hammer for a smaller one, and his blows became more precise. He shaped the iron with joy. By afternoon his arms and legs were trembling from exhaustion, but he had a finished shape. He heated it one last time and quenched the metal in a bath of sheep oil. Nain drew the dripping blade from the oil and wiped it off on his apron. Instead of the dull gray of moon iron or the darker color of wrought steel, this metal had a silver hue. He rubbed it vigorously, and was surprised to see it take a shine. "What have you made, Nain?" He turned. Jarusalah was standing behind him. Nain looked back at the blade. "The moon iron tempered much better than I expected," he said stroking the blade. "I've never even seen a bloom take a shine this quickly." "It's not moon iron," Jarusalah said, stepping forward, hands outstretched. Nain nodded and handed him the blade. Jarusalah examined it, turning it over, scratching it with an iron ring he wore, tasting it. Finally he spoke. "It was your necklace." "What?" "Your necklace." Jarusalah tapped the blade against the anvil and listened to it, damping the vibration with a careful finger run down the rough edge. "It alloyed with the iron somehow." He tapped the blade with a fingernail. "It won't take an edge." Nain was taken aback. "No?" Jarusalah shook his head silently, still frowning at the blade, and Nain felt a lump rising in his throat. "Am I disqualified, then?" "No, but you will not be able to win, I don't think." He handed the blade back to Nain. "Issaret is making a fine blade of good iron, and his will hold an edge much better than yours will. But we shall see, eh?" He returned the blade to Nain and walked off. Nain continued to work the blade, but Jarusalah was right. When Nain began to grind an edge into the iron it just would not take. The metal would not harden. When Jarusalah blew the trumpet to end the contest, Nain knew in his heart that he would lose. He laid the blade on the finely woven cloth he had prepared and carried it to where the festival tents had been erected in the center of the valley. The other smiths were leaving their forges, followed by their own village elders. Tobol came down from the hillside and joined Nain as he walked. The older man fingered the blade speculatively and glanced curiously at Nain, who just shrugged. They walked silently to the tent where Jarusalah sat, surrounded by traders. Nain wanted to wait at the back of the small knot of men gathered in the tent, but Jarusalah had other thoughts. As he approached Jarusalah called out. "Nain! Bring your work forward!" Tobol nodded and led Nain to Jarusalah's side. The traders eyed him with interest as he approached the old man. "Give me your blade." Nain offered and Jarusalah accepted the finished and polished blade, and a quiet gasp arose from the crowd as the light glinted off the blade. Nain smiled ruefully. "Nain, you have made a beautiful blade in a miraculously short time," Jarusalah said, "but I think at a higher price than you wanted." He lifted a swatch of sheer fabric from a table at his side and slid it across the blade. It slipped cleanly across without catching. Another sigh escaped the crowd, but stopped suddenly when they saw the fabric was still whole. Jarusalah tried again, and this time the fabric snagged a bit on the blade but still did not cut. The master smith tried once more, forcing the cloth against the blade, and it finally tore in two. "As I thought, your blade looks beautiful, but does not hold an edge." He laid the blade down on the table and looked up. "Issaret." The smith, a thin man half again Nain's age, stood and carried his blade forward. Unlike Nain's offering, his was very rough. It was black and lumpy, with the only hint of polish where the edge had been cut into one side. As proper iron it was hard and tenacious. Issaret had fashioned it just enough to form a rough shape and sharpen it. Jarusalah took it and tested it on a skein of cloth. This time the cloth fell apart with the first stroke. "As you see, Issaret has made proper iron." One by one the other smiths brought their entries forward. In the end, it was Issaret's that was judged the best. Nain smiled and shouted for him with the others, but his smile was not broad nor his voice free. He watched from the rear as the other smiths hove the victor on their shoulders and carried him away to the feast. "Jarusalah is not entirely correct," a voice behind him said. Nain turned to see one of the traders step up behind him, carrying the blade Nain had made. "What?" "It does hold an edge, of a sort." The trader's accent was very broad, and Nain had to listen to his entire sentence before he was sure he had understood what the man was saying. "And it shines like silver." "That doesn't surprise me too much," Nain replied ruefully. "You speak our language." "Yes. My name is Markus. I'm captain of the Singing Mermaid, from Baranur. I've only ever seen a blade like this once before, and that was presented to Lord Clifton, Duke of Dargon, in the north of Baranur. How did you make it?" Nain looked at his father, shrugged, and turned back to the man. He opened his mouth to speak, but Tobol spoke first. "We are happy that you like our iron," he said, in a tone reserved for merchants. "Perhaps you would care to join us at the feast? Our house would be pleased to host you." "Thank you, I will," he answered. "May I bring the blade?" "Of course." Tobol swept him away, casting a slight smile over his shoulder at Nain. As evening fell, Nain, Marah, and Beelah were playing an impromptu game of King's Crown, using stones as pieces on a board drawn in the dust. The girls were playing against Nain and were deep in a discussion of what to move next when Jarusalah walked up. Nain stood, as did the girls. Jarusalah motioned them back to their game, seating himself beside Nain. "Is my father still talking to that merchant from Baranur?" Nain asked the older smith. "Yes. It seems he wishes to buy your steel for a ceremonial sword." "How much will he pay?" "Four Astra." "What!?" Nain's eyebrows soared. Jarusalah nodded. "So much?" Nain's mind whirled. It was not as much as good iron would bring, but much better than he had dared hope. "Well, that was for the whole batch. After all, you made quite a bit of that stuff. He's calling it silver-steel." "Does he know?" Jarusalah shook his head. "No. And I don't think that what you made was just a result of the silver in the necklace. I will have to remember what stones were set into that necklace. I will test them myself to see what they add to the melt." He reclined onto one elbow, and Nain obligingly lowered himself also. "And of course, your work on the blade made him notice your steel. He would not have bought the raw ingots alone." Nain nodded thoughtfully. They listened to the girls for a moment before Jarusalah continued. "I am naming Jerel second in the contest, with you third." "Third." Nain kept his voice neutral, but he was pleased to be ranked so high. "They have chosen the deep mine, and the north mine." Jarusalah watched Nain's expression. "The deep mine is the best, but I would have expected Jerel to take the black mine. Its ore is richer." "The black mine is deeper than the deep mine. It is more work to haul the ore up out of it." "What else do we have to do in the rainy season?" Jarusalah nodded. "An answer I would have expected from you." He stood, as did the girls. "It will be a long day tomorrow. I shall retire for the night." He started to go, then turned back. "Oh, and one more thing." He reached around his neck and undid his own necklace, handing it to Nain. "I made that necklace for Bororel, years ago, at the same time I made this one. This should do until you make another." "But ... only the master smith can make a badge of office. You want me ... ?" Jarusalah nodded, frowning for a moment. "Well, even I had to learn how to do it once. And I need to teach someone else to do it now. When it's done, bring it to me, and I'll put my seal on it." He turned away. "Goodnight, Nain." Nain watched him walk away, feeling the weight of the necklace in his hand. He hefted it, looking at it. It felt heavier than his other one, just a bit, but Nain felt he could stand it. He put it on, and went back to the game. ========================================================================