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 5 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 12/18/2003 Volume 16, Number 5 Circulation: 649 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Knight of Castigale 1 Dave Fallon Yule 28, 1018 The Ballad of the Potter Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Melrin 3-4, 1018 and the Horse Thief ======================================================================== 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 16-5, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright December, 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 I usually end each year with a retrospective of the past twelve months, celebrating our accomplishments and putting the year into perspective in our history. However, as I wrote this, I realized that if I were to do that for 2003, I would be duplicating much of what I shared with you in the Editorial for DargonZine 16-2 this past September. The extended dry spell that resulted in our only producing one issue in the first eight months of the year was by far the most prominent event of 2003. So instead of looking back at the well-documented difficulties we struggled with this year, I'll give you our current outlook, on the threshold of our 20th year providing you with free fantasy fiction on the Internet. After spending most of '03 looking for new stories to print, the first item I'd like to highlight is how many new works we have in the pipeline. This is now our fourth issue in as many months, and with the contents of our next three issues almost done, we should have no problem continuing to send issues out monthly. The year will get off to a very memorable start with the final three chapters of Dafydd's four-year Talisman saga. It's a little more difficult to see the future beyond April, but our top priority is to start printing the two dozen stories that have come out of the common story arc that we began writing at the 2003 Dargon Summit last April. Our contributing authors are well on the way to getting everything written, and we're rapidly approaching 100,000 words. With an exciting series of stories, and enough material to fill an entire year of issues, the story arc is clearly our biggest, most visible, and most important goal for 2004. Everyone is excited at the prospect of seeing it in print, so much so that in November, for the first time in Dargon Project history, seven of our writers locked themselves in a chat room for an entire weekend to make a concerted push to move their stories forward. Beyond the story arc, we have a whole stable of new writers who are anxious to make their first appearances in DargonZine next year, and we expect to be welcoming back some of our alumni who have been on hiatus. And, of course, as 2004 draws to a close we will be celebrating the 20th anniversary of FSFnet/DargonZine's founding, an achievement that no other Internet-based magazine can claim, and a testament to how much our many readers and writers have valued DargonZine and what it does. I hope you'll stick around for it, because between the conclusion of the Talisman epic, the publication of our huge story arc, the appearance of more new writers as well as returning veterans, and of course our upcoming 20th anniversary, I think 2004 is going to be the best year we've ever had. But right now we need to cap off 2003 with this final issue of the year. We begin with the first chapter in Dave Fallon's "Knight of Castigale" series, which, as its name states, follows the story of a knight in the service of the Barony of Castigale, which is embroiled in political intrigue and an ongoing feud with a neighboring barony. Part two will continue this tale in our next issue, DargonZine 17-1. The rest of this issue is devoted to Dafydd's second standalone short story in as many issues. As mentioned in the Editorial to DargonZine 16-4, Dafydd's natural inclination is more toward novella- and novel-length works, rather than short stories, so this is a particular treat. However, his newfound conciseness is absent from the story's lengthy title. In "The Ballad of the Potter and the Horse Thief", which was also formerly known as "A Riff on Childe #81", Dafydd serves up a goulash of several folk tales, served with his own particular garnish. I hope you've enjoyed these and the other great tales we've been able to give you this year, and I look forward to sharing 2004's very promising crop of stories with you, beginning just about a month from now. ======================================================================== Knight of Castigale Part 1: The Squire's Honor by Dave Fallon Yule 28, 1018 At the sound, Sir Maligard DuVania looked up. Behind him the brush rustled as some creature made its way through the growth to the small cliff-side clearing, known as Aspegad Tor, where he crouched watching the pass below. He turned to peer through the trees, cursing himself for neglecting to bring a sword. On this lonely cliff high in the wilds of the Darst Range, he hadn't expected to face outlaws or enemy soldiers, but a bear or mountain cat could be just as deadly if it caught him unprepared. "Sir?" came the questing voice from somewhere down the path. "Taela," DuVania identified his squire's voice. He felt a wave of relief and hastily hid it. "I'm here," he called back, keeping his voice firm. He had learned long ago that a knight could not openly display emotion, even to his trusted squire. His role in the military was too important to let something as fickle as feelings show. A proper knight was as hard as the armor he wore. Turning back to view the pass once more, DuVania narrowed his eyes and tried to pick out the group of travelers he had been observing. The sun was quickly nearing the horizon, bringing the slanting shadows of the western mountains almost completely over the pass. Squinting and staring, the knight was finally able to pick out the dark shapes moving in the darker shade of the few trees that grew in the rocky vale called Arvre's Coombe. The group of twenty black-cloaked figures marched east on foot, out of Gribbane Barony, which sat in the mountainous eastern edge of Narragan, and into his own: Castigale Barony, which occupied the western hills of Asbridge just south of Nulain. In times past, DuVania would not only have been suspicious of people trespassing from his lord's most hated enemy's lands; he would have immediately saddled to meet the potential foes. But times were changing. With the marriage of Baron Kelleman Castigale's daughter, Evelain, to a nephew of Baroness Veronie Gribbane, the longtime feud between the baronies was likely at an end. So, DuVania merely watched as the group made its way into the forested eastern part of the pass, entering Castigale without challenge. Behind him the rustling grew louder. He turned to see Taela appear between two birch boles. Her face was narrow and full of angular shapes unlike his own, which, apart from his high cheekbones and pointed mustache and goatee, was mostly round. As customary in informal situations, his squire wore a tabard with the red and gray Castigale colors over a sleeveless tunic. Her thin arms belied the strength he knew she possessed as she pulled herself up onto the rocky platform. "A message just arrived for you," she said when she stood before him. DuVania saw that she had slung a light sack over one shoulder. She opened it and took out a sealed scroll. DuVania frowned. "Couldn't it wait until tomorrow?" He was in one of his rare melancholy moods this evening and had come to Aspegad Tor partially to be alone, away from the soldiers he led and the hired workers that they were escorting. In coming sennights, after the workers had finished building a barracks in the only village in the area, Parsain's Peak, the soldiers stationed there would be performing this watch. Taela looked uncomfortable for a moment, her normally bright and defiant brown eyes shifted to one side and she pursed her lips. "The messenger nearly killed her horse to bring this message to you tonight. She only left from Castigale Keep last night. I decided it should be brought to you right away." "From Castigale Keep? That journey is more than a day-and-a-half by anyone sensible." The knight arched one eyebrow with partial surprise and took a closer look at the scroll Taela held. The seal was the official seal of Castigale, usually reserved for military orders. He was about to take the scroll, but then decided it wasn't necessary. It was probably just some proclamation about the coming alliance with Gribbane. He turned back to the view and gestured over his shoulder. "Go ahead and read it to me." Taela broke the seal on the note. "Sir Maligard DuVania," she read. "His lordship Baron Kelleman Castigale of Asbridge regrets to inform you of the passage of his beloved daughter, the fair Evelain Castigale." DuVania whirled around to face Taela. She met his gaze, her eyes wide. "Read on," the knight said. "In respect to your current assignment, Baron Kelleman nevertheless requests that you make haste to bring your soldiers to Castigale Keep immediately." Taela looked up again. "It is signed in Captain Dagny Ludoran's own hand." "Damn me," the knight swore. "We must return to the camp and rouse the soldiers immediately. We've only a few bells of riding we can make today before it becomes too dark." He stepped past Taela. The trail back to Parsain's Peak was almost as steep as the cliff face that overlooked the coombe, so he turned back to her to use both hands and feet on the slope. "By the time we're ready to move, it will be dark," Taela said quickly. "When the messenger arrived, many of the men were passing around a jug of ale. Surely Dagny didn't mean we should leave this very moment ..." DuVania looked at her sharply. "Dagny meant what she wrote in the note, Taela. I'm a knight, and when given an order I don't question it, I just obey. You should learn that yourself." Taela held his eye for a moment then dropped her gaze to the ground. "It could be that Baron Kelleman wants to announce his loss with all of his knights present," she persisted. "The note doesn't even say how Evelain died. Is there really call for us to begin travel tonight?" "It also does not give mention to the wedding or Gribbane's reaction to the tragedy," he said. "Read between the lines, Taela. Evelain's death was no accident; the baron suspects murder." Taela looked about to protest again but DuVania held up a hand. "Any other soldier who questions my orders would get a fortnight's worth of cleaning stables, Taela. I respect you and your opinion; you're closer to me than any mere soldier." She looked up at that, a peculiar expression on her face that DuVania could not read. He continued, "But in this my decision is final. We rouse the men now and tie them to their saddles if we have to. I want to be in the valley before we rest, and it will be an early rise tomorrow to finish the journey." He did not shout his reprimand as he would at any soldier, but was kind and almost fatherly to his squire. For a moment he wondered at his own lenience. Ever since Taela had come into his service, he had given her more patience and kindness than he gave even to his wife or daughter. He occasionally thought that he spoiled her; but, for all the lack of angry discipline she received from him, she continued to be the best squire he had ever had. So he dismissed his attitude towards her as only fitting for one who had earned his respect through years of dutiful service. He turned his attention away from her and back to climbing down the path when she said, "I have to talk to you." DuVania looked up at her, surprised not by her request to talk, but by the absence of his honorary "sir", which she almost always used when she addressed him. "Yes?" he asked. "Talk as we climb. I'd like to get the troops up and riding before they're too full of ale." "I've been your squire for four years now," Taela began, pausing occasionally while she grappled with handholds on the steep path. "I was with you through the Beinison War and countless other quests." Taela's voice was flat and serious. One of the things DuVania liked most about his squire was that she kept her emotions completely in check. However, he could still detect some carefully hidden sentiment behind her words. He had reached a more level ground where he could walk upright, but he looked over his shoulder at her. She kept her eyes lowered. He watched her face as she continued, "Next spring, I will be eighteen years old and would like to apply for full knighthood at the year's Castigale conclave." She finally looked up at him. DuVania blinked as her eyes met his. He felt a quick response jump to his lips but fought it back. Her unexpected announcement confused and annoyed him such that he wanted to carefully screen what he said. Conscious that his thoughts might be clear on his face, he turned away and increased his pace. Keeping his back to her, he said over his shoulder, "Of course, Taela. You have been the best of squires and will have my sponsorship at the conclave." He thought his own voice sounded a little overly leaden and took a breath. Damn emotions! Why should he feel this sense of loss at the natural course of things? A squire should become a knight when she was ready, and Taela was more than ready. The silence after he had spoken stretched uncomfortably and DuVania said, "I knew you would make a great knight someday. I'm happy I've had the honor of instructing you." She still did not speak as they made their way down another steep descent. Then she said, "Will you choose another squire?" Her question was softer than usual: her flat, business-like tone replaced by one that sounded almost pitying. Gritting his teeth, he stopped and turned to face her, his eyes now hard as steel. He was surprised to find her eyes downcast, but his voice was still curt as he said, "Squires in Castigale are usually picked for a knight by his liege lord. It is rare for a knight to express a preference and have it granted." "You chose me," Taela countered, coming to a stop before him. DuVania's annoyance was beginning to grow into anger, but he hid it in the same place he held his other feelings. He regarded his squire for a moment and tried to consider her words and situation rationally. She had only spoken the truth, of course; he had told the late Baron Tilber Castigale he wished Taela as his squire four years ago, and the baron had immediately accepted. He had seen her then as a scrawny page, obeying the shouted orders of ranking soldiers, and he had been impressed with her determination and endurance. Though less than half the size and weight of some of the other pages in Castigale Keep, she had held her own without complaint, tirelessly lugging heavy armor, leading stubborn mounts, and caring for playful hounds: duties that exhausted or bored the larger and stronger boys and girls. Remembering Taela when he first saw her brought back the feelings of impending loss more strongly than before. Struggling to maintain equanimity, he said, "I don't know if I will pick a squire or have one assigned to me. I don't even know what pages there are at Castigale Keep this year." Taela still didn't look up. Finally, DuVania said, "I will sponsor you at the conclave. What more do you want?" "I didn't ask to talk to you to see if you would sponsor me," Taela said. "What I wanted to ask is how you feel about me leaving." "Feel?" DuVania's anger burst forth and he spoke in a choking shout. "What do feelings have to do with anything? I thought you understood this one aspect of being a knight, Taela, and I'm disappointed that you ask about feelings. A knight has duty, honor, chivalry, compassion, and bravery, but he has no room for feelings. "On the field, how would your soldiers react if they thought you were making decisions based on feelings? How would your enemies? How can anyone be a proper knight if they trust in such things?" Taela looked up finally. Her eyes were as hard as his. She took his censure as she did all other things: with stoic acceptance and soldierly endurance. DuVania was partially ashamed that he should be so obviously angry with his squire while she maintained a calm bordering on indifference. He turned away from her. "Come, there is nothing more to talk about on this subject." Grunting, he scrambled down the path while Taela, unmoving, watched him. He did not turn to see if she followed. Assigning two of his ten soldiers to stay with the workers at Parsain's Peak, DuVania left with the rest of his small company that evening, much to the dismay of the men. They rode hard until it was too dark to see, then made camp by the side of the road. The sun had not crested the hills before them when DuVania roused his soldiers. They ate a hasty meal and mounted up for a long day of travel. DuVania saw little need to have anyone wear full armor in the mid-summer heat while riding through their own lands. He wore comfortable riding clothes himself, his shield stowed behind his saddle where it would not bump him as he rode. Beside him, Taela sat on her own horse, engrossed in thought. He had avoided her for the most part of the previous night's march, and as far as he could tell she did her part by staying out of his way. They had not spoken to each other except for when DuVania gave orders to everyone, including his squire. He was not mad at her, nor was he particularly upset by the fact that she wanted to leave his service to become a knight herself. The previous evening he had been surprised by the idea, but after having thought it over he felt more and more comfortable with the fact. What bothered him was that Taela had asked about his feelings. He had thought both of them knew their roles together, and feelings had no place therein. But now he wasn't sure what she thought of him, nor did he like the fact that it should matter to him what she thought. He was musing over this when Taela said, "Sir?" He nodded mutely, not meeting her eyes, and she said in a lower voice, "I apologize for questioning you last night, sir. I should not have spoken after you gave me an order." DuVania frowned and looked at her. "Think nothing of it," he said, softening his features with effort. "You should know that I respect your opinion and admire your boldness in speaking it." Taela's features were unreadable, so he went on, "Besides, you were right. The note did not mention how Evelain died. But the very omission of that fact speaks much more plainly than a simple explanation would have." "What do you mean?" "Baron Kelleman would want to put his soldiers at ease and would quickly state any clear cause such as sickness or accident. The fact that he did not shows that he at least suspects foul play. What's more, the fact that her death has come during the same sennight that she was due to be married to Lord Sagrie Gribbane tells me that we may be headed for another war." "A war between baronies?" Taela asked. "It has happened before, and more often than you may think." The knight became pensive for a moment. "Did you know that I had received an invitation to the party at Evelain's dower-house four days ago? I could have been there ..." He clenched his jaw and grunted. "If my duties had not kept me in Parsain's Peak I could have been helping by now." "Your duties didn't keep you there," Taela said after a moment's hesitation. "We were on more of an honor mission than anything else. The workers didn't need a full ten soldiers and a knight to guard them." He shrugged and didn't answer her. She took a breath and said, "Besides, your wife would have been glad to see you, I'm sure." At the mention of his spouse, DuVania's lips pursed. This was another subject he had little wish to discuss with his squire. It was no secret among his men that he didn't get along with his wife. He took every opportunity to avoid her, and many guessed that he had volunteered for this mission as just one more excuse to be away from home. He wasn't one to openly announce his domestic disputes to his subordinates. Still, he felt comfortable enough with Taela to let a little sarcasm through. "Yes, I'm sure she would have delighted in my company," he said sourly. "I can just hear her nagging about every ignoble detail of my attire, manners, posture, and pronunciation." "Sorry, sir," Taela said. Taela's expression did not change, but she did look away. Thinking of his wife, DuVania wondered what she would have done if she said something that offended him. She would not have dropped the subject as Taela had. No, she would have kept pushing it on him, grinding it like a torturer rubbing salt into wounds. Where Taela was bold but respectful, his wife was bold and belligerent. Realizing that he had been mentally comparing his squire to his wife, DuVania felt a moment of embarrassment and self-reproach. He was a knight, and should act like it even in his thoughts. There was an awkward moment of silence when both knight and squire seemed equally alone in their thoughts, then Taela said loudly, "Sir, a plume." She pointed above the trees in the distance. DuVania squinted in the evening sun. They had just crested a steep hill and could see some distance. There, rising several leagues ahead from behind the next hill was a plume of black smoke. DuVania frowned and called back towards his troops, "Lieutenant! What village lies there?" He pointed toward the smoke. Lieutenant Sern spurred his horse forward and imitated the knight's squinting glare. "I believe that's Dalper's Dell, sir. Little more than a hamlet, though. Damned if that be quite a bit o' smoke for mid-day." His voice was gravelly and he scratched his shaggy gray hair as he spoke. His eyebrows almost hid his beady eyes as he squinted. "Something ain't right," he added with a frown. DuVania nodded to him and they continued to lead the column down the hill until the trees were too high to see the smoke. After several menes of riding, he turned again to Sern. "How far off our track is Dalper's Dell?" "About a ha'bell, sir. We'd just turn right at the next fork and continue up for nigh ten menes." "Straight, then," DuVania said with a nod. "We'll stop briefly in Dalper's Dell to make sure all's right. I'd like to hear what news they have before we reach Castigale Keep anyway." "Stevene's Light!" Lieutenant Sern's oath echoed in the clearing around which the buildings that made up Dalper's Dell still smoldered. DuVania's troops had smelled the thick smoke as they had descended the path and the knight had called for them to speed up. Now they stood at the edge of the small community, staring at the destruction. In the wagon-tracked center of the clearing, two bodies lay in pools of blood. Crows had landed and begun investigating them, cackling to each other as they worked. Around the clearing, six meager but sturdy buildings had stood. Most were utterly destroyed, charred beams jutting up from under collapsed roofs and walls. The only one still standing was also the largest, which, apart from the soot stains that showed arson had been attempted, bore relatively little damage. No one spoke for another moment before DuVania turned to Sern. "Have the men dismount and draw arms," he said in a voice strained with anger. "I want two groups scouting the woods around the dell in opposite directions." As Sern began shouting orders and his troops scrambled to follow them, DuVania got off his horse. He marched across the clearing and scattered the crows with a clap of his hands. When he reached the center, he knelt down to examine the bodies. They belonged to two men, one of whom held an axe handle and the other a rusty dagger. Both were dressed in simple tunics of rough wool and worn trousers, but the knight noticed that one man's fabric was dyed a deep blue with light blue stitching, at least suggesting that the man was a landowner or of some influence. Both men had died of slash wounds to their chests, now crusted with blood dried black. DuVania turned the men over to lie respectfully on their backs. A shadow fell upon them and he heard Taela's voice behind him. "Brigands, do you think, sir?" The knight straightened up. His jaw was clenched in anger but he forced himself to be calm. He glanced around the clearing and answered without looking at his squire, "It's impossible to say for certain. But for brigands, those who attacked here were very bold to sack a hamlet." He knelt again and finished arranging the bodies so that their hands lay crossed over their chests. In death, their muscles had stiffened and the task was not easy, but he was determined and forced the arms into the right position. "These men deserve to be buried. Do we have any cloth with the supplies?" "None but our cloaks, sir." "Straight, then. Go to that house, the large one, and see if there is some cloth. If I meet my guess, one or both of these men were the former occupants, and they'd thank us for pilfering their belongings to bury them." While Taela turned to obey, he strode back to the ring of horses being corralled by two of the younger soldiers. Fury burned behind his carefully controlled features. This kind of destruction should not occur in civil lands. Though his duty demanded that he bring the villains to his lord to be justly tried, he felt that nothing short of a violent death would serve as justice for those who had burned this hamlet. His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a shout. He turned just in time to see the door of the remaining building burst open and an old man run out, followed closely by Taela. The man seemed confused by the horses and soldiers outside, and in his moment of hesitation the squire grabbed him. The old man emitted a strangled squawk and tried to pull away from her. DuVania trudged over to the struggling pair. "You there, old man! Be still!" he said. At the knight's command, the man instantly dropped to his knees. "Oh, thank the Stevene!" he moaned. "Oh, but my lord has sent law back to this savage land!" "He was filling a sack in one of the rooms," Taela said with a sharp glare at the man. DuVania accepted this with a nod. The man continued to grovel at his feet, ignoring Taela's accusations. "What's your name, old man?" the knight asked sternly but with less force than before. "Marrus, am I called," the man said. "On your feet then, Marrus," DuVania commanded. As the old man climbed laboriously back to his feet, the knight watched him carefully. His head was bald but for a ring of gray hair that clung to his cranium like shrubs around a windy hilltop. His bushy eyebrows hovered too close to his narrowed eyes and his lips trembled over the toothless gap that was his mouth. He was dressed in a heavy shirt and trousers that seemed more patches and rips than actual fabric. "Did you live in Dalper's Dell, Marrus?" the knight asked when the man was finally upright. Marrus did not look at DuVania as he spoke, but instead his eyes shifted around the hamlet. "Aye," he said, then looked confused. "I mean, nay, sir, nay. I live but a short walk north of here." "In another village?" Marrus looked even more nervous and began rubbing his hands together obsessively as he answered, "Nay, sir, nay. I'm an eremite, sir. Recluse from the ways of folk. I'm seeking Stevene in solitude." The knight clenched his jaw again. "And since when does a devout follower of the Stevene go about looting? Isn't there enough misfortune here without you pilfering the dead?" Marrus began crying pitifully and almost fell back to his knees, but the knight grabbed his arm and held him up. "Nay, sir!" he wailed. "I'd not seek possessions but to keep the Light, sir!" "What do you mean by that?" DuVania asked. The hermit regained some of his composure, wiping his eyes on his filthy sleeves. "As I said, sir, this is a savage land, far from the ways of law. The way I sees it, those who sacked this place can't be in Stevene's Light, and they'll take what they want for their troubles. If I takes it and hides it in my home, then they can't find it, and I've kept what're a good man's possessions from falling into the hands of evil." At this he looked up hopefully at the looming knight. "Blasphemer," DuVania growled, his rage slipping through. "How can you call yourself a man of god and then blame him for your depravity?" Marrus had begun blubbering and crying again and this time did fall to his knees. DuVania felt an urge to hit him, but controlled it with considerable effort and said, "Enough of this, Marrus. Tell me what you know of what happened here." The knight waited patiently as Marrus took a few deep breaths to calm himself. "It happened a bell or two after dusk yestereve," he said. "I was washing in the stream near my home when I heard screams and shouts carried on the evening wind like ghosts." The old man's eyes had taken on a theatrical light, widening with not quite fear, but definitely sincerity. "I dressed up and headed off to see what I could do to help. The sounds stopped, but I saw the red of flames in the horizon rising up 'gainst the gathering dark. It happened fast, sir, so fast that the shouts began and ended and the buildings burned before I had taken two steps from my home, within a handful of menes at the most." "Did you see anything at all of the people who did this?" the knight asked, grinding his teeth in fury. "Aye, sir, aye. Even in the dark, I headed towards Dalper's Dell, all thinking of the good people who dwelt here and fearing what might have occurred. Then there was a ramble of voices and footsteps in the dark. So I stopped and hid. And that's when I saw them, sir." The hermit paused, as if for dramatic effect, and DuVania snapped, "Well? Out with it, old man! What did you see?" If Marrus was cowed by DuVania's words, this time he didn't show it. "Twenty-odd men in clothed in black, even their cloaks. They were marching afoot like demons in the night. Two columns of ten, well armed with steel and carrying torches. They spoke to one another easily enough, joking and jostling. There was one who led them, who was always silent." "Twenty men?" the knight said in astonishment. He abruptly remembered the group of travelers he had seen passing from Gribbane lands into Castigale. "As I live and breathe, sir," Marrus said. His voice raised angrily. "I swear it on the Stevene!" "That is the last blasphemy I'll hear from you, knave!" DuVania shouted. He grabbed the hermit under his forearm and propelled him into a stumbling roll back towards the road. "Get back to your prayers, old man, if you at all value your soul!" Marrus hobbled away quickly, disappearing into the forest beyond the boundaries of the hamlet in a blink. "Sir?" came a voice behind the knight. He whirled around with a snarl, ready to answer anyone who questioned him. Lieutenant Sern, who had spoken, stood next to Taela with several other soldiers. Some of them were carrying bodies, which they laid next to the two DuVania had arranged. "What did you find?" DuVania asked, smoothing his riding vest and getting a grasp on himself again. "Several more bodies in the woods, sir," Sern reported. "Seems the people here tried to run. Most were chased and cut down from behind. If there were any survivors, there's no sign." DuVania nodded mutely and watched as the soldiers laid the bodies side by side and arranged the arms similarly. "Taela, bring whatever cloth you found. Sern, divide up any tools we have and get the men digging. We'll give these people a proper burial before we move on." The hole took a full bell to dig, during which Taela and a few of the soldiers prepared the bodies. Using water from the well, they cleaned the chest of each of the victims, so that their souls might more easily fly to heaven. Then they wrapped the heads of the dead in cloth so that the souls would not be reminded of their corporeal life should they look back. Finally, the hands were tied around the throats in a representation of the Stevene's own execution. When all was ready, the soldiers carefully lifted and reverently laid each body in the hole before it was filled in. The entire company stood silently in a ring around the grave for a mene to show their respect, then they dispersed and began to ready their horses to depart. The knight stood staring at the broken earth when Taela approached him. "What of the house, sir?" DuVania looked up and at the remaining building. "Whatever Marrus' motivations, he was right about one thing: looters will come. It seems that is the natural progression of things when this happens." He thought back to the pickers who waded through the battlefields after the Beinison War and searched the dead soldiers for valuables. "Whether the looters are men of Stevene or not, it matters little in the end." The knight sighed and turned his gaze towards Taela. "Did you notice anything that would pass as an heirloom within the house?" "There was a statuette on the mantle," Taela said, after a moment's consideration. "And a coat of arms on one wall." DuVania nodded. "Take them, then. Maybe at Castigale Keep the scribes can find a relation to Dalper to receive them." He turned one last time to look at the house, then said, "Burn the rest. We'll at least grant the departed that no one other than themselves will find joy in their possessions." He was about to march back to his horse when Sern cleared his throat nervously. "Ah, sir?" he said, scratching his head. "Where will we head now?" "Marrus said he passed the marauders as he made south from his home, so they were heading north," the knight mused. "Aye, sir," Sern said hesitantly. "Are we to chase them, then?" "Dagny's letter said to return to Castigale Keep at once," Taela ventured from where she still stood. DuVania frowned but did not argue. In the silence while DuVania thought, Sern added, "Marrus also said he counted twenty men, sir. We have only eight soldiers apart from ourselves. I'm sure we could defeat mere brigands, were we to chase them, but shouldn't we gather more men from Castigale Keep first?" "No," DuVania said suddenly and forcefully. "Those who attacked Dalper's Dell were not mere brigands, Sern. Marrus said they marched in two rows of ten, like soldiers. They wore all black; they carried steel weapons. Those men were trained and supported." He turned to Taela. "Yes, we were ordered to return to Castigale Keep, but I'm a knight first, and my duty is to all of the king's people. These men did not attack for spoils, nor out of desperation. They attacked merely to destroy, and now they are heading north through Castigale lands. They are a danger to the people whom I am here to protect. "Sern, order the men to don armor and keep their arms at ready. Taela, see to setting that house alight. We leave immediately." Sern saluted smartly and turned to carry out his orders. When he left, Taela said, "Do you suspect Gribbane, sir?" DuVania cast a warning glance at his squire. "I'll have no one think that until we know for certain, Taela. What I said to you of my suspicion about a coming war is for no one else to hear. All we know about this enemy is that they are trained and dangerous. Trained by whom and for what purpose is not ours to decipher, at least not right yet." The column of soldiers rode north the rest of that day. The tracks of the marauders were not hard to follow; for all their apparent soldierly training they lacked much in woodskill, leaving a clear trail of broken branches, trampled brush, and disturbed earth in their wake. By late afternoon, however, the forest grew sparser and the terrain more rocky. DuVania, being himself no expert in tracking, finally lost the track when there was no longer brush to trample or branches to break. However, by this point the destination had become obvious, a prosperous village that Sern identified as Aerberry. They had ridden about twenty menes after losing the trail when DuVania noticed a plume of smoke rising in the north. Spurring his horse to the top of the hill, he saw the village at the bottom of the slope. Round huts rested like eggs in a nest, standing amidst acres of muddy farmland. Just north of the dwellings, the southern edge of another forest loomed. A narrow brook wound from past the hills to the west, around the village, and into the forest. The light of the day was beginning to wane, but DuVania's sharp eyes could still make out the events transpiring below. The black-clad men were ravaging the village. Several villagers were resisting, but their meager work hammers and ploughshares were of little comparison to the steel swords and maces that the marauders wielded. While they fought in tight knots, other men in black cloaks ran through the streets tossing burning brands onto the thatched roofs, which caught fire immediately. Amidst the battle, a single man walked calmly through the chaos that surrounded him. He was a full head taller than any of the other marauders and carried a stout, iron tipped spear. As DuVania watched impatiently, waiting for his troops to catch up, a screaming woman burst in a panic from one of the burning buildings and crossed the tall man's path. Without a change to his stoic expression, he thrust the butt-end of his spear out, tripping the woman, then trod upon her back as if she were dirt. The knight could hear her groan of pain even from where he stood. Hearing his troops crest the hill next to him, he said savagely, "Show them no mercy." Then, drawing his sword, he bellowed, "Charge!" and then he was moving. For an instant he and his horse were one, their movements fluid. DuVania deftly steered around the gaunt trees and clumps of rocks or shrubbery without losing speed. The wind whipped through his hair, fanning it out behind his head. By the time he and his troops reached the edge of the farmlands, the brigands had realized the coming attack and turned to meet the riders. Most of the peasants who had been fighting with them scurried out of the way. DuVania chose his target and angled his horse to the right so that he would approach the man on the same side that he held his shield. The man was a slight thing: skinny and short. He looked barely past his twentieth year. He held his sword adeptly, though, and his eyes were narrowed and determined under yellow locks. As DuVania swept past him, he brought his sword down like a smith upon glowing steel. The man blocked the attack skillfully, but the strength with which it was delivered must have stunned him. He hesitated rather than riposting, and DuVania turned his horse and struck again. This time the man's guard came up too late, and the knight's sword slashed through his chest and into his heart. The man fell in a spray of red blood. DuVania turned away from the gore and stood high in his stirrups, breathing heavy. All around him his soldiers were fighting earnestly with the marauders. Though they were outnumbered more than two-to-one, they had the advantage of horses and armor. He spotted Taela being flanked by two men a short way off. He was about to ride to her aid when she struck out and severed the arm from one of her two assailants. DuVania smiled at her humorlessly even though she didn't look up. She could take care of herself. As he continued to scan the battle, his eyes came upon the strangely silent leader of the bandits. One of DuVania's soldiers swung at him while riding by, but the large man was quick. He blocked the attack with his spear, then turned the blade up for a quick thrust. The guard barely dodged the blow as his horse continued to run, carrying him back towards another group of combatants. DuVania opened his mouth and bellowed out a wordless war cry, spurring his mount in the same instant towards the leader. When the marauder saw the advancing knight, his lips peeled back into a vicious snarl and he stood his ground. DuVania drew back his arm for the strike but the man braced his spear against one foot and pushed it forward into the neck of the knight's horse. Time seemed to slow down and DuVania saw what was happening with maddening clarity. He even flashed back to his own lessons as a squire in which his lord had told him of the terrible dishonor of killing an opponent's mount. Then the world became a crazy blur again as he found himself flying off the back of his bucking horse, then crashing to the ground. Though the fall was enough to take his breath away, instinct and battle training made him roll away to prevent from being crushed. He quickly regained control of his breathing and surged to his feet. Furious at the leader's ignominious tactic, DuVania whirled around, intent on making him pay. But he was nowhere in sight; only his spear jutting out from the still struggling horse showed that he had ever been there at all. Frustrated, the knight turned his attention back to the battle behind him. Most of the marauders had been killed. The three that remained fought back to back against Sern and four other soldiers. He started towards them but the battle was over before he arrived, the marauders cut down by the fury of the soldiers. Sern saluted when DuVania reached them. "Are you wounded, sir?" he asked. "No." DuVania frowned. "Have you seen their leader? He killed my horse, then ran off." Sern was about to answer when one of the other soldiers shouted and pointed off to the other side of the village. Three men in black cloaks were running across the field. The tall one was unmistakably the man who had killed DuVania's horse. DuVania cursed. "Get them!" he shouted to his soldiers. "Take them alive if possible but don't let them get away!" "Would you like my horse, sir?" Sern said hesitantly. "It'll take too long. Just get them!" Sern nodded and, calling to his troops, charged off to where the three men had just disappeared into the forest. DuVania was about to call for Taela when he felt a hand on his arm. He looked down and a pudgy, balding man flinched away from him. "Oh, great knight!" he said. "Glory to Stevene that he would send a hero to save us! I am the eldest in this village and --" "Your houses are still burning, man." DuVania interrupted. "Get together all who can carry buckets and form a line from the brook to bring water. Get those who remain to separate the dead from the injured." The man hesitated and DuVania barked, "Now!" The elder jumped and ran towards some of the houses, crying for people to get buckets. The knight was about to go help when he noticed that some of the bodies in the street wore the red and gray colors of Castigale soldiers. Frowning, he moved closer to one of the fallen soldiers and pulled the helmet off, then gasped. It was Taela. DuVania froze. He felt as if he were fighting to breathe while a sense of panic threatened to overwhelm him. He fell to his knees before her body and reached for one of her hands. It was cold and heavy. Her eyes were closed and her cheeks had lost all color, but she still had the resolute expression that she so often wore when he would ask her to ready his armor or wake the troops. He continued to kneel as the activities of the villagers seemed to swirl around him like wind-tossed leaves. He dropped the cold hand but continued to stare at the pale face. Within, he felt emotions warring; feelings he had long ago learned to control and suppress threatened to explode. The knight threw his might into that internal struggle, forcing emotions down, willing his breath to come normally and his heart to beat softer, commanding his fists and jaw to unclench. But his own mind was his enemy, and his thoughts scattered every time he rallied them to sustain another assault by his heart. Throughout the internal chaos, bits of odd memories came to him as clearly as if he were watching them through a window in his mind. He remembered seeing friends and soldiers dead after the battle of Gateway. They had been dear to him, but he had shrugged off mourning, saving it for after the war was done. He remembered seeing Taela fighting two of the marauders and how he was proud of her, certain that she could handle herself such that he even smiled at her and turned away. He remembered the fight he had with her the previous night. What had they fought about? What was it that made him angry? He couldn't remember and the whole idea of fighting with her seemed so worthless now it stung him. He did remember how he felt then, and it was the same feeling of panic and loss that he felt now. But then he had only wished Taela would stop talking about feelings, now he only wanted her death to be a lie. The knight took a great shuddering breath. The world still seemed distant around him, but his sense of reason was finally winning over his guilt and remorse. He hadn't killed Taela; she died bravely and heroically by the hands of a cowardly bandit. But there was a reason that the bandits attacked; someone sent them or led them to destroy and to kill. That leader was his enemy. Silently and mournfully, DuVania murmured over the body of his fallen squire: "He will die. I will not rest nor take another squire until then, Taela." ======================================================================== The Ballad of the Potter and the Horse Thief by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Melrin 3-4, 1018 Maurev's hands closed on the smooth, cool surface of the clay. He lifted the sculpture from its plinth and turned it to better admire its lush curvaceousness and the artful blending of the glazes across the object. A surge of loud conversation to his left, from which he only caught the word "child", startled him and made him clutch at the statue. A fraction of a moment later he felt a blow to his back that made him stagger forward. If he hadn't been gripping the statue tightly it would have crashed to the ground with disastrous results. Wild thoughts dashed through his head as his heart hammered in his chest. He had been admiring the statue with a professional's interest; Maurev was a newly elevated journeyrank potter at the Corathin Pottery. He was anxious to prove that his rapid advancement was warranted, and hoped to produce something as good as the sculpture himself after the Melrin festival was over and the pottery opened again. He wasn't at all sure, though, that he'd have been able to replace the object if it had smashed. Maurev whirled around, statue still gripped in his hands, to see who or what had knocked into him. He found himself staring into the smirking face and squinting brown eyes of Haian. Haian had never been Maurev's friend even while they worked side by side as apprentices at the pottery. The obvious reason was the five year difference in their ages; Maurev knew of no other reason for the man to dislike him. Haian's unfriendly demeanor had turned decidedly nasty since Maurev's elevation. The new journeyrank recalled the spoiled formwork that had forced him to miss most of the first day of Melrin, and was sure that Haian's metaphorical hand print was all over the accident. "So sorry, Maurev," Haian murmured, though Maurev could see no contrition evident. "You should watch yourself, though. Big crowds this year." With an impenetrable glare, Haian turned and walked away, quickly becoming lost in the Melrin crowd. Maurev stared after the man, knowing that the bump had been no accident. The teachers at Corathin would brook no fighting between apprentices, or any other ranks, but who could prove Haian's intentions? Maurev ran his hands unconsciously across the smooth glaze of the sculpture, its rounded contours, and felt himself calm down. Music filled the air, snatches of songs drifting by. He looked back at the pottery between his hands and let the melody that accompanied the words "... move the rolling ..." ease the rest of the tension away. Maurev took a deep breath and held it for a beat or two, letting the ambiance of the festival relax him further. A different group of singers penetrated the background noise, their energy propelling the fragment "... ship, the black ..." to his ears as he exhaled, calmer, and turned to put the statue back on its stand. The proprietor of the small stall was on its other side, engaged in selling some plates, and had never noticed the near disaster. Maurev looked a final time at the sensuous lines of the sculpture sitting amid mundane plates and mugs and wondered where the seller had gotten such a masterpiece. He was sure that it hadn't come from his own employer. Maurev continued his stroll along the main street of Hartim, the seat of the Barony of Madenee on the east coast of the Duchy of Dargon. Melrin had brought everyone from the surrounding countryside into the town, and the street was lined with stalls and thronged with people. Street corners hummed with musicians playing wildly different styles of music that still blended into a harmonious whole. Small eddies in the current of people betrayed the locations of players: puppeteers, jugglers, or prestidigitators, whose pretend magic was often more amazing than the real thing. Maurev wandered, savoring the sights and sounds, examining the wares for sale with fingers as well as eyes. He spent his Bits extravagantly on sweets and trinkets, knowing that he would now be getting piece-prices as well as his small wage from the pottery. He couldn't remember Melrin ever having been so festive and amazing, not even five years ago when he had been apprenticed at eleven years old into the one trade he'd always dreamed of learning. Maurev's ambling eventually led him past the boundary of the town and into the fairgrounds that had been set up to the south of Hartim, adjacent to its meager docks. He skirted the horse pens, hearing the auctioneer calling out "number 81" as he passed. He slipped into an ale tent, where the patrons were busily drowning out the band on the tiny stage next to the bar. The place was far too crowded for Maurev's taste, and he could only hear a snippet of the heavily rhythmic tune the band was performing, which sounded like "... head. Tucked. Underneath ...", before he decided to try somewhere quieter. He smiled as he passed the large tent housing the wares of the Corathin Pottery and heard faint whisper of song from within: "... what care I for my house ...". None of his wares were displayed in that tent, but come next Melrin he intended to be a featured artist. To be exact, his work was in there, but as an apprentice he had only executed the designs of his superiors, though not always his betters. Form work, by-rote shapings, nothing but craftings, without any creativity at all and almost no art: that was the way apprenticeship worked, and Maurev understood and accepted it. Next year, though, it would be different. He continued his wandering, enjoying the reduced congestion on the fringes of the fairgrounds. He followed his nose, and some enticing scents led him to a food vendor with an almost empty tent. He splurged on a meal large enough for two. As he sat at the rough wood table and savored the excellent cooking, he wished that he could share the fair with Saunt immediately, instead of waiting until the cowherd returned from his duties. Saunt was a tall young man of eighteen years, with golden hair and fair skin despite his constant exposure to weather out in the pastures. He was also Maurev's best friend. He had promised to spend Melrin with Maurev, but the baron had chosen Saunt, along with two other cowherds, to attend him while he brought the yearlings home. Maurev hadn't even been able to tell his friend about his promotion, as the baron's party had left on the 28th of Naia. Maurev was rehearsing how he would tell Saunt about the excitement of the past few days when he felt the heat of the afternoon sun on his back vanish. Realizing that someone had to be standing behind him, he turned ... and found himself confronted with an overabundance of barely-bound breasts. He stared at the red velvet bodice that squeezed the breasts together and up, but mostly he stared at the whiteness that bulged above the red. His mouth hung open and he could feel his tongue drying out. His eye for detail noted the exquisite embroidery that edged the red velvet, and if the jewels that dotted that stitching weren't real, they sure glittered as if they were. A laugh came from above his line of sight, sounding like tinkling crystal. A beringed hand reached down and cupped his chin, and he automatically noticed that the fingers were soft and the palm smooth as his gaze was lifted above the canyon and the mountains. Maurev gasped when he saw the face of Cheyon, Baroness Madenee. She was a beautiful woman with dark hair, stormy blue eyes, and a full, expressive mouth. She was almost as much younger than Daniled, her husband, as she was older than Maurev, which was at least ten years. Maurev was mortified; he had been staring at the ample charms of his baroness! He tried to say something, but his dry tongue refused to cooperate. He closed his mouth and his eyes, and tried to turn his head aside as he wetted his tongue as fast as he could. The crystalline laugh came again, and the fingers didn't leave his chin. Finally he was able to stutter out, "Y-y-your excellency! I ap-p-pologize ..." Cheyon let his chin go and said, "Had I been offended, little Maurev, I would not have let you stare so long." The smile was evident in her voice, and Maurev opened his eyes to confirm its presence. "You ... you know my name, your excellency?" "Please, Maurev, call me Cheyon, at least when we are alone like this. And yes, I know your name. My husband and I are patrons of the arts, and we take an interest in promising youths such as yourself. I've heard you've been elevated to journeyrank and came to offer my congratulations." Maurev blushed at the praise, and lowered his gaze quickly past Cheyon's bodice and down to his own feet. He mumbled, "Thank you, your -- Cheyon, ma'am." He found himself staring again; her feet were clad in sandals, and she had rings on every toe, and an anklet dripping with more sparkly jewels. Cheyon said, "I was wondering whether you could do me a favor, little Maurev?" He watched her step closer to him, her foot coming to rest between his. He lifted his gaze back to her face as she continued, "I'd like to be your very personal patron. I'd like you to create a statue of me. In the nude." Maurev could feel the heat from her body even through the rising heat in his own. The inane question, "And what will you be wearing?" flashed through his mind, but he knew what she'd meant. He debated the proprieties of sculpting his baroness naked, but couldn't deny that he wanted to try it. He wondered what Saunt would think, and then wondered why he felt slightly ashamed of that thought, as if this was something he shouldn't share with Saunt. "I ... ah, I think I would be honored, Cheyon, ma'am. When do you think ...? We could use one of the studios in the pottery ..." Cheyon put her hand on Maurev's shoulder. He could smell a faint perfume rising from her and it made his skin tingle. She said, "I don't see any need to wait, little Maurev. It's Melrin, so you have no duties, and my duties for the day are complete. Why don't you come home with me and do it tonight? I'm sure we can be ... finished ... before morning's light." Maurev suddenly found it hard to breathe. He gasped a few times, which only seemed to amuse Cheyon. Her giggle brought him around, and he took a few deep breaths. Trying to be adult about the situation, thinking of nothing but the sculpting, he said, "Do you have everything I'll need at the manor?" "Oh yes, Maurev. Absolutely everything." "Then I, ah ..." he said, trying to think of a reason not to go with the baroness. Failing, he said, "Then let's be about it." Cheyon's crystal laughter rang out, and she turned. Blushing furiously, Maurev stood and followed her away. Haian stalked away from his not-so-chance encounter with Maurev, his frown so fierce it made his forehead hurt. "The little rat-turd," he thought, "He didn't even drop the tupping statue!" The crowd got in the way no matter where Haian tried to go, and the music was so raucous that it made his ears hurt. A red haze formed around the edges of Haian's vision as he desperately sought a way out of the press of people and away from the noise. He darted between two stalls, and then through a door. He ignored the startled yelps of the people whose home he had invaded, and drove straight through it and out the back. The alley behind the house was quieter, but it was also short, the respite it provided brief. As Haian dodged and darted his way through alleys and side streets, getting lost over and over again, the apprentice cursed the day his father had sold him to the Corathin Pottery. Haian hated clay, but his father'd had dreams that his coin didn't stretch to. Thinking to do his son a favor, he'd apprenticed the thirteen year old with the best potters in the Duchy of Dargon. Haian hadn't had a good day since he'd left the city of Dargon with the pot-seller eight years ago. He knew he wouldn't have one, either, until he attained journeyrank and was free of his apprenticeship bond, or he decided to run away from that bond. He hadn't reached a low enough point yet to break his word. Haian eventually found himself among the tents of the fairgrounds south of Hartim. His body unclenched slowly as the noise and the crowds both thinned out. He found his way to the horse pens, where he stood for a while watching the animals being led away, the gate wardens carefully checking tail tags against receipts. Haian idly marked who'd had a good day at the auction by the worthiness of the horseflesh they now owned. He had grown up around animals on the farm where his family worked. He'd been grooming horses since he could stand, riding them for almost as long as he'd been able to walk. He'd milked cows, slopped pigs, and collected eggs for most of his childhood. He had come to understand animals. He knew how to care for them, how to work them, get benefit from them. He didn't know how to make clay work, how to make it benefit him. Clay had no spirit, no life. Haian just didn't comprehend the stuff. He found his thoughts turning inevitably back to the new rankings that had been announced on the last day of Naia, just before the beginning of the mid-year Melrin festival. Haian hadn't expected to be journeyed, but he had hoped. At twenty-one, he wasn't the oldest apprentice at the pottery, but he had been there longer than anyone who had any intention of advancing. Haian wasn't going to work as a potter, ever, but he would never be anything else until he advanced out of his apprenticeship. Maurev's grinning image came to mind, accepting his journeyrank along with three other apprentices who were all Haian's age or older. Haian had no friends at the pottery, but he now had an enemy. Maurev didn't deserve advancement. Haian couldn't see any difference between the work Maurev did and his own efforts, nor that of the other three new journeyranks, either. He had thought it would all come down to a matter of age and opportunity, until Maurev had stolen his spot among the journeyranks well out of turn. At sixteen, Maurev was clearly too young to be a journeyrank. It galled Haian no end that the child's backroom activities with the clay masters had been rewarded while Haian's attempts at the same had all been rebuffed. His thoughts turned to Master Pretya, the youngest and prettiest of the three master potters at Corathin. Haian had given her countless presents, praised her work effusively, intimated his interest in taking private lessons from her. She always took his advances at face value, never acknowledging the subtext Haian knew she had to have seen. Yet she was always at Maurev's side, praising his work, giving him the 'private lessons' Haian wanted. No, Haian had never been allowed the liberties that Maurev must have taken to receive his advancement so young. Haian vowed he'd get even with the little scut. The ache in his ears and forehead finally eased as Haian continued wandering. He hated the town of Hartim as much as he hated clay, finding no way to favorably compare it to Dargon itself, but the Melrin festival made up for many of its shortcomings. The dreadful small sameness of the town was mitigated by the influx of people and the traders who came to sell to them. Haian perused the goods, finding nothing worth his Bits but happy to have something besides Maurev and clay to think about. A short while later, Haian found himself near the edge of the fairgrounds. He made for his favorite food vendor, but when he got close his forehead started to hurt again; he saw Maurev sitting at one of the tables by himself, eating. Haian examined the situation, but saw no opportunity to bother the boy beyond direct confrontation. As much as he would have liked that, he needed to avoid it at all costs thanks to the pottery's rules. Instead, he slipped behind an awning pole across a pathway from the eatery to wait for his enemy's departure. Haian fumed as he watched the boy eat, a stupid grin on his baby face. Maurev had wheat-brown hair and green eyes, handsome features and strong limbs. Haian compared his own coarse looks, his mud-brown hair and dirt-brown eyes, and felt rage begin to build again. The kid had every advantage, while Haian had none. It just wasn't fair! Haian indulged himself with a small fantasy. He imagined Maurev getting older, his hair falling out, his eyes dulling, his face and limbs collecting the clay-dust of the pottery and never coming clean. And then Haian involuntarily imagined the pretend-old Maurev standing there, a master's medallion around his neck. His unruly imagination portrayed this master Maurev giving a journeyrank to someone standing next to a still-apprenticed, old Haian. He cursed, and slammed his fist against the awning pole. Pain in his hand joined the pain in his forehead, and he cursed again. Haian missed Baroness Cheyon Madenee entering the eatery. By the time his attention returned to reality, the boy was staring at her cleavage. Haian watched avidly as that stare went on for an insultingly long time. But Maurev's luck held and the baroness took no offense that Haian could see, instead taking hold of Maurev's chin and gently lifting his gaze away from her breasts. They spoke, Maurev blushing, mild, the baroness bold, amused, perhaps even flirtatious. Haian forgot to frown as he concentrated on the inaudible exchange between the woman and the boy. He needed to know more about what was going on. The pair in the eatery were intent upon each other, and the food seller was nowhere in sight. Haian slipped around the awning pole, across the path, and into the growing shadow next to a wall of the eatery's tent. Haian was in time to overhear the baroness saying, "I'm sure we can be ... finished ... before morning's light." There was a pause before Maurev's thin voice, childish to Haian's ears, said, "Do you have everything I'll need at the manor?" "Oh yes, Maurev. Absolutely everything," was the overheard reply. Maurev stuttered, "Then I, ah ... Then let's be about it." The baroness laughed and turned to go. When Maurev stood and followed her, Haian almost laughed as well. "This is perfect!" Haian thought. "Maybe Maurev didn't do the seducing, but the baron doesn't need to hear that. I'm going to make sure that he knows what's going on at the manor before the sun sets!" Every year, regular as Melrin itself, Baron Daniled Madenee took a handful of people out to his hunting lodge, where, over several days, his cattle were rounded up and penned to be eventually driven back to town. Everyone knew about the trip; the baron didn't keep it a secret. Haian was sure that it wasn't a duty that normally fell to the nobility -- he couldn't imagine, for example, Duke Clifton going out to bring the yearlings home himself -- but the baron of Madenee seemed to think that it made him look like one of his people, instead of above them. Haian thought it made the baron look like a mud-footed hick. However, since that was about as highly as he thought of anyone in Madenee, he supposed that the baron had achieved his goal. Haian made sure that the illicit pair was out of sight before he emerged from the shadow. He reviewed his options, swiftly discarding them one by one. The hunting lodge was too far to walk to quickly, so he would need transportation. Asking to borrow a horse would take too long, with the added wrinkle that he really didn't know anyone who would lend him one without a great deal of convincing. Then he recalled the horse pens in the auction yard. He dashed across the fairgrounds even as he gave a thought to the consequences of what he planned. Stealing horses was punishable by death, but Haian had no intention of keeping the horse. He was only borrowing one for long enough to inform the baron of an injustice being perpetrated on him. Surely the baron would pardon his offense? The horse pens were empty of people. Two of the corrals were empty of horses as well, but the third and fourth gave him a wealth to choose from. His hard-earned childhood skills served him well. He spotted a likely runner and called it over. Accepting the risk of mounting the strange animal without any tack, he climbed over the railings and onto the horse's back. It didn't try to buck him off, and responded well to his direction. He trotted it over to the gate and let them out, closing and latching it after. He used his feet in its ribs and his hands on its neck to guide it out of the fairgrounds. As soon as they were clear of the tents, he kicked the horse to a gallop, and held on as his hopes of a runner were borne out. Haian raced with the sun across the fields around Hartim, gripping the horse's mane in his fists and leaning close to the neck. He rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say to the baron, how he was going to dramatically expose Maurev's perfidy in sleeping with his wife. Along the way he felt the pain in his forehead ease, to be replaced with a very strange sensation in his cheeks. He eventually realized he was grinning fiercely, and he didn't know whether it was because of his impending revenge on Maurev, or because he was enjoying the gallop. When he came to the Yentz river, however, he forgot all about grinning. He cursed for a solid spring mene as he pranced his borrowed horse along the edge of the washed-out bridge, a product of the rains at the beginning of the season. He knew there must be another bridge or ford somewhere, since the baron was at his lodge on the other side of the Yentz and not at home, but Haian didn't know where it might be. Determined not to break his vow to himself, he took another chance. He turned the horse from the road and directed it down to the river bank. He continued into the water, and soon the horse was swimming across the river. The water was uncomfortably cold on Haian's legs, and he spared a moment's habitual thought for the welfare of his steed. He hoped that neither of them would be in the water dangerously long. He had a tense moment when the current and the horse's own efforts brought them to an unclimbable section of the far bank, but they quickly came to a more suitable landing point and the horse scrambled out of the river. Haian dug in his heels again. The rushing wind of his passage soon had his pant legs dry. The sun was on the horizon when Haian rode up to the baron's hunting lodge. The small manor house was an impressive structure, but Haian paid no attention to the stone construction, the deep porches, or the slate roof. He slid, somewhat painfully, to be sure, off his horse's back and strode over to the imposing door. He took hold of the bell-pull and yanked it. He was startled by the tinny jangling he got in response, having expected a more resounding result. The door opened quickly, but instead of the baron standing there, Haian saw a stooped, older man in patchy leather and over-the-knee boots. "Can I help you?" the man asked in a quavering voice. "Who are you?" Haian said. "I'm Baron Madenee's huntsman. Can I help you?" "Ah, is the baron here?" said Haian, wondering what the geezer was fit to hunt. "Yes, he --" started the old man. "Who is it, Ned?" interrupted someone from within. Haian pushed past the old man to find the source of the voice, which he recognized as the baron's. He stalked intently down the dark hallway, ignoring the feeble calls of the huntsman behind him. Only one door was open, light spilling through it, and he entered the room beyond, full of confidence. Knowing he was intruding on the baron's privacy but buoyed by his mission, he called out, "Your excellency, I bring news from Hartim!" before he took the time to look around. The room was small and cozy. Wood covered the walls and ceiling, and a stone fireplace filled one corner. Four men sat around a low table with cards in their hands. Most of them were dressed casually in tunics and pants, though one of them was barechested despite the slightly chilly air. Two taller, narrower tables stood on opposite sides of the low table; one had mugs and several decanters on it, the other held bread, cheese, sliced meats, and small bowls of condiments. Next to the cards on the low table were several leftwiches with bites taken out of them. The largest and oldest of the four men in the room stood and turned toward Haian. Baron Daniled was over forty, with broad shoulders and long, red hair. A full beard cloaked his mouth and chin, but Haian could tell that those lips were not smiling. In a voice that matched his body, a rich baritone with occasional deeper bass rumblings, Daniled said, "What ho, my good man? News, you say? News you bring from Hartim? Has a tent in the fairgrounds caught fire? Bandits, perhaps? Or maybe the Beinison army has ventured this far north once again and taken my manor house for part of their empire?" The baron's tone of voice was playful, but the storm in his eyes convinced Haian that he was not joking about having his privacy invaded. Setting aside his ulterior motives for the moment, he delivered his news in as respectful and sorrowful a manner as he was able. "Your excellency, I regret to inform you that you are betrayed. Maurev the clay-boy is bedding your wife as we speak." Gasps came from the still seated men, but Daniled didn't react. He waited a moment, then said, "You are sure of this, young man?" "I'm Haian, your excellency, and I saw it myself." "You were at the manor house to witness this act?" "No, your excellency," said Haian. The baron frowned, and said, "Then how do you know what my wife is doing?" "I did not see the bedding, but I saw the seduction," Haian said, getting exasperated and forgetting to whom he was speaking. "And there can be no mistake?" said Daniled. "Think carefully, for you accuse my wife and this Maurev with your words." "I saw what I saw," said Haian, almost shouting. His forehead was starting to hurt again from frowning. Couldn't this clod of a baron understand the obvious? "I saw them leave the fairgrounds together." "Perhaps they were simply walking in the same direction." "I heard them speaking of going to the manor and spending the night there!" "Perhaps ..." the baron began, but he didn't continue. He bowed his head, and Haian saw him clenching his fists. The baron paused for so long that Haian wondered just exactly what he was thinking. Finally Daniled said, "We must ride back, then, with all haste." He glanced over at the men around the table and said, "Saunt, put your tunic back on. Everyone, go get the horses ready. We're going back to Hartim." Haian suppressed his grin, though he still wondered at the lack of passion in the baron's voice. The other three men rose and slipped out of the room, leaving Haian alone with Daniled. The baron just stared at Haian, his face unreadable. Haian started getting nervous, and he almost jumped when the baron shouted, "Ned! Get the grey saddled!" A moment later, the shuffling old man poked his head into the room and said, "Your pardon, my lord, but the grey is lamed." Something flickered in the baron's eyes, but Haian couldn't decipher it. Daniled said, "The black, then." Ned shook his head. "The chestnut!" ordered the baron. Ned said, "My lord, Tan and Ebin have the black and the chestnut, and they're out in the far pastures gathering the herd. I'm sorry, we've no horses to spare beyond the four you rode in on." Daniled sighed in resignation, making Haian wonder why the baron needed an extra horse. The baron said, "I remember now, Ned. I'll just have to ..." Daniled's voice trailed off, confusing Haian further. "Very good, my lord," Ned said before leaving. Haian remembered about his 'borrowed' horse, and he decided to get his pardon before any more time had passed. "Forgive me, your excellency?" "What?" barked Daniled. There was such anger in that single word that Haian decided not to bring up any further wrongdoing. He fumbled for a response, and then hit upon something that actually made sense in context. "Ah, in my haste to carry my news," Haian said, "I didn't have time to dress my horse. If you've got spare tack?" The baron narrowed his eyes, then turned away. "Of course, of course," he said in a grudging tone. "In the stables out back. Help yourself, but hurry." Saunt felt a trickle of something at the corner of his mouth. He brushed at it with a finger, and realized that it was blood; he had bitten his lip in his nervousness. He looked around guiltily, but no one else in the small group who were riding through the night to return to the baron's manor was paying any attention to him. He wasn't nervous about the ride itself, but rather the reason for the journey. When the brown-haired, scowling man had barged into the hunting lodge, Saunt hadn't recognized him. Once he had named himself Haian, though, Saunt had realized who he was from Maurev's description. When the man had announced his news, naming Maurev, Saunt had been hard pressed not to cry out in surprise. He knew Maurev well and he found it difficult to believe that the handsome lad would ever take up with any woman, much less the baroness. The small company rode in silence for the most part, allowing Saunt plenty of time to worry. Most of the conversation consisted of Haian urging Baron Daniled to go faster, which was ironic since the moderate pace had been set due to Haian's delicate anatomy upon remounting his horse. The accuser had also grumbled rather loudly when the group had detoured to the ford across the Yentz instead of swimming their horses across it near the broken bridge. So loud had Haian become that the baron had finally shouted at him to remain silent. Thanks to the time it had taken to get everyone ahorse and away, their pace on the road, and the detour to the ford, the faint light of dawn was brightening the horizon when Saunt saw the first hint of Hartim, still some distance away. He recalled the words the baron had taken him aside to deliver. He lifted his horn to his lips and blew as loud and strong as he was able, shattering the silence of the night with the carrying noise. Three faces turned to him in shock, and Haian's shout joined the echoes of the horn in disturbing the nocturnal peace. Only the baron didn't turn his head or react in any other way. Saunt ignored the looks his cowherd friends gave him, just as he ignored the insults that Haian shouted. He let the horn fall back to his side, his part played. He only hoped he hadn't sounded too early. Maurev came awake slowly, hearing a faint horn blowing that bridged his dream and reality. The oddness of the sound in the pervasive silence was what had roused him, but it was his strange surroundings that startled him fully awake. Soft sheets over him felt like velvet to skin used to rough homespun. The plush softness of a featherbed beneath him felt like a cloud to one accustomed to a straw-padded pallet which, often enough, lacked the straw. Most strange, however, was the warmth of the body behind him that felt like nothing he'd ever experienced before. He thought about the sensations surrounding him, and could find no danger in them. He considered the strange horn, and realized it couldn't have meant anything. He settled back into the softness below and the warmth behind him, and tried to go back to sleep. There was a stirring next to him, and a warm voice said, "What wakes you, little Maurev?" The previous evening came back to the journeyrank potter in a rush that made him grin from ear to ear. "Nothing, Cheyon, ma'am. Just a horn blowing in the night." The baroness sat up, pulling the sheet away from Maurev. "A horn, you say?" Confused, Maurev rolled over and looked up at Cheyon's concerned face. "Yes, I'm pretty sure it was a horn. But it was probably just a shepherd gathering his flock, straight?" Cheyon shook her head sadly. "No, I don't think so, Maurev." She looked down at him, her face serious and intent. "I don't think so at all." Baron Daniled Madenee heaved himself rather ponderously off the back of his horse in the courtyard in front of his manor house just as the sun poked up over the horizon behind him. From the clattering to his rear, the rest of his small group of riders were following his lead. Daniled allowed himself a brief grin as Lenna and Rall, his ostler and butler, appeared at the front door unsummoned, despite the time. Lenna stepped forward and took charge of all of the mounts, having no trouble keeping all five in line despite her diminutive stature. Rall looked around at the group gathered before the house and looked at the baron, shaking his head just a tiny bit. Daniled wiped his grin away and signaled with his hand that Rall need not be worried. He turned to the three cowherds and the apprentice potter and said, "Thank you for accompanying me back. You may go and find your rest, now; the night's ride has been long." No one moved. The baron looked at the four faces and saw from their different expressions that they were very much against leaving, though for mixed reasons. Daniled mentally shrugged, and said, "But if you have the stamina to see this through, then follow me." He walked toward the door, and Rall said, "My lord, there was news from town while you were away. Last night, someone stole a horse from the auction yard. There hasn't been time to investigate thoroughly as yet." "I'll take that up later, Rall. This is more important." "Very good, my lord," said the butler as he stood aside to let Daniled enter the manor. The baron strode through the front hall and climbed the stairs, the other four trooping loudly up behind him. He turned right at the top of the stair and slammed through first one door and then another before reaching his own bedroom. He could feel Haian almost stepping on his heels, and found it difficult not to backhand the little weasel where he stood. The tableau he found in his bedroom didn't surprise him. He locked eyes with his wife and returned her nod. He glanced at the boy next to her, covered to his neck by the sheet; Maurev looked frightened, but he nodded, too. Daniled paused a moment, letting the four behind him file in and arrange themselves. He then stormed across the room and stood at the foot of his bed. "So," he said, "I see my featherbed is not being wasted while I'm away. It seems that Haian here tells truth as he tale-tattles. Are my sheets to your liking, young man? My pillow? My wife?" Maurev blinked a few times, and said, "Yes, your excellency, they are, thank you." The boy's voice was none too steady, but he was putting on bravado rather well. Daniled said, "Get up then, young man, and get dressed. We've got honor to serve here, and I'll not duel a naked man." "No, your excellency, I don't think I should do that," said Maurev. "You're armed, after all, and I ..." He paused, lifted the sheet, looked under it, and let it fall. "I don't even have a pocket to hide a knife." Daniled smiled, knowing only the pair on the bed could see it. He was about to take the next scripted step when from behind him he heard, "The baron has two swords, see? One for him and one for the rat in his bed!" Daniled knew without turning that it was Haian who had spoken just from the animosity in the voice. "I was about to say," Daniled said, "that as the challenged, Maurev gets the choice --" Haian chimed in with, "Then let him choose which of your swords to use instead of giving him one!" Daniled saw the eyes of the pair in the bed widen as the script got shredded. He turned to glare at Haian, and before he could turn back, Maurev said hesitantly, "Ah, but I've, well, never even held a sword before." Daniled faced the bed again, and he could see the boy's white knuckles where his fists clenched the sheet. Daniled held his hand up in front of his chest where it would be hidden from those behind him and motioned for Maurev to calm down and wait. He took a breath and prepared to defuse the situation, but once again Haian interrupted. "Just trade blows then. Let the clay-boy go first to be fair, and then you, your excellency. Maurev will be dead, and justice will be served." Daniled turned his back on the bed and faced the upstart. "Just who do you think you are, Haian?" he shouted. "This is my barony and justice is mine to serve out. You overstep your place at every turn. Now, be silent, or you will reap the trouble you wish to sow!" The young man opened his mouth and closed it again. Daniled saw only scorn in Haian's face, though, and his hand fell to the hilt of one of his swords. Haian opened his mouth once more, and then stepped back, dropping his gaze to the floor. Daniled sighed and was ready to start over when the door crashed open. His eyes went to the entry with everyone else's to see Lenna standing there. The ostler said, "Your excellency, when I was stabling the animals I just took from the courtyard, I found that one had an auction yard tail-tag. The number matches that of the horse stolen last night." The baron assessed the situation swiftly. He had let the entire cavalcade come back to the manor after Haian's accusations in the hope that he could deal with the problem as he had previously prepared with his wife, salving honor and quieting the accuser. That man, however, obviously had blood on his mind, and Daniled was minded to give it to him. He drew one of the swords at his waist, took a step forward, and even as Haian's head came up and his mouth opened, Daniled ran him through. Shouts filled the room, Maurev's loudest. The noisy Haian made no sound as he clutched at the sword that pierced him and sank slowly to his knees. Daniled laughed at the confusion in the man's face. He said, "Now is justice served, you tale-tattling horse thief." He pulled his sword back, and the former apprentice potter toppled to his side, closed his eyes, and was still. Silence filled the room. Daniled winced as he saw the Haian's blood soaking into his favorite carpet. He lifted his gaze from the body and found that everyone was looking at him, not at the corpse as he'd supposed. He put thoughts of the ruined rug from his mind and took charge of the situation. He said, "Thank you, Lenna, for your timely news. You two," he said, pointing at two of the cowherds, "help Lenna carry the rug and the body out of here. Lenna, tell Rall to inform the town guards that the horse thief has been dealt with, and then ask him to clean up the rest of this mess." The three of them lifted the rug, and with it the corpse, and hustled it out of the room. Daniled took the few steps and closed the door. He looked around at the remaining people in the room, and said, "That was not the end I expected, but a better one than I had feared." Cheyon rose from the bed, gloriously naked, and walked to his side. Daniled saw Saunt look away from the baroness' charms. He gave the cowherd a push toward his friend, and watched Saunt gather the staring, shaking Maurev into his arms. The baroness kissed Daniled on the cheek, somewhat nervously. He hugged her tight and kissed her on the lips in return. She said, "We were lucky today, weren't we?" "That we were, my dear. But this could all have been avoided if you had been more discreet." "Melrin brings out the worst in me, I suppose," Cheyon said. "But I never saw that rat anywhere near us. He must have been spying from somewhere." "Maybe you'll let Lenna, or even Rall, do your procuring next time, straight?" "I think I've learned my lesson, love," Cheyon said. She rested her head on his shoulder and said softly, "I'm sorry." Silence reigned once again, until Maurev's quavering voice broke it. "He hated me. He hated me enough to commit a crime to see me destroyed." The young man leaned against Saunt, and Daniled saw his inward stare turn outward. Maurev looked up at him and said, "But how ...? Why aren't you angry at me? I mean, Che-- her excellency told me what to do, how to act, once the horn told her you were coming, but she didn't tell me why." Daniled smiled kindly at the very young man and said, "Cheyon and I have an arrangement, Maurev. You see, I had an accident some time ago while hunting, and I cannot get her with child. Unfortunately, I hadn't managed to have any children before the accident. I'm the last Madenee, and she's from another noble family, with their own lineage to maintain. If I don't produce an heir, my lands will be ceded to another by the duke upon my death." "So," Maurev hesitatingly said, "The baroness did this to get you an heir, straight?" Cheyon laughed her crystalline laugh, and Daniled was glad that she had put the unpleasantness behind her. She said, "That's certainly one reason, little Maurev. It's also one of the privileges of rank, to do what you want. I like variety, Maurev, and you are very, very handsome. I must say that my diversions are not usually so complicated." Daniled hugged his wife again, and added, "I have other interests too, Maurev. But the continuation of my line, blood or no, is the primary justification." "What about Saunt and the others? They know ..." asked Maurev. Daniled shook his head. "I think their discretion can be relied on in this case. There's really no profit to be had here, since my wife had my consent." Maurev nodded, but Daniled could tell from the confusion on his face that he didn't understand. The baron said, "Perhaps Saunt and I could explain it to you better back at my lodge, if you would care to join us there?" Maurev nodded again, his face smoothing out in a smile. Then he frowned again, lifted his head from Saunt's shoulder, and said, "So, do I get to do that sculpture of the baroness or not?" Cleansing laughter filled the room, ending only when a knock came at the door. Daniled fetched a robe for his wife, and then let Rall in with a bucket and a mop. As the room was straightened up, he hoped that the rest of Melrin would not prove so eventful. ========================================================================