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 18 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 1 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 1/22/2005 Volume 18, Number 1 Circulation: 666 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Little Yorgai and the Beast of Leagues Liam Donahue Janis 12, 1015 End of the Line 1 Rich Durbin Sy 17-20, 1015 ======================================================================== 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 18-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright January, 2005 by The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Liam Donahue . 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 Hi, remember us? It's been a long time: nine months, in fact. In case you don't remember, we're DargonZine, that fantasy fiction zine that you subscribed to. Let me begin by apologizing for our long hiatus. In our last issue, I wrote, "It will be a few months before you hear from us again", and that wound up being a pretty egregious understatement. The nine-month gap between last April's DargonZine 17-3 and today's first issue of 2005 is the longest hiatus we have ever had, and you can rest assured that it's not usual. In fact, over our 20-year history, we have on average put out a new issue every six weeks. DargonZine has never adhered to a regular publication schedule; issues are distributed whenever there are enough submissions from our staff of amateur writers to fill one. Unfortunately, there haven't been many submissions lately, because nearly all of our writers have been preoccupied with a huge story arc that we planned back in May of 2003. As a result of everyone's singleminded focus on the arc, there has been nothing else to print. That took far longer than we anticipated, and we couldn't begin printing the arc until a substantial chunk of it was complete. So let me once more offer our apologies for the recent lack of issues; it's very atypical. In more promising news, I can officially guarantee that we won't have another lapse like that in the foreseeable future, precisely because most of the aforementioned story arc is now complete. I cannot begin to tell you what that means to our writers and myself. Imagine trying to coordinate a 30-chapter story written by twelve different authors, over a period of 18 months (and still counting), during which four of the writers left the project. It is certainly the biggest collaborative work the Dargon Project has ever attempted, and with the most participating writers. At the same time, it is also the the most tightly interwoven collaboration in our history, where all the writers had to work together very closely to make the overall storyline come together. It has truly been an immense undertaking, and we hope you enjoy the result. That result -- those thirty stories -- will appear in issues throughout this year, certainly into 2006, and perhaps even longer, since the arc is currently projected to fill fourteen issues. We chose not to begin printing the arc until (1) every story in the first section was done, (2) every story throughout the entire arc had been posted in first draft form, and (3) we had performed an end-to-end read-through of the entire arc, to make sure that everything worked together. At the present time, the next four issues, which comprise the first section of the arc, are ready to roll, and another four more -- the second section -- are awaiting a few final edits. Finally, all the stories in the third and final section are also well on the way. There will be no more long waits between issues. I will let the arc unfold itself over time, rather than attempt to summarize it here. However, I will say that every one of our writers poured a ton of effort into bringing it about. We are all very proud of this accomplishment, and after all that work we're absolutely giddy about seeing it in its final form. At long last we're able to share with you the story of the Black Idol, which begins in this issue, with part one of Rich Durbin's ironically titled "End of the Line". However, the story arc isn't the only thing that has happened in the past nine months. The rest of this Editorial contains a run-down of some of the things that we've been up to since you last heard from us. Last summer, founding author Jim Owens hosted our annual Dargon Writers' Summit. It took place in a cabin on the slopes of Oregon's Mt. Hood, and featured a blacksmithing demo, writing exercises, a major initiative to relate our stories more closely, a waterfall tour, disc golf, a meditation session, and much more. Photos and a write-up of the 2004 Writers' Summit can be found at . Another piece of business at the Summit was that Liam Donahue was nominated to be our new Assistant Editor, replacing longtime project leader Jon Evans. Jon has scaled back his administrative duties as a result of his career and recent marriage. Everyone wishes Jon and Liam success and happiness in their respective new jobs. Also at the Summit, we recognized another longtime project leader by giving Dafydd a plaque with our first Lifetime Achievement Award. Dafydd has published no less than 58 stories in his 18 years with the project, and also was the editor of DargonZine for six years during the early '90s. Most recently, Dafydd has taken a leadership role in figuring out how we can apply the tightly related and integrated kind of writing we did for the story arc to all our stories. Neither DargonZine nor our writers' group would be what it is today without Dafydd, and we're pleased to publicly recognize that fact with this award. In other news, DargonZine now publishes an RSS syndication feed. What that means is that you can now have announcements of new issues appear on your My Yahoo! page, in your weblog, or in any RSS-capable news reader. Details are at . We conducted a design contest at a Texas graphic arts school, which produced several potential designs for posters and flyers. Shortly thereafter, we printed our first flyers, which were handed out at the World Science Fiction Convention in Boston. On a disappointing note, the illustration that you see for the Black Idol story arc will be the last one from our talented artist David Nelson. During his brief time with us, his works really enhanced our issues, and we wish him luck in his future endeavors. There's also a new Web site enhancement to announce. If you use our Online Glossary very much, you'll notice that we have begun adding cross-reference links in the textual definitions of each Glossary item. This will enable you to jump from definition to definition, making the Glossary a more useful tool in understanding the milieu and the thousands of people, places, and things that inhabit it. Finally, there's one more event to tell you about, and it tops all the others. Shortly before New Years, DargonZine became the first and only electronic magazine on the Internet to celebrate the 20th anniversary of its founding. Twenty years ago, the idea of using the nascent international computer network as a medium for a writers' group and electronic magazine was revolutionary. Thanks to the dedication of our writers, DargonZine thrived and has led the way all that time. Our heartfelt appreciation is offered to all our past and present contributors whose labor and faith in this writing group got us to this prestigious milestone. I'd also like to once again thank our readers for being here with us, whether you've stuck with us for all those years or whether this is your very first issue. Despite our lengthy absence, we enter our 21st year in very good shape. Thanks to our forthcoming story arc, there's plenty of excellent fiction coming your way, and we plan to continue to produce stories that are more closely related than anything you've seen in our pages in the past. I hope you'll stay with us, because as good as DargonZine has been so far, from here forward it gets much, much better. Now let me finally introduce you to the work we've all waited so long to see: the Black Idol. ======================================================================== Little Yorgai and the Beast of Leagues by Liam Donahue Janis 12, 1015 Two small, hooded figures trudged through the dark, snowy streets of Dargon. Their clothing, while not quite rags, was tattered and threadbare and did little to ward off the bitter cold. Strips of torn blanket were wrapped around the outside of their shoes, but the cloth was soaked through and their feet were numb. The larger, a stocky teenaged boy with a lock of blond hair protruding from beneath his hood, turned to his smaller companion. "You had better be right about this, Tanner." Tanner, who appeared to be several years younger than his blond friend, looked up and grinned. "Am I ever wrong, Darrow?" Darrow pursed his lips in thought, although he knew the answer. This was an exchange the two friends frequently shared. "Still, if you are wrong this time, we're in for a very cold night. It's a good bet that all the decent blankets and the best spots by the fire are gone by now in all the hideaways." The hideaways were temporary shelters, mostly vacant buildings, where members of the shadow boys, Dargon's loosely organized street children, spent the night in bad weather. "We'll probably end up crouched in the stables at the Inn of the Serpent, hoping Ballard Tamblebuck doesn't come out and run us off." Tanner laughed. "Now, why would you want to sleep curled up on the stone floor of some drafty, half-ruined old house when we could go to bed on a floor piled high with carpets, where the fire's in a hearth instead of a pit, and the soup's got some solid bits in it that aren't rat?" Darrow's stomach rumbled at the mention of food. "Soup? Why didn't you mention that before?" "Because I didn't think I'd be able to keep up with you the whole way here if I did!" Tanner said as he struggled to maintain pace with Darrow, who had sped up at the thought of soup without rat in it. "There it is, on the left." The pair climbed a short set of stone steps that belonged to a scribe's shop. Tanner knocked on the heavy wooden door. The two stood, stomping the snow off their blanket-wrapped feet, and waited. Darrow felt doubtful. "What if he's not home?" "Where else would he be on a night like this?" Tanner rolled his eyes. "It's not like he frequents the taverns. He likes talking about books and playing King's Key with his scholar friends. I've never seen him out past first bell of night, and it's already third." "What if he's asleep, then?" "We'll just have to wake him up, straight?" Tanner beat on the door even harder. After a few moments, his efforts were rewarded by the sounds of feet descending wooden stairs and irritated muttering in some foreign tongue. The door opened, and the shop's owner, a swarthy man with a dark moustache, peered out at them, scowling. "Eh? What's this?" he asked, his voice thick with an accent from a distant land. "Beggars on my doorstep? Skulking shadow boys, no doubt." Darrow's stomach sank at the man's tone. He and Tanner would be sleeping with the horses for certain. The man began to shut the door, when Tanner pulled his hood back, revealing thick brown hair and a face almost as dark as the scribe's. "Genarvus, it's me." The shop owner's face brightened immediately. "Taneris! I haven't seen you in a sennight or more. Come, come in!" He threw the door wide, and gestured for them both to enter. As they did, Genarvus looked Darrow up and down, one bushy eyebrow raised suspiciously. "Who is this, Tanner? Looks like a shadow boy to me." Tanner brushed some snow off his shoulders. "He is, but he's a friend. This is Darrow." Genarvus' eyes lit up, and he favored Darrow with the same grin as when he had recognized Tanner. The skin around his eyes crinkled into laugh lines as he did. "So, this is the brave young man who helped you save your sister, eh?" He slapped Darrow lightly on the cheek, twice. Tanner had warned Darrow that he might do that. Apparently it was a sign of affection in the scribe's native land. "You're a good boy, then, and welcome in my home." The scribe abruptly clapped his hands together. "Tanner, get some wood to build the fire up! I will find you boys some food and blankets. Darrow, you sit and be comfortable!" As Tanner and the scribe bustled out of the front room, Darrow had a chance to take in his surroundings. The front of the scribe's home was his place of business, but also his sitting room. It was dominated by a great desk, strewn with writing instruments and scrolls. On one wall was a hearth, its fire low, casting a dim light. Several cozy-looking chairs stood in front of it, and the floor, as promised, was piled thick with carpets. He felt uneasy sitting while his friend and his host worked, so he wandered around the room instead. His attention was soon captured by an enormous tapestry that covered most of the wall opposite the hearth. It depicted a green countryside dotted with farms and villages, bounded by mountains and the sea. Through it all wound an enormous serpent. As Darrow's eyes adjusted to the light, he could see knights in brightly colored armor attacking the creature from horseback. Tanner returned, bearing an armful of wood, which he started loading into the hearth. As the fire began to burn brighter, he turned to his friend. "Found Yorgai, did you?" Darrow realized he meant the tapestry. "Yorgai? Is that the name of the snake?" Tanner laughed. "No, that's the Beast of Leagues." He grabbed a candle off the mantle, lit it in the fire, and carried it over to the tapestry. He brought the candle close to the serpent's tail and pointed to a tiny figure nearby. "That's Little Yorgai. He slew the beast." Darrow thought that was unlikely. Yorgai was small even compared to the knights, who were in turn miniscule beside the Beast of Leagues. A tiny crimson dot near Yorgai's head drew his attention. "What's that supposed to be?" he asked, pointing at it. Tanner looked closer. "I don't know. I never noticed it before." "Boys! Come sit!" The scribe had returned with blankets draped over each shoulder, and bearing two large bowls with steam rising from them. Darrow's stomach rumbled hopefully. In moments, the three were gathered by the fire, wrapped in blankets. Darrow was enjoying a thick, savory stew, redolent of spices and with potatoes and chunks of beef floating in it. Beef! After seven or eight mouthfuls, he finally remembered his manners. "Thank you for the stew, sir; it's delicious!" "Don't thank him too much," Tanner said, with a wink at the scribe. "He'll make us work it off in the morning. That's why I don't stay here more often. I almost wish I'd never let you teach me how to write, Genarvus. Darrow, last time he made me copy the same letter, from some Olean priest warning about the dangers of the Manifest religion, four times!" Genarvus laughed. "Can you write, Darrow?" Darrow shook his head and looked down into his soup. One didn't get much chance to learn reading and writing while growing up on the streets of Dargon. "No matter," said the scribe. "I am sure I can find something else for you to do tomorrow. It is the custom of my country." He gestured with an upturned palm. "What country is that, master scribe?" asked Darrow between mouthfuls. "Oho!" Genarvus exclaimed as his eyebrows shot up and he wagged a finger at Tanner. The dark-haired young man shook his head. "I didn't put him up to it." Darrow looked back and forth between the two. It was obvious that he had missed something. "He won't tell me where he comes from," Tanner explained. "He says that if I were a good gypsy, I'd be able to figure it out." Tanner was a member of the gypsy folk called the Rhydd Pobl. He had been living in Dargon for two years, since his father and brother had been slain by the same people from whom he and Darrow had rescued Tanner's sister. Tanner had remained behind to spy on these enemies: a group known as the Bloody Hand of Sageeza. The scribe grinned behind his thick moustache. "And what would your people think of your seeking shelter in the home of one of the 'rooted folk'?" "My people," Tanner shot back, "are generally smart enough to go south before it snows!" Darrow was enjoying the exchange, but he knew better than to let Tanner think too long about the Rhydd Pobl. His friend's thoughts would eventually turn to the death of his family. "I bet there's not much snow in your homeland, is there, sir?" he asked. Genarvus turned back to him, his finger in the air once more. "Ah, but there is. In the mountains. My village was in the mountains. We would sometimes be snowed in for a sennight or more." "A sennight? What would you do to pass the time?" "Ah, we would work. My uncle, too, was a scribe. He would give me piles of scrolls to copy. In the evenings, we would play a game like your King's Key, or tell stories." Genarvus clapped his hands together. "Perhaps I could tell you boys a story!" Darrow shrugged, eager to hear a story, but trying not to appear childish. "I think we're a little old for --" The scribe held up his palm and shook his head in negation. "Vosh, you are never too old for a story, Darrow." He stroked his chin. "What tale shall I tell ...?" Tanner swallowed a mouthful of stew and looked up. "How about Little Yorgai and the Beast of Leagues? Darrow and I were looking at your tapestry earlier." Genarvus clapped his hands together again and shook them. "Ah, Little Yorgai, of course. Tanner knows, Darrow, Yorgai was my boyhood hero." Ages ago, in a house near the tiny village of Yamaran, there lived a boy named Yorgai. He lived there with brothers Sergai and Anatov, and his mother, who loved him very much. His brother Sergai was tall and strong, and a fierce warrior with a sword. His brother Anatov was lithe and swift, and famed for his skill with a bow. Yorgai was none of these things, and much younger than his brothers, so they would call him "Little Yorgai", cuff him on the head, and make him brush their boots when they returned from hunting. Yorgai's father, it is said, was a mighty warrior in the prince's army, taller even than Sergai, and twice as fierce. Yorgai did not know if this was true, for his father had been away in the prince's army for as long as Yorgai remembered, but his brothers told him so. Yorgai would often wish that he would grow to be like his father, so that he could cuff his brothers on the head and make them brush his boots. One day, the magistrate came with terrible news. Yorgai's father had been slain in battle. A huge serpent, which stretched longer than a horse could ride in a day, was attacking the country. Its coils could crush a house like kindling wood, its mouth was wide enough to swallow an entire flock of sheep, and its fangs dripped deadly poison. The Beast of Leagues, as the creature had come to be called, was coiled about the prince's castle, yet it was still able to attack the nearby towns. The prince's army had fought with the beast for sennights and not managed to wound it. Yorgai's mother wept at the news of her husband's death, but she wept even more at the other news brought by the magistrate. The prince had decreed that the eldest son of each family must serve in the army and fight the Beast of Leagues. She pled with the magistrate for Sergai to be spared, but Sergai, who had heard all of this, went to his father's closet and donned his father's old armor, put on his father's old helmet, and girded his father's old sword over his shoulder. He looked magnificent in the armor, which was lacquered in purple and gold and only a little too big for him. "I am not afraid, mother. I will go fight the Beast of Leagues, and slay it to avenge my father," he said. Yorgai's mother was sad to see Sergai leave, but she gave him a sack full of bread and cheese, kissed him on the cheek, and said goodbye. Yorgai was sad to see him leave, too, but he knew his brother was strong and fierce with his sword. If anyone could slay the Beast of Leagues, Yorgai knew it would be Sergai. He watched as his brother set off on the road to Yamaran. As Sergai passed the tall bariya tree that stood beside the path, a kukri bird landed in the highest branch. The kukri bird, like all of its kind, had bright red feathers, a long tail, and a cry that sounded like laughter. The kukri bird cried its laughing cry. Sergai, who did not like to be mocked, ignored it as he strode beneath the tree in his father's old armor, which was only a little big for him. Days passed, and then sennights, with no word from Sergai. Finally, the magistrate returned with terrible news. Yorgai's brother Sergai had been slain in battle with the Beast of Leagues, and the prince had declared that the next eldest son of each family must serve in the army. Anatov, who had heard all of this, went to his father's closet and donned his father's old leather jerkin, put on his father's hooded cloak, and strung his father's mighty bow. "I am not afraid, mother. I will go fight the Beast of Leagues, and shoot it in the eye to avenge my father and my brother," he said, as he slung the bow across his back. Yorgai's mother was sad to see Anatov leave, but she gave him a sack full of bread and cheese, kissed him on the cheek, and said goodbye. Yorgai was sad to see him leave, too, but he knew his brother was swift and skilled with a bow. Anatov had never missed his target. If anyone could shoot the Beast of Leagues in the eye, it would be Anatov. He watched as his brother set off on the road to Yamaran. As Anatov passed the tall bariya tree, the kukri bird landed in the highest branch and cried its laughing cry. Anatov, who did not like to be mocked, shot an arrow at it as he strode beneath the tree. He missed, and the kukri bird laughed at him again. Days passed, and then sennights, with no word from Anatov. Finally, the magistrate returned with terrible news. Yorgai's brother Anatov had been slain in battle with the Beast of Leagues, and the prince had declared that the next eldest son of each family must serve in the army. Yorgai, who had heard all of this, went to his father's closet, but his father's closet was empty except for an old walking stick. Still, he went to his mother and magistrate and said, "I am not afraid, mother. I will go fight the Beast of Leagues, and slay it to avenge my father and my brothers." When the magistrate saw this he smiled and said to Yorgai's mother, "Is this your eldest son? He is far too small to fight the Beast of Leagues." He patted Yorgai on the head and went up the road to deliver terrible news to another family. Yorgai's mother was relieved that her youngest son did not have to go fight the Beast of Leagues, but Yorgai was not. He was determined to go fight the monster for his brothers who had mocked him and the father he had never known. The next day, Yorgai stole a pair of shears from his mother while she was at the market. Then he took an old carpet from his family's common room and dragged it out to the barn. He laid the carpet on the ground and cut a strip from it that was as wide as his shoulders and longer than he was tall. He cut a round hole in the middle of it, poked his head through so that it hung almost to his knees, and tied the whole thing around his waist. It didn't look as magnificent as Sergai's lacquered armor, nor was it as stout as Anatov's leather jerkin, but it would have to do. Setting aside his carpet armor, Yorgai returned to the house, replaced the shears and put back the rest of the carpet. He went into the cupboard where his mother kept her iron pots. He tried almost all of them before he found one that fit his head comfortably. It would not protect him as well as Sergai's helmet, nor shade his eyes from the sun as well as Anatov's hooded cloak, but it would have to do. Yorgai piled the pots back in the cupboard, set his helmet beside his armor, and went back to his father's closet. The old walking stick was not so mighty as Sergai's sword or Anatov's bow, but it was sturdy and came almost to Yorgai's chin. It too would have to do. Yorgai returned to the barn and began to gird himself for battle. As he was slinging the walking stick over his shoulder, Yorgai's mother returned from the market. "Little Yorgai!" she cried from inside the house. "What have you done to this carpet? What have you been doing with the pots?" As his mother came out of the house looking for him, Yorgai emerged from the barn wearing his carpet armor and his iron-pot helmet. The walking stick was slung over his shoulder, but it was so long that the end dragged in the dirt. "Mother," he said, almost tripping over his stick, "I am ready to fight the Beast of Leagues." He had prepared himself to be brave when his mother cried and to be firm when she begged him not to go, but his mother didn't cry or beg. She smiled and touched his cheek. "Of course you are, Little Yorgai." She went back in the house and emerged with a sack of bread and cheese. This she gave to him as she kissed him goodbye. He wondered why his mother did not cry, but decided that she, too, was being brave. Yorgai set off on the road to Yamaran. As he passed the tall bariya tree, the kukri bird, which had been perched in the highest branch, cried its laughing cry. Yorgai, who did not mind being mocked, stopped and broke off a piece of bread, which he cast upon the ground for the kukri bird to eat. The kukri bird followed him all the way to Yamaran, laughing each time he tripped over his stick. Yorgai found the magistrate and asked where he could find the Beast of Leagues. The magistrate patted him on his iron-pot helmet and smiled. "Little Yorgai, the Beast of Leagues is to the west, but you are too young and small to fight it. Go home. Your mother will be worried about you." Then Yorgai knew the truth: his mother had not cried when he had left because she did not believe that he would reach the Beast of Leagues. She expected him to get tired and return home. "It is not my fault that I am so young and small," he thought, as he left the village of Yamaran. "I deserve a chance to fight the Beast of Leagues, just like my brothers." He followed the sun as it made its way through the sky toward evening. That night he made camp and prepared a meal from the bread and cheese his mother had given him. He slept soundly, wrapped in his carpet armor. The next morning, he was awakened by a mocking laugh. He opened his eyes and found himself staring into the golden irises of the kukri bird, which was perched on his chest. "Good morning, kukri bird," he said. "Have you come to laugh at me again, or would you like some breakfast?" The bird hopped off his chest but continued to stare at him. Yorgai opened his sack and tore off a piece of bread for breakfast. He tossed part of it to the kukri bird, which ate it hungrily. "Come along, kukri bird. I think we will have a long walk until we find the Beast of Leagues. Or I will have a long walk. I suppose you will just fly, and laugh at me." Yorgai walked for most of the morning, and saw no sign of the Beast of Leagues. Near midday, he found himself beside a dry riverbed. Mounds of dirt lined the banks. Yorgai thought that the river must have been swift when it flowed; the riverbed was smooth and rounded, and was lined with flattened trees and shrubs. Because the riverbed was smooth, and wound its way toward the west, Yorgai decided to follow it. He walked along the rounded river bottom for the rest of the day. When evening came, he climbed up on the banks to make his camp. If the river started flowing again, he did not want it to catch him asleep in its bed. He had another evening meal of bread and the last of his cheese. He shared some more of the bread with his red-feathered companion. "Good night, kukri bird," he said as he wrapped himself in his carpet armor. "I hope you are not growing as tired of bread as I am. It is all we have left to eat." The following morning he was awakened again by the bird's laughter. When he opened his eyes, though, the bird was not perched on his chest. Instead, it was sitting in a bush, staring at him with its golden eyes. As Yorgai watched, the kukri bird dipped its head into the bush and plucked something off it. Yorgai looked closer. Blackberries! Yorgai jumped up and ate his fill, being careful not to have too much. He had a lot of walking to do that day and couldn't afford a sick stomach. When he was done, he plucked some more berries and put them into his sack with the rest of his bread. Cheered by his breakfast, Little Yorgai climbed down into the riverbed and continued his journey. As he walked, he realized that he had not tripped over his walking stick in more than a day. At first, he thought he might have grown taller, but then he realized that the end of the stick still dragged in the dirt. He had just gotten used to it being there. Still, that was better than tripping over it all the time, so Yorgai was happy. Shortly after midday, Yorgai noticed a hill ahead of him. He was surprised to see that his riverbed ran up the hill instead of winding around it. "That's odd," he said to the kukri bird, which had perched on a branch beside him. "Why would the river run up a hill?" This puzzled him, until he realized that the river had probably run down the hill. He laughed at himself for being so foolish, and the kukri bird laughed with him. Not wanting to abandon his fine, smooth path, Little Yorgai decided to climb the hill. It was difficult going, because the hill was steep and the riverbed went almost straight up it, twisting only a little. Yorgai's chest was heaving beneath his carpet armor when he reached the top. Sweat ran from underneath his iron-pot helm. The kukri bird landed beside him. It had flown up and was neither breathless nor sweating. "Kukri bird, this is odd," Yorgai said once he had caught his breath. "The riverbed goes right down the other side of this hill. Why would a river climb up a hill and back down again?" A sound like thunder filled the air, and Yorgai looked up. The sky was free of clouds, and the afternoon sun shone brightly. He heard the distant rumbling again, and with it something else. He listened carefully, for his hearing had always been quite good. Between the sounds like thunder, he could hear the distant cries of men and horses. A battle! Yorgai realized that the prince's troops must be engaging the Beast of Leagues somewhere ahead of him, but he could not see any sign of it. Looking ahead, he saw an enormous green hill flecked with gold that he thought must be flowers. It was even larger than the hill on which he stood. Thinking that he might be able to see the battle from there, he set off down the hill running. Halfway down, the walking stick that he had become so accustomed to wearing slipped between his feet. He tripped, and fell tumbling the rest of the way down the hill. As he landed, he heard something snap. Afraid that he had broken a bone, Yorgai felt his arms and legs, and then his ribs. He was bruised from the fall, but nothing was broken. Then he looked on the ground and saw what had snapped. His father's stout walking stick had broken into several pieces. Sighing at the loss of his fine weapon, Yorgai picked up the largest piece of it and stuck it in his belt. It would have to do. At least he would not trip over it. Yorgai realized that he could no longer see the big green hill, but he knew the river had run toward it, or away from it, so he started running along the riverbed. He ran and ran until he was out of breath, but he still didn't see the green hill. Finally, as his lungs were burning and his legs were about to give way, he spied the green mound in the distance. He stopped to catch his breath and bent over. When his chest stopped heaving, he looked up. The green hill was moving! He took a step forward and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Then he understood. What he stood in was no riverbed, but the track of the Beast of Leagues. The green mound flecked with gold was the beast itself. Yorgai rushed forward, crying out his brothers' names. As he rounded a bend in the beast's track, he came upon the monster's tail, where the massive wall of green and gold scales came to a tapered point. He dropped his sack, tore the broken end of his father's walking stick from his belt, and began to strike the Beast of Leagues with all of his might. He slashed and stabbed the Beast, but the monster's scaly armor was too strong. The kukri bird landed in the branches of a tree that had been overturned in the monster's wake and laughed at him. Little Yorgai threw down his stick and sat down heavily, exhausted from his run and from his futile efforts to harm the creature. "The magistrate was right, kukri bird. I am too young and small to fight the Beast of Leagues. The only reason that I am still alive is that it did not even realize I was attacking it." The kukri bird cried its mocking laugh and flapped up to a higher branch. Yorgai stood up and dusted himself off. "I did not come all this way to avenge my fathers and brothers simply to turn back in defeat. The scales of the beast are too hard for me to pierce. If I could reach its eyes or mouth I might be able to hurt it there, but its head is leagues away. Besides, that is where much of the prince's army must be attacking it. That is where Anatov went to shoot the monster in the eye with his bow. What could I possible do with this broken walking stick when I can't even hit it hard enough for it to notice?" Little Yorgai pondered this for a moment. "Perhaps, kukri bird, that is the answer. I am too young and small to do battle with the Beast of Leagues. But if I am so young and small as to be beneath the notice of the beast, I do not need to attack." He picked up his stick and walked back deliberately to the tail of the beast, which had moved some distance away while he sat. Instead of slashing and stabbing at the creature, as he had done previously, he stuck his fingers under the trailing edge of one of the creature's scales and pulled up. He immediately cried out in pain and pulled back his hand, which was bleeding. The edges of the beast's scales were sharp! Yorgai pulled off his carpet armor and wrapped the edge of it around his hand to protect it while he pried back the scale again. Underneath, he saw soft green skin, much lighter in color than the scales. He took the pointed end of his walking stick and drove it as hard as he could into the beast's flesh. It penetrated no more than a finger's width. The beast's flesh was much tougher than it looked! Not needing to hold the scale up any longer, Yorgai released it and his carpet armor. He had barely pierced the Beast of Leagues, but it would have to do. He took his iron-pot helmet from his head and began to hammer the stick in deeper. He hammered for almost a mene before anything happened. Then the ground began to shake. The trembling increased, throwing Little Yorgai from his feet. He landed on his back and looked up, just as an enormous shadow blocked out the sun. Yorgai could see why his brothers and the prince's army had been unsuccessful attacking the beast's head. No mere serpent, the Beast of Leagues had an enormous golden crest around its head that shielded it. The jaws of the beast gaped wide as it prepared to strike, and Yorgai saw that its mouth was indeed wide enough to swallow an entire flock of sheep, and its fangs dripped deadly poison. Seeing that he could not escape, Little Yorgai stood bravely. The Beast of Leagues dipped its head and struck down toward Little Yorgai. As it did, a flash of red darted in front of its eyes and Yorgai heard a cry like mocking laughter. The kukri bird! It could not harm the beast, or stop it from striking, but the bird did distract it. The Beast of Leagues missed Yorgai, and buried its poison fangs in its own tail! Darrow raised one eyelid and peered at the scribe, who had stopped speaking. "What happened next?" Genarvus grinned through his thick moustache. "Ah! So you are not asleep after all." Darrow shook his head groggily. The warmth of the blankets, the fire, and the soup in his belly had made him sleepy, but he was certain that he had stayed awake through the story. "I'm not asleep either," said Tanner thickly, from the opposite chair. "What happened to Little Yorgai?" Genarvus spread his hands with his palms up. "That depends who you ask. Some say that there was no way Little Yorgai could have survived the death throes of the Beast of Leagues, and that he died having avenged his family. I always ask them how we could know Little Yorgai's story if he did not survive. Who would have told it, the kukri bird? Others say that Yorgai was brought before the prince as a hero. They say that the prince ordered the Beast of Leagues cut open, and that Yorgai's father and brothers emerged from the belly of the beast unharmed, but ..." Genarvus waved his hand dismissively. "Vosh. That ending is so happy that it rings false. "I always prefer the ending that my uncle told me. Little Yorgai returned to the tiny village of Yamaran and to the house where he lived with his mother. The kukri bird went with him and lived for many years in the highest branches of the bariya tree. Yorgai always remembered to leave some bread out for the kukri bird, especially in the winter when the berries were off the bushes. Years passed and Yorgai grew tall and strong, but the kukri bird still mocked him when he was being foolish, and Yorgai never failed to heed the bird's advice. In time, he became the magistrate of Yamaran, and never once did he tell anyone that they were too young and small to do anything." Genarvus rose and stretched. "Good night to you, boys. The bell is late, and there will be much work for you do to in the morning." As Genarvus' footfalls receded up the stairs, Darrow turned back to his friend, whose eyes had shut again. "Tanner? Do you think that story is true?" Tanner opened one eye and yawned. "It's probably based on something true. You know how tales grow in the telling. Like that tale we heard the other day about the gypsy boy that faced the entire Bloody Hand of Sageeza to save his sister." Darrow laughed. "Straight. There were only two of the Bloody Hand there that day, weren't there? So, you're not quite the equal of Yorgai." "I guess not. Still, I felt like him that day. I was alone in a strange city, and it seemed like my enemies were everywhere. In a way, it was almost as daunting as facing something as vast as the Beast of Leagues." "You weren't alone that day, though," said Darrow, recalling his own part in the rescue of Tanner's foster sister. "True," said Tanner, as he nuzzled deeper under his blanket, "but neither was Yorgai." The young gypsy, smiling contentedly, closed his eyes and turned his head to one side. Seeing that the conversation was done, Darrow let his own eyes drift shut, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the blanket. Then a thought occurred to him, and his eyes popped open. "Tanner, did you just call me a kukri bird?" ======================================================================== End of the Line Part 1 by Rich Durbin Sy 17-20, 1015 In the darkness of a cave lit only by the rays of the setting sun the high priest Zaladris sliced the flesh of his arm on the teeth of the god Gow. His blood spilled into the god's throat. He sang of the glory of Gow, and called for his divine protection, for although Gow was the Beinison god of lovers, honorable warriors, and war, he was best known as the protector. Zaladris stepped back from the black stone idol that was the sacred image of his deity. The idol's fanged mouth opened wide, allowing the high priest to insert his offering into the statue's gullet: a freshly dead rat, wrapped in fustian leaves. He stepped back and ended his song. The statue closed its mouth, resuming its normal aspect. The figure was of darkest black obsidian, mined from the heart of Mount Voldronnai. It had eyes of ruby, and a polished silver sword, which it held in its lap as it sat tailor style. The most striking feature of the idol was its face. Unlike its handsome body, the face was turned up to the sky, screaming in rage, its mouth rimmed with razor sharp ivory teeth. Zaladris was at eye level to the statue, although it was only half a man's height. It rested upon a polished gray stone dais, which in turn rested upon a rough-hewn pedestal. His ceremony completed, the priest wrapped a bandage around the small cuts in his left forearm. He sighed. His joints were hurting, as they often did in recent years. Usually it was a sign that the weather was changing. So fierce was the ache in his knees that he had barely been able to make the short climb to the shrine. "My lord," he said to the statue, "the years are hard upon your humble servant now. The pain grows; my eyes fail. Forgive me, lord protector; I pray thee give me strength that I may carry out the sacrifice, that thy service may be continued." The high priest made his way out of the cave, looking into the remaining bit of the setting sun. Pausing, he turned to the north. He considered for a few moments what he recalled of the world away from his shrine. There was a small village that might be of use, he mused. Gorod, it was called. With a plan forming in his mind, he clutched his red-hooded robe about himself to ward off the cool mountain breeze. His long, gray beard flapped in the wind as he made his way down the worn path, taking much support from his walking stick. Elton groaned as he tossed the light blanket aside. He rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window, noting the predawn light. When Master Oramond had made him journeyrank stonemason, Elton had been very proud of the honor. However, the task of being first to rise, in order to rouse the apprentices, was less pleasing. He pulled on his tunic and breeches, and splashed water on his face. Then he picked up his betrothal pendant, an artfully shaped piece of polished copper on a leather strap, which he tied about his neck. It had only been the previous sennight that Sala had paraded the matched set of necklaces through Gorod, signifying her desire to take a husband. Elton had been finishing his work for the day when she had arrived, followed by cheering villagers. He'd been delighted to drop to his knees, so that she might present him with the token of betrothal. To further mark the occasion, Master Oramond had chosen that evening to raise Elton to journeyrank stonemason. Oramond had later admitted that Sala had forewarned him of her intentions, and so he had decided to time Elton's promotion for the same day. Awake now, Elton pulled aside the rough cloth curtain that separated his alcove from the apprentices, and strode out into the main room. The apprentices lay on their mats arranged against each wall, leaving an aisle for Elton to walk down the middle. All were still asleep, ranging from Adnar, who was the youngest of the group, to Quella, the eldest. At sixteen summers she was the most senior apprentice, only three summers junior to Elton. He went to the end of the room, where there was a large gray block of granite with an iron-headed hammer atop it. "Wake up! Wake up masons; it's time to greet the sun," Elton called as he hammered the granite block. He had always hated it when Yanek, his predecessor, had used the same method to shatter his every morning. He had to admit, however, that it was the most efficient way to get a half score youngsters moving. After seeing that the apprentices were each given a small loaf of brown bread and a draught of water, Elton marched them outside to begin the labors of the day. He smiled, pleased at the clatter of hammers and chisels tinkling as the young masons worked at carving their rock. The masons' work area was less a building than a shelter to keep the beating sun off the sweating apprentices. Rough poles at the four corners and halfway along the sides supported a sloppy thatched roof. Arranged within were the young apprentice masons, each carefully carving raw stone into square blocks suitable for building. Elton checked their work, correcting deficiencies where he saw them. Then he set up his own tools, preparing for the finer work merited by his status. Elton inspected the image of the pockmarked moon, Nochturon, which he had carefully chiseled into the limestone rock. It was to be a facing on the temple to Cahleyna that was being repaired. Just as he set tool to stone, a voice crying out drew his attention. He stepped out of the mason's enclosure and looked east down the street where, silhouetted by the rising sun, he could just make out the source of the voice. With a quick word he put Quella in charge, and trotted down the dirt avenue to where a small crowd had begun to gather. He craned his neck to see over them. "My daughter! My daughter, my daughter has been taken!" lamented Xakim, the baker, a fat, bald man wearing a white smock. The spirit in Elton's breast froze. Xakim was the father of Sala, his beloved and betrothed. He forced his way through the crowd to confront the baker. "What is it, Xakim?" Elton shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders. "What do you mean 'taken'?" "I don't know. Sometime in the night," he said, tears rolling down his cheeks. "Something broke its way into the house and took her. It -- it tore down the wall, and we heard nothing." "Tore down the wall?" Elton repeated, aghast. Xakim shuddered, "Yes, a hole so large that Yetta's cart would fit within it." Shocked, Elton turned from Xakim and rushed through Gorod to the baker's home, his heart pounding with anxiety. Elton's breath was coming in ragged gasps as his sprint ended. Located at the edge of the village, Xakim's bakery was a large mud-brick building with the wood-fired ovens in front, adjoining the dirt street, and with his home in the back rooms. Elton dashed through the bakery to the family's living area. "Sala! Sala, where are you?" he called despite knowing there could be no answer. In the back of the building he found the family sleeping room. It was dominated by the immense hole rent in the rear wall. The only sign of Sala was her empty sleeping mat, the light autumn blanket lying cast aside. The mud bricks had been torn from their courses and were scattered outside. Elton looked amazedly at the hole, which rose from the floor to the roof and was wider than the span of the mason's arms. It faced out on the fields where farmers labored over their crops. Far in the distance he could make out the edge of the forest, and beyond that were the rising mountains of the Darst Range. The dirt floor near Sala's bed had some odd marks near it, where something had disturbed the hard-packed earth. Elton followed the mess to the breach, and saw well-defined footprints in the soft ground outside. He crouched down for a closer look, and noted that each track was longer than his forearm, and nearly half a hand deep. It looked like a man's bare footprint, but one that was much larger and heavier than the largest man he had ever seen. A small crowd of villagers gathered around while Elton studied the scene. "Look at the size of them," Quoll, the thatcher, muttered. "What could it be?" asked Yetta, who had just arrived to deliver flour from the mill. "Kushago," breathed Fardis, the hunter, aghast. "The man-beast of the northern woods. Covered in hair, as large as a bear. I see their tracks sometimes." "I've heard stories of them," Elton said with a shudder. "What could one want with Sala, though?" "Something vile, I imagine," said Fardis. He looked up at Xakim, his face grave, "I'm sorry for your loss, Xakim." "Hold," said Elton. "We don't know that she's dead. I see no blood here. We have to go after her. She needs us!" Fardis shook his head sadly. "No Elton, it's too late for her, and too hazardous for us. Kushago are smarter than bears. I dare not hunt one." Elton looked at him, shocked. "I'm going after her then," Elton snarled. "Who is with me?" He looked at the faces of his fellow villagers. None would meet his gaze, not even Xakim, her father. "Xakim, you'll help me won't you?" he pleaded. Xakim's eyes were downcast. Slowly he brought his head up, and looked at the young mason. "I cannot, Elton. Sala is lost. You know no one has seen a Kushago and lived to tell of it. I must look after the family I still do have. I must guard them against suffering." He gestured toward the breach, "What could I do against such a beast? And winter comes as well. How can I leave my wife now, with a bakery to run and a home to repair? I'm sorry Elton, we must accept what is, not what we wish it to be." "Fark! Old man," Elton cried. He stormed away from the bakery and made his way back to the masons' hall. Though angry, he was also worried about what he was going to do. Xakim was right about one thing at least: a monster that could tear down walls would be more than a match for one man. What else could he do, though? He had known Sala ever since they had been children playing in the mud. He fingered his betrothal pendant as he walked. Elton's resolve stiffened. He didn't want to know life without her now. He just had to hope fortune and Cahleyna would smile upon him. Quickly he gathered some of his belongings, and wrapped them in a blanket in the manner of a traveler. He settled the pack on his shoulders and took a look around his quarters one final time before departing. "Elton," a voice called, "hold a moment." Oramond, the master stonemason, was a wide, squat man, much like the marble blocks he carved. He was shorter than Elton, but much more massive. The light streaming through the window lit the highlights on his bald head, and his black beard flowed down his chest. The master grasped Elton by the shoulder and steered him to his workroom. There he sat across from Elton and said, "I heard about Sala. It's a terrible thing, but don't spill your tools over it." "She's my betrothed, Oramond. I have to go after her. I'll go alone if I must," Elton said. "Don't consider stopping me; this is something I must do." "Calm down boy, I understand. All I'm saying is to keep your wits about you." Oramond gestured to a white stone block, which sat upon a worktable. "What is that, Elton?" Wrinkling his brow in puzzlement, Elton answered, "It's white marble, from our southern quarry?" "Is it?" Oramond asked, "Perhaps it is a rearing stallion, a simple cornice, or maybe even part of Cahleyna's altar." "Well, yes, it could be all those things. Is there a point to this, master? I need to depart." "Elton," Oramond sighed, "you need to look beyond your nose." Oramond shook his head and walked over to his workbench. "My heart is with you in this, Elton. I cannot accompany you, but I offer such help as I have." He moved aside a few small boxes and pulled out a sword in a scabbard from a shelf above his workbench. He blew some stone dust off of it, revealing the scabbard and pommel that extended out of it to be rather plain and somewhat worn. "My great grandfather fought in the Great Houses War. This was his sword, passed down through the generations. I've had no use for it, but this, I think, is a noble cause." He presented the sword to the surprised Elton, who gratefully took it in both hands. "But master, a family heirloom?" "Bah, my chisels and hammers are my heirlooms. That sword is just a memento of deeds long past. Just take care that you come back whole." Elton clasped forearms with Oramond. "Thank you, master. I will always remember your kindness and your wisdom." He departed the masons' hall, and began his quest. Elton made his way to the village's edge and briskly trotted to the fields. At first, his sword slapped against his thigh and threatened to tangle his legs as he jogged. He removed the sword from his belt, and rolled it into the middle of his blanket pack, which resolved his problem. He found that if he stretched, he could grasp the sword's pommel and draw it. In the field he found the giant tracks in the soft dirt and followed the broken and stomped crops up to the beginning of the forest. He stopped and squared his shoulders, looking into the shadows beneath the forest canopy. The villagers of Gorod seldom ventured away from their fields. The wilds held little allure for them, with the exception of such hardy souls as Fardis. Like most of the people in his village, Elton had never been more than a dozen leagues from his home. He took a deep breath to steel his nerves and after a moment he exhaled and said aloud, "Very well now, step forward. It's just a forest." He made sure his sword was held fast in its scabbard, and then adjusted his pack. "Straight, forward into the forest." "Are ye goin' or no?" a croaky voice said. Elton yelped and jumped backwards. His foot caught on a shrub, and he windmilled his arms, flailing for his balance. It was to no avail; down he went painfully on his rump. Looking wildly around, he saw a short, squat man with snaggley teeth emerge from the brush. "Laying about like that is no good. No, no good at all," the man said. "Urtose, you fool!" yelled Elton. "What in the name of blessed Cahleyna are you doing out here? You're like to scare a year off my life, popping out of the woods like some Shuul-damned beast." Urtose bobbed his head and giggled. He shuffled over to Elton and tried to help the mason to his feet. "Heh, thought ye were gonna stand there all day, I did. Never gonna catch up like that. Heh." Elton waved off Urtose's help and struggled to his feet. "What are you talking about, Urtose?" he asked. "She was taken, aye. Gotta find her. This way they went, they did. Ye comin', or no?" Urtose answered. Elton closed his eyes and sighed. "Blessed Cahleyna," he thought, "I know I prayed for help, but what were you --?" Elton paused and took a moment to clear his mind before he became blasphemous with his deity. The mason looked at Urtose grimly. The halfwit must have heard about Sala's being taken. Elton had asked for help in the village, but no one had stepped forward. Now here was his volunteer: Urtose, the village idiot. Urtose was harmless enough, though he occasionally disappeared for months at a time. Elton knew Sala often gave the fool scraps from her father's bakery. He supposed that must be why Urtose fancied himself a rescuer. Elton shook his head and looked at the scruffy vagabond, who was dressed in mismatched leathers and homespun while carrying a long stick with the end crudely sharpened. "I think you had better stay here, Urtose. This could be dangerous, and it will take all my attention." Urtose looked at Elton with a lop-sided stare, and then snickered. "Attention? Yes, lots of attention. Ye know the forest then? Ye have eaten worms and slept in the rain, have ye?" He bounded to the woods with a couple of hops, and looked back at Elton. "No more talk. Further away she's gonna get. Gotta go, gotta go." He scrambled into the forest, following the tracks towards the Darst Range. "Urtose, wait!" called Elton, and dashed into the underbrush after him. Elton, with Urtose following, carefully picked his way along a rocky path. It wound its way through the forest as they slowly approached the roots of the Darst Range, which cut its way through the heart of Baranur. He and the fool had followed the trail where, away from the soft soil of the farmlands, it had dwindled to almost nothing. Once in a while Elton would see a clear footprint in a muddy spot, but for the most part they were left searching for clues. Much to Elton's surprise, Urtose had proven invaluable on this quest. Several times when the trail had seemed to disappear entirely, Urtose had been the one to discover minute clues: a broken stick, bent-over grass, or a few overturned pebbles which had been enough to return them to their path. The idiot had even been able to snare rabbits and forage tubers and berries enough to sustain them. Three days' hard travel, from dawn to late in the moonlight, had brought the pair up to the foothills of the Darst Range. The trail led to a path that curved around a high, rocky hill with a steep dropoff. The freshly bared soil and debris below suggested that the ledge had been wider, but had sheared off when their quarry had passed over it. It was now much narrower. The narrowness of the trail forced Elton to rub one shoulder against the nearly straight wall of the hillside, while the other dangled over open space where the land rapidly dropped away. His careful march was interrupted when the ground he stepped on broke apart. Elton tried to backpedal, but everywhere he stepped, his footing crumbled. Abruptly he was tumbling down the steep slope, twisting desperately in an attempt to avoid smashing into the larger rocks that projected from the soil. Elton wrapped his arm around a gnarled sapling that was growing out of the slope and arrested his descent. The sudden stop nearly jerked his arm out of its socket, forcing him to grunt in pain. He ducked his head against the rain of debris that followed him down the slope. The collapse of the path he had been using had started a small rockslide, one that was threatening to bury him. After several menes, he no longer felt stones pelting his back and all fell silent. Elton tried to move, but was held tight by the weight of the dirt and stones that had nearly buried him. He shook his head to throw off the loose soil and blinked several times until he could see again. "Rock buster, are ye living?" Urtose called. "Glowin' mess this be," he complained, and then started to gingerly climb down the slope. "I live!" shouted the mason. "I'm here Urtose. I'm stuck fast." Urtose reached Elton's resting place and dug furiously. A few menes of hard work uncovered the mason's torso and arms, but his legs were trapped under a mass of heavy boulders which were wedged tightly together. The idiot worked for nearly a bell trying to free Elton's legs. For every handful of dirt he scooped out, more flowed in to take its place. Drenched in sweat and caked with dirt, Urtose finally quit his futile task. "Leave me," Elton said dejectedly. "Go rescue Sala; I am done for." "Oh, a hero be ye?" smiled Urtose. "Ye be a shining knight, giving yer life fer yer lady; just like the tale spinner's talk, eh?" "It's ill enough that I die," Elton grumbled. "There's no need to make sport of me for it." Urtose threw the back of his hand to his forehead, looked to the sky, and said, "Ooh the horror of it all! I must die so dramatically, they shall sing songs of me." Urtose cackled as he shambled a ways up the slope. Elton fumed at the giggling fool. He could only hope Urtose would find some way to help Sala. Eventually the animals would come to finish him, he was sure. Perhaps he could fend them off for a time. Even if Urtose went to Gorod for help, it would take him at least a sennight to return. Surviving so long trapped here didn't seem likely. A long, ululating wail caught his attention. "Ol's balls! What's that fool up to now?" Elton wondered aloud. Urtose didn't return, so the mason could do little but ponder his woes, while he heard the almost animal-sounding wail occasionally in the distance. Elton blinked awake. He had fallen asleep where he was trapped, as the daylight had turned to darkness. The rocky slope was lit by the disc of a nearly full moon. A clattering of stones drew Elton's attention to the two figures nearing him. One he recognized as the hunched, shambling silhouette of Urtose. The other was much larger, nearly half a man taller than any man Elton had seen, its outline blurred by long wisps of hair. Elton's eyes widened. "Kushago," he whispered. He tried to reach for a rock, or a stick with which to defend himself, but none were near. Elton struggled desperately, tugging hard against the boulders that held his legs, while the Kushago advanced on him. "Beast!" snarled the smith. "You took my Sala. I curse you. I will spit upon you from the heights of Kisil-Seed, from the high tower of the gods." "Heh heh, what are ye on about then?" laughed Urtose. "He's here to help ye, rock buster." "The Kushago took Sala, you fool. We've been following his trail. Now you've brought certain death to us, and ended any chance she might have had." "Yer being silly. The beast-men no more want our women than ye want to eat yer stone," Urtose replied disdainfully. He motioned the Kushago over and demonstrated trying to lift one of the larger boulders. After a moment it seemed to grasp Urtose's intention, and moved to help. The rocks that had defeated Urtose and Elton earlier in the day proved to be no match for the strength of the Kushago. The huge man-beast gripped a boulder with both hands and, with a grunt, raised it off the ground and tossed it away. In only a few menes the mason was freed from his rocky prison. Elton shook away the stinging sensation in his legs, which had gone numb during his ordeal. They were scraped and bruised, but no bones were broken, he gratefully noted. He decided that they should make camp right where they were; he wanted to talk to Urtose about the Kushago. It seemed to be friendly enough, or at least it wasn't threatening. The beast shied away from the campfire and looked to prefer the trees to the open. Urtose told the mason that he had encountered the Kushagos on his frequent forays into the forest. He had, on occasion, lived among a nomadic band of them for months at a time. He had learned the way of the wilderness from them, and they had treated him as a member of their tribe, something that could not be said of the villagers of Gorod. "Can you ask him if he's seen Sala, or her captor then?" Elton wondered. Urtose shook his head, "Nay, they don't talk like that, they don't. Hungry, help, hunt: things like these I can say. More than that, there are no words." "You said a Kushago didn't take Sala, but the tracks we've been following --" "Ye thought they were the steps of beast-men, did ye?" Urtose interrupted, "Nay. Nay, those be the feet of a man." "They're huge! They're too large for a man, Urtose," the mason sputtered. The fool just grinned his lopsided grin, shrugged his shoulders, and replied, "Aye, so it's a really big feller, light footed too, to cross the trail ye broke." "Fark. We're falling behind. I fear we may never catch our quarry. In these mountains I can barely see any kind of trail. We're certain to lose them." Elton laid back, cushioning his head with his folded arms, and sighed in frustration. "Heh, we'll find 'em rock buster. Bruce has got a sniffer on him. Aye he'll sniff 'em out," Urtose replied. "Who is Bruce?" the mason asked, puzzled. Urtose nodded toward the Kushago. "He is," he said. "Man can't make the growl he calls hisself. I call him 'Bruce'." The idiot shrugged. "He doesn't seem to mind, and he looks up when I yell it at him." "I hope he can help us then, Urtose. We'll need that and good fortune to rescue Sala." Elton lay back and stared up into the night sky. A few moments allowed him to pick out his favorite constellations. To the east was Aurus, the mistweaver, to the west was Pyrale, the torch, and straight up was Valonus, the oak. He couldn't read the stars like the fortune teller, and could only wonder what they held for him and Sala. Perhaps now, with the Kushago as an ally, and Urtose his friend, he really had a chance to rescue her after all. ========================================================================