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 20 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 3 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 09/02/07 Volume 20, Number 3 Circulation: 628 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Liam Donahue Twist Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Seber 17-18, 1018 Sea-Eyes Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Seber 17, 1018 The Great Houses War 7 Nicholas Wansbutter Firil 28-30, 902 ======================================================================== 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://ftp.dargonzine.org/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 20-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright July, 2007 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 Liam Donahue Here it is, Dargonzine 20-3, right on schedule. Oh, wait, is it September already? So it would seem. Yes, it's been four months since our last issue. Frankly, it's my fault. Ornoth Liscomb, our leader for most of the life of the Dargon Project and on back to the original FSFNet, the true beginning of the zine, decided to turn over the reins of leadership about a year ago. Somehow, I managed to get elected to replace him. Okay, actually, it has taken a team of us to replace him, and I'm the leader of that team. So far, I've figured out that means I get to keep the project members organized, which I would liken to herding cats (because sometimes even trite metaphors are apt). It also means that I get to learn the work necessary to publish the zine. At the 2007 Summit Orn and I agreed that I would do that by publishing this issue. It was challenging to say the least. I always knew a lot of work went into issue production, but I had no idea how much. Apart from the volume of work, I had to learn to use no less than a half-dozen different software applications, not to mention all of Ornoth's helpful macros and programs that went with them. The zine almost died a few times in the process. Okay, that's an exaggeration, or at least artistic license, but I was pretty sure at times that I was going to have to find someone far more web- and code-savvy than me to produce the issues. Through it all, though, I had the Voice of Ornoth to guide me. He actually recorded something like five hours of screen video with voiceover on all of the issue production steps. It was very helpful. Sadly, though, Ornoth tends to talk in great detail about things that are intuitively obvious to me (like how to decide which stories to publish), but he blazes through the stuff that I have no idea about (like the keyboard shortcuts for Unix), but which are intuitively obvious to him. Also, Ornoth's helpful macros are only helpful if you understand what they are supposed to do. Orn got to suffer through it a bit, too, like the Sunday afternoon when I called him for help right after he finished his 200 mile bike ride for the Pan-Mass Challenge, through which he raised over $9,000 for the Jimmy Fund this year alone. Instead of resting and basking in the glory of another successful ride and fundraising effort, he had to help me figure out why one of his helpful programs wasn't helping me. But we got through it all, and here it is at last, DargonZine 20-3. We won't have a long delay like that again due to my learning curve. In fact, I am already hard at work on DargonZine 20-4, which will be published in early October. If you listen closely, you will no doubt hear me cursing at my screen. I do hope you think that the stories in this issue were worth the wait. We have three stories for you: two enjoyable tales by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, our most productive writer by a huge margin, and the seventh installment of Nick Wansbutters' fantastic Great Houses War, the second largest single-writer effort in the history of the zine (the largest belongs to the aforementioned Dafydd). Enjoy. ======================================================================== Twist by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Seber 17-18, 1018 Ista finished changing out of her rough work clothes by pulling on her soft blue tunic over her best leggings, sure of her privacy in the small storage shed on the barge where she worked. She brushed out her long, brown hair and then tied it back while she contemplated how she would spend her free days in Dargon. Ista knew that once the barge docked, which would be in about half a bell, she would be heading as fast as she could across the city to the Lulling District. An anticipatory smile spread across her face as she thought about the delights available at places like the Lederian Carpet. The barge would be returning to Kenna in three days, and she knew she just might spend all of them in the Carpet's basement. There was another reason besides privacy that Ista had decided to change her clothes in that shed, one that would increase her enjoyment of her first day in Dargon. She turned her attention to the small chest that rested on a short stack of crates against the shack's back wall. Burned into its lid was a circle that was only three-quarters complete with a chevron in the center of it, crossed by a horizontal line with a circle on each end. She didn't know what it meant, but she didn't really care, either. She was far more interested in what it held. She opened the lid to reveal the strange contents. The small chest was filled with little twists of what looked like thin parchment wrapped around a hard lump. If the chest had been sealed, she never would have opened it the first time, back near the start of the trip down river, and if there hadn't been so many twists just lying there she never would have tried one then, either. She had heard of the new drug which was just beginning to be available, and hadn't been able to resist sneaking a free sample. Ista plucked out another little packet and closed the lid. She put the twist into her mouth, parchment-stuff and all, where it began to dissolve. She wondered what the stuff was that wrapped the twists as she walked out of the storage shed into the lowering dusk of the fall day. In about a bell, well after the barge was docked and she was making her way across the city, she would feel the same happy effects of the twist that she had the first time. She knew that this was going to be a memorable visit to Dargon. Darrow opened the door to his room and found his friend Murlak rushing around, stuffing things with cheerful abandon into the rucksack hanging from his shoulder. Darrow took a bite of the meat pastie in his hand and watched as the last of Murlak's possessions vanished from the room. The tall, redheaded Murlak finally turned toward the door and said, "Oh, hey there, Darrow." "Hello, Murlak," Darrow said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "Ready for work?" Murlak grinned and said, "Of course I'll be there. Eventually." Darrow's fists clenched in anger, the remains of the meat pastie making a mess as it was crushed. He was sick and tired of Murlak's irresponsibility. He shouted, "You're going to be late again? You've been late almost every day since Sferina got us these jobs. You won't be able to count on her favor forever, you know." Murlak shook his head, still grinning, which only made Darrow even madder. "I won't be very late. Just gotta run an errand for Narok first, then take my things over to Joden's. I'm gonna stay with him for a while." Darrow's anger vanished under growing concern. "Why are you having anything to do with someone like Narok?" "What do you mean? There's nothing wrong with Narok." Darrow shook his head sadly at the so very Murlak-like statement. "He runs a whorehouse, Murlak, among other things. He's not the kind of person who is likely to do you any good in the long run." He winced at the trite phrase, but it was the way he felt. Murlak's cheerful grin turned into a frown. "I don't much care about the long run, Darrow. He pays me to do errands for him and he doesn't mind that I do them in my own time. I'm tired of having to be where someone else wants me to be when they want me to be there. Narok says he'll be able to hire me on full time soon, and then I won't have to worry about whether Sferina likes me or not!" "But you've only had this job for a month!" Darrow stepped aside as Murlak stalked over to the door and put his hand on the latch. He sighed, and continued, "Who's this Joden you're moving in with?" Murlak turned and said, "He's one of Narok's workers. His place is bigger than this one, and besides, he doesn't snore. He doesn't act like he's my older brother, either." Darrow thought that someone needed to be responsible for Murlak, since his friend wouldn't do it for himself. He tried to reason with Murlak one more time. "You've got to grow up sometime, Murlak. You have a steady job in Sferina's warehouse, with good pay. Don't waste this opportunity on the likes of Narok and his type." Murlak pulled open the door and said, "That's what I mean," before slamming it shut behind him. Murlak clattered down the stairs of Darrow's rooming house and slammed out the front door. He stopped there for a moment and wished he hadn't gotten so mad at his friend. He felt strange, itchy and twitchy inside, and he wanted to run and run until the twitching and itching stopped. He looked across the swamp in front of Darrow's place to the ruined causeway and remembered the crash a month ago, and falling into the water, and struggling to save himself from the wreckage and the Coldwell itself. He'd had a lot of time to think, walking around Sferina's warehouse every night since then. When he and Darrow had surrendered the black statue to that guard, Edmond, just after removing their contraband from it, Edmond had been shocked and stunned and ... scared, he thought. Murlak had talked to Darrow about it, and about the plague of bad luck that had first followed the barge, and then had overtaken the city itself for a few days. His friend had made the connection first, but Murlak seemed to have taken it to heart: somehow, maybe, the statue had caused the bad luck, and their meddling had let it do so. Murlak looked at the causeway again, and the itchy twitchiness grew. He turned away, but there were still signs of the mishaps and disasters everywhere around him. He gave in to the feeling, and started to run. As his feet pounded on the stones of the road, sounds echoed in his head. Re. Spon. Si. Bil. I. Ty. A word he had only just learned, a word he was trying hard to run away from. Responsibility. Running from Darrow's grown-up ways, running from Sferina's job, running from the misfortune he had helped cause. He ran and ran, but Dock Street and the barge wharves weren't nearly far enough away from the rooming house to give him time to work out all of the itchy twitchiness. There was only one barge tied up there when he arrived at the docks after tenth bell had rung. Murlak walked over to the person directing the unloading work and said "I'm here for Narok's cargo." The tall, thin man looked Murlak over, frowned, and held out his hand. Murlak's first thought was that he wanted some kind of bribe. Then, remembering his instructions, Murlak fished the folded parchment Narok had given him out of his belt pouch and handed it to the man. The tall, thin man unfolded the parchment, read it over carefully, looking up at Murlak and back down at the parchment several times. Finally, he shrugged, turned, and called out, "Ista! Bring out the small chest at the back of the shed!" Murlak looked around, and saw a young woman with long brown hair and wearing a blue tunic come out of the single shed on the barge's deck. She was carrying a small chest that was maybe as long as a forearm, half that wide, and a hand deep. Murlak held out his hands as she walked over. Ista looked at the foreman, who nodded, then handed the chest to Murlak. He noticed as she did so that there was a streak of blood on her forearm. He took the chest and glanced at her other arm in time to see some blood just appear there and start to flow. His eyes widened in surprise, and he glanced to her face. She was just starting to frown, and blood was starting to appear on her cheek, her jaw, and at the corner of her eye. Murlak backed away, clutching the chest. Ista stepped back as well, blood flowing from more and more points, her tunic and leggings beginning to darken, even her hair beginning to streak. Murlak couldn't see any actual wounds, even though she looked like she had been the target of a dozen or more arrows. She gasped when she looked at herself, then her eyes rolled up and her lids closed. She screamed next, blood oozing faster and faster, painting her red all over. Murlak had backed all the way to the road. When Ista screamed again and opened her eyes, she launched herself at the foreman, tackling him and flailing at him with her fists and feet. Ista's first scream had attracted the attention of everyone around, and when she attacked the foreman, everyone but Murlak charged in to help. The screaming continued and blood got everywhere. The other bargefolk and dock workers were trying to restrain Ista, while she was attacking anyone who came near. Murlak saw that as more and more blood ran, coating the woman from head to toe, or so it seemed, she lashed out more and more slowly. Finally, the screaming stopped. Slowly, the others moved away and stood up, streaked with blood. Ista alone didn't follow suit. She lay on the dock, very still. Blood still oozed from her, pooling on the wood. Murlak was sure she was dead. Murlak turned from the spectacle and walked away. He wondered what had just happened, and then quickly decided that he didn't want to know. It was none of his business, after all. He was glad he hadn't joined in with the others, though. He knew that blood would have ruined his tunic, and it was his favorite. Joden was expecting the knock even though it was after the first bell of night. He said, "Yeah?" When his new roommate walked in, he said, "Hi there, Murlak." The red-haired young newcomer set his rucksack down by the door and carried a small chest over to where Joden was lounging on his bed. "Where can I put this until I get back from the warehouse?" Murlak asked. "Just set it in the corner," Joden said, waving in that direction. "It'll be fine there. Is that the shipment Narok is waiting for?" Murlak set the chest in the corner, then said, "Yes. Should I take it to him before going to work?" Joden snorted, and said, "Nah, not if he didn't ask you to rush it over. Narok doesn't expect people to guess what he wants, so if he didn't say it, you don't need to imagine he might have. Besides, he's not running short of twist." "Twist?" Joden stood and walked over to Murlak and the chest. "You've never tried it?" He opened the chest and plucked out two of the tiny twisted packets. He straightened up, letting the lid fall closed, and handed one to Murlak, then popped the other into his mouth. The redhead looked at the drug in his hand with trepidation. "Go ahead," urged Joden, "try it. It'll make you feel really good. Just put it in your mouth. That's not parchment it's wrapped in, so it will dissolve just fine." Murlak lifted his hand to his mouth and closed his lips around the packet. Joden continued, "It will take a while to start working, but you'll know when it does. This is the first shipment from Narok's new supplier. I hope they're as good as the others I've had." He knew that Narok was paying less for this new drug, so it had better work or his boss was going to be unhappy. Narok would be able to undercut the competition because of the new pricing, but if it didn't work, no one would want to buy it. Murlak drew Joden's attention by saying, "Thanks for looking after the chest, Joden. I'd better get going." "No trouble at all, Murlak. See you later." He didn't see his new roommate leave because he was staring at the chest. He debated the wisdom of taking another twist against the opportunity in front of him. He made his decision, and returned to his bed with a few more twists in his hand. He didn't have anything else planned for the evening, and he didn't think that Narok would miss them. And he had always wanted to know what a double dose of twist would feel like. Birds chirping in anticipation of dawn accompanied Murlak as he headed back to his new home after work dragging his feet and not feeling a bit like running. The night hadn't begun well, what with Darrow yelling at him for being a bell late, but that was normal. Shortly after that the dose of twist had begun to work and everything had gotten bright and sharp and clear, and nothing, not even the boredom of patrolling Sferina's warehouse, could keep him from being very happy for almost half the night. He had even laughed at the rats scurrying out of the crate of tubers, though he had gone back later in the night to make sure they were all gone. After the twist had worn off, though, things had only gotten worse. He had gone from stupidly happy to inconsolably sad, and remembering the previous good feelings had only made him feel sadder, and stupid on top of it. Who laughs at rats, after all? He decided that he never wanted another dose of twist, and couldn't understand the attraction of the drug in the first place. He didn't bother knocking when he got to Joden's, figuring that his new friend was probably asleep. He opened the door and gasped at the scene of chaos he found. Blood was everywhere, not least covering his roommate, who was laying on the floor, red from head to toe with it. The bed was torn up, the single chair and the small table were smashed, and the remains of those, as well as the walls and floor, were streaked with blood. Murlak saw that Joden's dead finger pointed to a dose of twist lying next to the wrecked bed. Murlak knew he wasn't as bright as Darrow, or as good at business as Narok, but he had some street smarts from his days as a shadow boy, and he didn't believe in coincidences. Ista from the barge had died covered in blood after delivering the chest of twist to him. Joden had also died covered in blood with that same chest in his room. Murlak had never heard of anyone dying like that before, and yet in one day he had seen it twice, and both had to be connected to the twist drug from the chest. He took a step back and closed the door, thinking as hard as he ever had. He remembered how many little twist packets had been in the chest, and he knew that it contained a lot of death. He had to do something about it, and his first impulse was to let someone else take care of it. The chest belonged to Narok, so it was Narok's problem. Murlak decided to let the whorehouse owner know about the poisoned drug, because after all, who would knowingly sell death to his customers? Narok was having a bad day, and first bell had only just rung. Two of his whores were ill and the news had gotten around, and the new man on the late night door was stealing from the till. As he stood in a back corridor of his whorehouse, the Lederian Carpet, he knew that the two men in front of him were only going to make his day even worse. "Boss," said the short, fat, balding one, "I brung Heirk like you said. He wuz down the docks, lookin' fer a berth." Narok looked at Heirk, bruised, scared, cowed, being held firmly in the grip of his much shorter captor. "Trying to run, Heirk?" he asked. "I loaned you that half-Mark in good faith, and all you had to do was pay me back a full Mark yesterday. You never showed up, and Tulit had to chase all over the city to find out why. So, why?" "I ... I ... I made a, a, a bad ...," Heirk stammered. "You know," Narok interrupted, "I've decided that I don't really care. I doubt it would be anything I haven't heard scores of times before." He stared at the captive man, watching the fear grow in his eyes, watching the sweat bead up on his forehead and crawl down his face. It didn't make him feel any better, though, so he finally said, "Tulit, take Heirk away and kill him. I hate people who break deals." Heirk squeaked something, but Tulit's hand covered the captive's mouth before he could really cry out. As the short man started dragging Heirk away, Narok turned and found the young red-haired friend of Joden's standing there staring at him wide-eyed. He remembered that he had sent the young man, Murlak was his name, after the new shipment of twist yesterday. The boy had nothing in his hands how, which was why he asked, "Where's the chest?" without even considering what Murlak might have just witnessed or the image he had been trying to impress on the redhead to lure him into his employ. "I ... ah, it's back at Joden's," said Murlak. "I, um, forgot --" "Well, it had better be at Joden's," Narok said, turning away. "Because if it isn't, if you've lost it, you're going to owe me quite a lot of money." "Owe you?" Murlak squeaked. Narok's face stretched into a grin that wasn't one of his friendly expressions. He turned back to the youth and said, "Yes, owe me. You were sent after the shipment, and that means that you're responsible for the money it represents to me. So, you either deliver the chest, or you work off its value." He eyed Murlak up and down, reevaluating the kid's potential and liking what he saw. "We need more dancers downstairs, and you, well, you could probably work off the debt in a year, maybe less." "I ... I'll go get it," said Murlak, then turned and ran. Narok watched the boy go. He couldn't decide whether he wanted the chest, or Murlak as an employee. The new shipment of twist was significantly cheaper than usual, so he stood to make more money off of it. But once he got Murlak working for him, he was pretty sure that the boy wouldn't quit after only a year. Well, he won either way, didn't he? Murlak walked slowly back to Joden's rooming house because it wasn't far from the Lulling District and he had a decision to make. He sighed as he walked, thinking that he hadn't gotten away from responsibility even here. He now knew that Darrow had been right; Narok wasn't the kind of man Murlak had thought, and he certainly wasn't likely to do Murlak any good, long run or short. He could take the chest to the man anyway, but his newfound sense of responsibility wouldn't let him believe that any deaths the twist caused wouldn't be his own fault as well as Narok's. He could tell the man that the drug was poison, but he wasn't at all sure that Narok didn't already know it, or at least wouldn't make use of it in a different way, not after seeing that confrontation with Heirk. If Narok knew that Murlak knew about the poison, he could be in even bigger trouble. And there was still that responsibility thing to get around. He could also get rid of the twist and end up an employee of Narok, dancing in only a loincloth. He knew from spending time with Joden around the Lederian Carpet that Narok's employees were not given the leeway he was able to enjoy at Sferina's warehouse. He went over his options again and again, but there was really no way to get away from the obvious. Responsibility would weigh on him either way, but there was only one way to be able to bear that responsibility. By the time he reached Joden's door, he had made his decision. Third bell was ringing out over the city as Murlak pounded the last few doses of twist with a rock, powdering the stuff inside. He was sitting on the rocky shoreline of the promontory that hosted the Sailors' Shrine, doing what had to be done. He was taking every care he could, worried about the fact that he had taken one dose himself, but he didn't seem to be having any reaction to the smashed drug. The twists were finally mostly flat, and he swept them into his hand and then dumped them into the water. He watched the strange parchment-like wrapping dissolve, followed by the powder inside. He checked the chest one last time, then closed the lid and heaved the empty thing as far out over the water as he could. He stood up and watched the floating chest for a while, then turned back toward the city and started walking. The guard would soon be dealing with Joden's corpse one way or another, since Murlak had sent a shadow boy over there with a message after leaving the door open on his way out. Either the shadow boy or someone else was sure to rob the place, and eventually Joden's corpse would be reported. That left Murlak two things to do: tell Narok that he had lost the chest, and ask Darrow if he could move back in. Truthfully, he wasn't sure which encounter he dreaded more. ======================================================================== Sea-Eyes by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Seber 17, 1018 "Percantlin!" I paused halfway out the door onto Division Street and looked over my shoulder. Tanjural, my son-in-law, was hurrying toward me. I admit, I sighed a little. The two of us usually ate our lunch together, heading home at about fifth bell for some of my housekeeper Margat's excellent cooking. Even though I had come to accept that Tanjural had had nothing to do with the death of my daughter, Kalibriona, and I had even invited him into my house, occasionally I just wanted a little time to myself. The Dusty Reef out on the docks made a fish-cake that Margat just couldn't duplicate. Then again, perhaps it was just the carefree, dockside atmosphere of the place that made those cakes and ale taste so good. Tanj caught up to me and surprised me by saying, "Percantlin, we have a problem that's come in with the cargo off the Island Winds. I thought you should be the one to handle it." Tanj had earned his way in the past month to be my second-in-command, handling the organizational duties of the warehouses of the Fifth I Merchants, the company I ran. I knew that he was competent to handle anything routine, and very likely many things that were not. Intrigued, I nodded and followed as he set off. The Island Winds had arrived that morning, returning from a six-month journey to far shores. We regularly handled their cargo, buying the goods we had a use for and brokering their more unique wares to others. Long haul ships always had a great assortment of freight from the exotic places they sailed, and the arrival of one was an occasion of much excitement. Still, it wasn't likely that Tanj would fetch me just to look at some strange merchandise or outlandish trinket, at least not in that tone. We walked briskly across the inner courtyard that the warehouses faced and came to the loading house, which had doors at both dock and courtyard ends. The large, long building was well lit from the late morning light streaming in through both doors, and orderly piles of goods lined the walls. Nearer the dock end were the stacks of cargo from the Island Winds. Tanjural led me to one small crate that was situated by itself a short way from the other freight. The square box was no more than half-a-man tall and made from sheets of wood, rather than the more usual planking. The edges were all covered with a black substance that I confirmed was tar as I got close enough to smell it. The only marking that I could see was a strange rune charred into the top. It looked like a circle only three-quarters complete with a chevron in the center of it, crossed by a horizontal line with a circle on each end. The mark was unfamiliar, though it seemed in its isolation to be some kind of identification, perhaps of the crate's owner. I turned to Tanjural, and he answered my unasked question. "This box was found stowed among the crates and barrels belonging to Frinwalsh and Sons, but it is not listed on their manifest. Nor is it on any of the cargo manifests the Island Winds took on. No one knows how the thing got on board, nor do they recognize that mark. I even checked with the harbormaster, and he has no record of the mark, either. "But that's not all. Come, look," Tanj said, walking around to the other side of the box. I followed, and saw that there was a dark spot on the side of the box. I crouched down and touched the spot, finding that it was a slightly wet dent in the wood. I looked up and asked, "How did it get wet?" Tanj said, "I think that the water is seeping from inside. It's been dried off several times, but the damp keeps coming back." I returned my gaze to the crate. "That might explain the tar seal. But who ships water in a box, when a barrel is designed for the job?" "And who does the box belong to?" asked Tanj. I stood up, my knees protesting only slightly. "Well, we don't know that, do we? If no one recognizes the box, and no one knows to whom it belongs, then I say that the box belongs to us. And for all we know, there might be something alive within, kept so by the briny water that is seeping out of it. We need to open it up. Perhaps that will tell us who our mysterious owner is." Tanjural gestured, and some of the workers laboring at the rest of the Island Winds' cargo hurried over, pry bars in their hands. They set to work levering the tar around the top of the box away, and when the joint was clear, one set the flat end of her tool to it and shoved with practiced ease. A booming voice cried out, "No!" as the tool sank in, opening a gap between the top and side of the box. I looked up to see who had cried out, and saw a large man standing in the dockside doorway, his face handsome and weathered and scowling, his wild, long hair streaming black down his back. I wondered who he might be as he took a step forward, then glanced back at the box. Suddenly, there was a loud whooshing sound, and the box blew apart. I thought I saw a geyser of water blow the lid straight up, and then the sides flattened out. I felt a brief blast of salty water, and instinctively closed my eyes against it. When I opened them again, the six planes of wood that had made up the box lay in disarray on the floor, bone dry every one. I felt my tunic, but it too was dry. I looked around at the others, but they seemed equally confused. What had just happened? I wondered whether the strange man knew, but when I looked, he was no longer standing in the doorway. Two bells later, I was back in my office with an unsolved puzzle on my mind and no lunch in my belly. I had helped search the loading house for anything out of the ordinary, but none of us had found anything. The six squares of wood, one rune-marked and another dented, all dry, were all that was left of the box and whatever strangeness had been sealed inside. No one present had seen anything more definitive than I had, and no one had any idea what the box had contained. The search hadn't taken the whole two bells, of course. Interruptions had been constant; questions put to me because I was there, not because I was the only one who could answer them, and the other little daily emergencies that always crop up. Before I knew it, fifth bell had come and gone, and it was after sixth bell by the time I had regained my office. I debated whether I should save my appetite for the evening meal or grab something quick from the Dusty Reef as I shuffled ledgers on my desk. I finally stood up, decision made, when Heerans, my assistant, walked in. "Another emergency in the loading house, Percantlin," he said. Frowning, I followed him out. There was a buzz of activity in one corner of the loading house, behind a pallet of crates, and it drew Heerans and I across the building. The huddle of Island Winds crew and my own staff parted as we approached, and I saw that the body of a young man lying on the floor had been the focus of their attention. He was sprawled on his back with a slightly sad look on his face, and he was soaking wet. I bent down next to him, and could smell the sea, but it was clear from the lack of water on the floor that he hadn't just dragged himself in here after nearly drowning. There was no sign of a struggle, either in his splayed limbs, his expression, or the crates and wall next to him. Was this a new mystery, or did the water link it to the previous puzzle? I stood up, and said, "Does anyone know what happened here?" Sardyee, the supervisor of the loading house, walked over. "No one knows, Master Percantlin," he said in his mild voice. "Jassin there was working away one moment, and the next he went missing. We called, then looked, and finally found him. Don't know how he got that way, though." There were mutters and whispers as the others who had gathered went back to work now that the boss was there. Soon it was just Sardyee and me beside the corpse. I tried to make sense of the situation, and the only possibility was some kind of complicated murder designed to scare the workers. I thought I had heard the word "nisheg" among the mutters, but I honestly didn't believe in water spirits. Along with that, we were too far from the ocean, even with the docks just through the door, for any kind of nisheg I'd ever heard about to take up residence here. "So, Sardyee," I said, "did Jassin have any enemies?" "What? Why? Ah, well ... that is, I don't think so, Percantlin." "Fine, fine. Have you, perhaps, heard any rumors of discontent among the workers? Someone with a grudge, someone with a reason to try to disrupt the loading house today?" Sardyee was silent for a moment, and I could see understanding come to his plain face. His eyes narrowed in concentration, and then he sighed. "No, sir, nothing like that has come to my ears. No gripes, no grudges, no reason that I can fathom for anyone to kill someone like this, much less Jassin." I sighed in turn. Sardyee worked closely with everyone in the loading house, and if there was anything to know, he'd know it. Then I remembered something. "Just before the box exploded, there was a large, dark-haired man at the dockside door. He shouted 'no', but I didn't see him afterwards. Did you happen to notice him, or know who he might be?" "Didn't see him, Percantlin, and haven't seen anyone like that since. Should I ask around?" "Please do," I said. "If he was shouting about the box, then he might know who it belonged to or what was in it. In the meantime, take care of Jassin discreetly, and then keep a close watch on things. The Island Winds doesn't sail until the tide turns late tonight, but we will still need all of the time between now and then to get her loaded and ready to sail." I walked slowly back to my office, contemplating ways to uncover the secret of Jassin's death. I could have nosed around and asked questions on my own, but I was worried that my interest would only make everyone even more nervous. In the end, I decided that it was just one incident. My workers wouldn't let it stop them from earning their daily wage. My attention was diverted from the dual mysteries of the day by the mundane details of running the Fifth I for the next bell or so. And then, just as I was beginning to think that the rest of the day would be uneventful, I was summoned back to the loading house. The large building looked like a sinking ship with the rats streaming away from it as I approached: both my own workers and the crew of the Island Winds were pouring out the doors, crazed looks on their faces. This time "nisheg" wasn't whispered, but uttered clearly and fearfully. Inside, not one, but two bodies awaited me. The scenes were much like Jassin's had been: each in a secluded section of the building, each body looking relatively peaceful in death, with a sad, or perhaps wistful, look on their faces, each soaking wet in the middle of perfectly dry surroundings. Sardyee met me at the door and led me to each corpse, relating much the same story as with the first. Both Arland and Yorssa had wandered away from their work, and then been found sopping and dead. "It was one of the Island Winds crew," Sardyee said, "that first said nisheg out loud, just after Arland was found. No one believed her. But once poor Yorssa's body turned up, there was no stopping 'em. They bolted, just 'fore you got here. She was so well liked; it's a shame." "I'm sure it was just shock," I said. "Sailors are a superstitious lot, but us landlubbers are more hardheaded. Nisheg are nothing more than myth, straight? Nothing more than myth." I paused for a moment, then said, "Sardyee, go round up our folks and get them back to work. We need to get this cargo sorted and stowed, rumors and myths notwithstanding. Tell everyone to pair up and stay together. So far, the three casualties were alone. That should make them feel safer. I doubt that you'll get the ship's crew back in here, so offer a bonus for anyone who stays over shift." I turned to Heerans and said, "Send a runner to the wizard Cefn; see if he can come and help. I don't believe that we're dealing with something magical, and perhaps Cefn can convince everyone else of that, while exposing the real culprit." As Sardyee coaxed our workers back into the loading house in twos and threes and larger groups, I started back toward my office. It wasn't surprising, I suppose, that sailors, and even dock workers, were frightened of nisheg. I expect everyone knows at least a story or two about the mysterious, often alluring, and usually fatal water spirits, but for those who work on and around water, they probably hold a special significance. Nisheg is a general name for a seemingly infinite variety of strange aquatic phenomenon. Most of the stories detail individual creatures, rather than types of creatures, with each lake, stream, pond, rivulet, and even well having its own resident, jealously guarding their habitats from both despoilers and casual wanderers. There were horse-like spirits, and monsters of varying descriptions, but most often the tales concerned women, or female-shaped beings, luring folk into the depths with false promises. From the fish-tailed mermaids and fair-songed sirens of the sea, to the lantern-bearing maidens in fenlands, none of these beings ever had a helpful role in any of the stories I'd heard. It made me wonder what was so inherently frightening about water that started all of these strange tales. It was nearing eighth bell when Ront, the messenger that Heerans had sent for Cefn, entered my office. "I couldn't find the wizard, Master Percantlin," he said. "No one answered his door. A neighbor said he'd gone out early yesterday morning, maybe second bell, and no one's seen him since." My door opened again before I could thank Ront, and Sardyee entered. "Percantlin, sir, I've found out who that man is you were asking about. Seems as though it was Captain Lar, master of the Island Winds hisself. Since the second set of deaths, he's recalled all of his crew and posted guards on the gangplank. Our folk have to hand over the cargo there; no one but crew gets on the ship." I was just about to reply to the news of Captain Lar's strange behavior when the office door opened again. This time, Heerans poked his head in and said, "Two more dead, Percantlin, and they were together. No one wants to go back inside the loading house now." I stood abruptly and said, "Well, it looks like we have a problem and we are going to have to solve it ourselves. First, we need to know more about what might be going on. Heerans, Sardyee, gather as many people together as you can in the main courtyard. Anyone and everyone who knows a fable or anecdote about any kind of nisheg is invited; pass the word up and down the docks. If this is a water-sprite problem, we need to learn as much about them as we can, and as quickly as possible. "Meanwhile, I will go talk to Captain Lar and see if his strange behavior this morning means that he knows something relevant about our problem. Let's go." We all hurried out of my office, and I headed down the stairs and out the front door. I turned right toward Commercial Street and the docks. I had to walk for several blocks along the ocean because the piers at the Coldwell end of Commercial Street had burned four or so years ago during the Beinisonian War and had yet to be rebuilt. I was constantly lobbying for returning the docks to their original purpose, but it looked like my business was going to have to continue to haul cargo by wagon to the functioning wharves because the news was that someone was building a bathhouse across from my warehouses. I reached the Island Winds' berth and looked her over. The ship was large, with tall masts bearing furled sails, and sheets crisscrossing what looked like every open space, forming a webwork cats-cradle above the decks. She looked big and strong and capable, and even so I had no desire to experience a moment of time aboard her while she was at sea. The gangplank was lined with sailors, and they were passing the last few crates hand-over-hand up to the deck. They then took up guard-like poses, and I could tell that Sardyee had been right: I wasn't getting aboard. Instead, I said, "I'd like to speak to the captain, please." My request was relayed up the gangplank just as the crates had been. A few moments later, the large man with black hair that I had seen earlier strode up to the rail of his ship. "I'm Captain Lar," he said in his booming voice. "What can I do for you, Master Percantlin?" "I would like to apologize for the temporary labor problems we're experiencing, captain. I am working on a solution at this very moment, and I'm confident that we will be able to resume cargo transfer very soon." The captain frowned and said, "Be sure that you do, good sir. The Island Winds sails with the turn of the tide, and you'll pay the forfeiture on the contracts if the goods aren't on board." I knew the penalties involved, and I thought it a little crude of Captain Lar to state them so confrontationally. Which only made it easier for me to ask, "You wouldn't know anything about the circumstances surrounding the problems in the loading house, would you, captain?" Lar drew himself up, a look of offended pride on his face. "Of course not! And I don't have time to stand around trading insults with you, sir merchant. You have until the sixth bell of the night to complete your cargo transfer, so perhaps you should go see to it!" With that, he turned and stomped off. I turned away too, and as I walked back to the warehouses, I was sure that Captain Lar's reaction had been a bit too forceful and outraged to be real. By the time I got back, the courtyard of the Fifth I warehouses was crowded with people, more than half of whom were not even employees. I was glad of their generosity in spending their time to help out. I climbed into the bed of a wagon that had been set aside as a makeshift podium and looked out over courtyard. As the noise of idle chatter died away, I glanced around me to see that the scribes whom Heerans had assembled were ready with their lapdesks, parchment, ink, and quills. I raised my hand, and the last few murmurs fell silent. "Thank you all for coming," I said. "As you've been told, I need the benefit of your knowledge. I want to know everything you know about nisheg." I should probably have expected what happened next, which was a wave of unintelligible noise as everyone began to speak at once. I smiled ruefully, and held up my hand again. Gradually, the wave subsided into silence again. "Perhaps we need to find a better way of doing this," I said. "The person I point to will tell what they know. If anyone else has anything to add to that, they can then speak. Please keep your comments brief; there are a lot of you and I would like to hear from everyone." The tale-telling lasted for well over a bell, and I learned a great deal about nisheg. At first, I thought the cause was hopeless, as every story was as individual as the person telling it. Gradually, though, certain similarities began to emerge, sorting the stories into broad categories. Some nisheg were bound to their bodies of water, while some could venture away by anything from a few steps to several paces, and others were bound by nothing. There were water sprites who guarded their haunts against any and all who came near, while others only bothered trespassers. Certain nisheg were merely tricksters, causing mischief and mayhem but seldom death; some used lethal force to protect that which they guarded; yet more killed for sport or perhaps livelihood. They were variously limited to appearing only in the day, or only in the absence of sunlight; others could only be found at certain times of the year, or even in specific weather conditions. In terms of appearance, some resembled horses, some people, some floating rain clouds or ambulatory rivulets, and many other shapes as well. Various sorts routinely hid their visage behind illusions, and some used those illusions as lures for their prey. There existed types that could be caught or tamed through special means or trickery, though most were best avoided altogether. There were few mentions of ways to kill nisheg, but usually the operative element was something that was inimical to water. One particularly detailed legend related how a certain group of people would put together large hunting groups composed of both adults and children, and it was always the children who were able to fire their arrows and kill the object of the hunt while it was distracted by the adults in the band. As the stories continued to flow, the courtyard slowly emptied out, those who had given their information wandering away or returning to their jobs. I believe that every single person who had gathered contributed something. Finally, the last person remaining stepped over to the wagon I was standing on. He was a young man, or perhaps an older boy, dressed in the brief vest and short pants of a cabin boy. His skin was naturally bronzed, his nose very broad across his face, and his earlobes were startlingly pendulous. "I want say," the boy said in a strangely accented, high voice, "box with broke circle belong to master Captain Lar." He paused, looked around furtively, then continued, "He meet in secret with ghost-man in dark cloak. I hear some of deal. Ghost-man mean to get box this morning before docking, but not happen." He stopped speaking again, looking at his bare feet for a few moments before raising his gaze again. "Master very angry when box leave Winds. More angry when he come back without it, yell about lost money. I come help against master's order. Wish you luck." The boy turned and dashed away before I could say anything. I thought I recognized the high voice and strange accent as the reciter of some of the stories, though I didn't remember exactly which ones. Maybe he had helped. As far as Captain Lar's complicity, it was nice to have it confirmed, but there wasn't much I could do about it. I had no real proof, and I was sure that the boy wasn't going to go with me to the authorities, even if I could contact him again. Lar was completely safe aboard his ship, and there was nothing I could do to punish him for whatever damage he had caused. Back in my office, I went over the sheets of parchment the scribes had produced, supplementing my memory of the stories that had been gathered. My next step was to try to extract enough information from them to produce a solution to the problem in the loading house. The only thing that bothered me about the task ahead was that I had no idea whether that solution could, in fact, be gleaned from what we had collected. I did the only thing I could: I began making assumptions. The way the five victims had died -- no struggle, no fright on their faces -- suggested that the nisheg used an illusory lure to snare its victim. It was a pretty good distance from the water, which meant that it was probably made of liquid, a supposition which was supported by the way its victims had been soaked. That suggested that it was killable, probably by something that was inimical to water. My first thought on that score was a drying agent like we often used when packing items that could be ruined by damp. Temkah was the strongest one I knew of; when we used it, we cut it one to five with corn starch. Lastly, I wondered how we were going to hunt the thing. I decided that we needed as many people as we could convince to go back into the loading house. There were two reasons for that. First, we had already searched the place several times, but had never seen the water spirit. I figured what would work would be a sweep search, which would be all the easier with more people. Second, I was worried about the illusion lure. The last pair of deaths had happened together, so there was no requirement that the victim be alone. I could only hope that there was some kind of limit, and that we could involve enough people to exceed that limit. So that was the plan: a sweep search of the loading house with as many people as I could get, each armed with an arrow coated with uncut temkah. I hoped that it worked better than it sounded. I had only been able to convince nine other people to participate in the hunt, and the ten of us stood in the lengthening shadows of the last bell of the day in front of the courtyard entrance of the loading house. All of us were armed with temkah-coated arrows and were ready to go. The ten of us, including Tanj, Heerans, Sardyee, and six other workers, entered the loading house. We searched methodically, making as much noise as possible, trying to drive the nisheg ahead of us. It was nerve-wracking, stalking through the piles of crates, barrels, and bags, trying to keep an eye on everyone else to keep them from wandering away, trying not to let the thing we hunted slip past us, not wanting to actually set eyes on it and face the implied lure. We finally came to the far corner of the dock end of the loading house without seeing the water sprite. Unless it had slipped past us, it had to be behind that last pile of crates. We lined up on one side of the pile and advanced, calling out and stamping our feet on the wooden floor. We split to go around the pile, moving as quickly as we could, and suddenly, with a flash of movement into the corner itself, we saw it. Saw her, I should say, because standing there, cowering slightly, was Giesele, my wife. She was as beautiful as I remembered: tall, graceful, with long blond hair and the sweetest lips I had ever tasted. This was Giesele before the Red Plague, smiling, beckoning to me, her sea-green eyes filled with longing: longing for my touch, my kiss, my love. As I looked into those deep, green eyes, I could hear voices around me saying names even as I whispered, "Giesele." Tanj on my left said, "Bronna," and Heerans on my right said, "Dan." The bow was forgotten in my hands, and I wanted to cross that empty space between us and fall into her arms. Despite the way she looked at me, I knew that she wasn't ready for me to approach, and I awaited that call eagerly. There was a cry like waves crashing on a shore, like screegulls calling, like a storm passing, and suddenly Giesele was gone. The image of her standing before me vanished, and as the longing, the pull, also disappeared, I caught a glimpse as I turned away of something shriveled and not at all human-seeming where she had been. I looked around. I saw that everyone had turned away, and some were also looking around. I counted nine arrows in nine bows, and I looked to see who was holding the tenth, arrowless bow. Sardyee was the one who had saved us! We all congratulated Sardyee on his heroics, but I could see that he was very confused by the accolades. I drew him aside and said, "Who did you see? And how did you manage to fire?" He looked confused, and replied, "What do you mean? All I saw was a strange, fishy woman-like thing. I took aim, expecting to be shooting right along with everyone else. When my arrow was the only one loosed, I was shocked." "You didn't see a past love?" I asked. He just shook his head. "You did?" "I saw my wife. I heard Tanjural mention my daughter, his wife. But you ..." His eyes got sad, and he turned away. I wanted to reach out to him as he walked away, but I had no idea what to say. Heerans came up beside me and said, "Where's he going? We wanted to invite him out for a drink in thanks." I said, "Let him go. You can thank him later." I didn't really think that Sardyee would appreciate being thanked for never having known love. I ordered the workers to bundle up the body of the nisheg, thinking that someone might have a use for it. As I was walking out of the loading house to get all of the workers back on the job to get the Island Winds' cargo loaded, I remembered something. Giesele's eyes had been brown. Not the green of the sea. ======================================================================== The Great Houses War Part 7: The Knights' Charge at Balkura by Nicholas Wansbutter Firil 28 - 30, 902 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-6 Part 6 of this story was printed in DargonZine 20-2 Baroness Galina Fennell sat in a simple pine chair, staring into the fire that crackled in a stone hearth. The floor beneath her feet was dirt strewn with rushes, the building a peasant's dwelling that doubled as a tavern of sorts. The master of the house, a widow of the civil war that had raged for nigh on five years, served homemade ale and rented the rooms upstairs to travellers. Such was the best a humble village like Balkura had to offer. Such was the best that a loyal vassal of the rightful queen, Dara Tallirhan, could command, Galina thought bitterly. In the early days, things had seemed far better. Caeron and his wife had been much loved by the people, and had been crowned to much celebration by the Stevenic Master Priest, Cyrridain. But then Aendasia Blortnikson, Empress-consort of the deceased Beinisonian Emperor Alejandro VII and Duchess of Northfield, had moved north with her Beinisonian troops to steal the crown from Caeron. She believed that she was rightful ruler because the spiteful King Stefan II had named her heir so that the Stevenic Caeron would not be king. Early battles had gone well as King Caeron had been an excellent battle commander, but in the first days of 899 the king had died defending the walls of Magnus, his capital. Since that time, city after city and castle after castle had fallen to Aendasia's armies. Queen Dara, Caeron's wife and heir, and what remained of her nobles, were trapped in Dargon Keep, besieged for over half a year. Galina looked up from the fire and towards the north where Dargon Keep lay. Of course, the lone window that faced that direction was shuttered against the cool winds. Spring had begun several sennights earlier, but in the Barony of Fennell, in the dense woods to the south of the city of Dargon, frost still covered the ground some mornings. "Can I get you anything more, milady?" The owner of the makeshift tavern interrupted Galina's line of thought. "No, thank you." She mustered as much pleasantness in her voice as she could. It would not do to allow others to see her dark mood. "You may retire for the evening." "Thank you, your ladyship." The peasant woman curtseyed and backed away out of the light cast by the fire. A familiar voice, deep and rumbling like thunder, met her ears. "Another fine night God has given us, is it not, your ladyship?" Galina turned to see the Stevenic priest, Cyruz of Vidin enter the room with her husband, Baron Boris Fennell in tow. They made for an odd pair. Cyruz was tall and thin, with a broad brow overtopping a face constantly creased with a smile so warm that each strand of his thick brown beard seemed to curl in amiability. Galina's beloved Boris, on the other hand, was short and as solid as an ancient oak. He had blocky features and several scars on his face earned in many battles. The Baroness of Fennell couldn't help but smile at the sight of the two. "Father Cyruz, you are ever in good cheer no matter what befalls you. I am oft unable to fathom it." Cyruz chuckled as he always did and pulled up a chair for himself and sat next to Galina. "I live in the Stevene's Light; how can I not be happy?" "Even with the kingdom in tatters around us? With Queen Dara besieged in Dargon Keep, and we but a few knights and squires holed up in one of the least of my villages?" "Ah, but what grand knights and friends you have with you!" "I can hardly argue with that," Boris said as he, too, pulled up a chair and sat near the fire to warm himself. Indeed, the Fennells did have their most trusted friends and vassals with them in the town: all of Galina's household knights, and those landed knights of the barony who owed her fealty directly. Even counting the squires, however, they amounted to little more than fifty. "But, Stevene help me, hardly enough to be of much help, are we?" Galina said. "Nonsense! Have you not learned what I have taught you these many months?" Laughing softly and pouring himself a cup of warm posset from the pot hanging over the fire, Cyruz looked from one Fennell to another. "Nay, more than months, it has been nigh on two years since the two of you, and your knights, embraced the Stevene's Light! Put your trust in that Light. The God of Stevene favours the just!" Galina could see Boris smiling and nodding at that, and she could not help but smile herself, as Cyruz's energy and joy was infectious. She laughed and patted the kindly cleric's knee. "You are always able to make even the bleakest situation a happy occasion, father." "It is little wonder some have started to call you Cyruz the holy!" Boris laughed. "Holy am I, now?" Cyruz said incredulously. "More of that nonsense about me meeting the Stevene in Pyridain, I suppose. No matter how much I tell people I was but a senseless boy at the time, they refuse to listen!" From some the words might have sounded angry, but Cyruz was good-natured about everything, and his voice betrayed no hint of animosity. The three of them sat in silence for a while after that, watching the flames slowly devour the log that rested in the hearth. "This is truly our -- and the queen's -- crucible bell," Galina said. "But as long as we have good and loyal friends by our side, and the Stevene's Light shining down from above, we shall weather it." "You have a new convert's zeal, your ladyship," Cyruz said. "Treasure that, for it may not last forever." Boris smirked. "Yes, perhaps you'll one day end up like Katrina Welspeare, lusting after both men and battle!" "God forefend!" Galina exclaimed. "Now, now," Cyruz chided, "have charity, my friends. None are perfect in their adherence to the Stevene's teachings, even, I dare say, the Master Priest Cyrridain." Before any more could be said, the door to the makeshift tavern banged open as a breathless squire, his tunic soaked through with sweat, nearly tumbled into the room. He hurried up to Galina and Boris and took a knee before them. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he delivered his news. "Midlord, milady, I fear I bring ill tidings." "That's hardly something new," Boris said. Galina shushed her husband, then turned back to the squire. "What news? Has Lord Connall met defeat?" She had been expecting news on the battle that Connall Dargon had engaged in a few days' ride to the east. It was an attempt to circle around behind the bulk of the Northfield forces and reunite with Galina's knights, as they had been separated during a skirmish with Baron Coranabo. She had received word from Connall that he planned to attempt this gambit three days ago, but had heard nothing after that. "No, milady." The squire's head dipped as he looked down at the dirt floor. "I did not make it across the Coldwell, for fresh Northfield forces move north along the west bank. I recognised the heraldry of the Baron of Bastonne leading the army. They appeared to be heading west towards Fennell Keep, milady. I galloped here as fast as I could, but if they kept the course they were on, they will be between us and Fennell Keep by now." Galina's hand went to her throat in a Stevenic gesture of piety. "Stevene preserve us! Their strength?" "A thousand at the very least, milady," the squire replied. "Cephas' boot," Galina whispered. A host that great would undoubtedly be able to crush Fennell Keep. Then, once it had reinforced the army under Valeran Northfield at Dargon Keep, the insurrectionists would likely be able to storm the castle and dash the royalists' hopes once and for all. Boris put a hand to his throat. "By the good God, what can we do?" Firil 29, 902 The next evening Baroness Fennell gathered all of her knights in the temple that dominated the centre of Balkura, as the makeshift inn was too small to hold them all, despite the fact there were barely three dozen of them. Even so, they didn't leave a lot of extra room in the temple. She was uneasy about using another religion's sacred shrine for these purposes, but there was nothing for it. She was sure the villagers were less than pleased themselves, but they weren't about to deny their baroness access to any of their buildings. She had spread a map out on the altar at the centre of the temple and she now traced on it the situation with a thin index finger. "Lord Connall Dargon is somewhere in this vicinity on the far side of the Coldwell, but we have no way of knowing whether his attack met with success. A fresh Northfield force approaches Fennell Keep from the east -- here. For certes they are headed to reinforce Duke Northfield at Dargon after taking Fennell Keep. Scouts report that they have cut off our route through the forest to Fennell Keep. "Either way, we are in a difficult situation. We cannot return to Fennell Keep to defend it. We cannot go to Dargon itself, either. Even if we could sneak past Bastonne's army, Baron Talador now fights for the Duchess of Northfield, and the insurrectionists hold Winthrop Keep. Even then, we obviously haven't the forces needed to lift the siege." "Is there nothing we can do?" one of her knights asked. "By the Stevene, we cannot just stand by and do nothing." Galina paused for a few moments before answering. She had prayed long and hard for guidance while the knights were roused and assembled in the temple. Unfortunately, the good God had not given her a blast of sudden insight as he had Queen Dara over a year before, which had led to the end of the first siege of Dargon. Galina had, however, come to a determination of her own. It was more of an absolute lack of options than any great stratagem. She hesitated to state it, but knew it was the only course, save staying here in Balkura and watching the Northfielders pass by. "We have but one honourable choice: to attack the Northfield army, and do what harm we can to them, in hopes that it may purchase for the queen a better chance, or at least some time." "Such a course would be nothing short of suicide!" one of her knights said, to the accompaniment of a handful of his comrades. Boris, whom Galina had consulted on this matter, stepped forward. "We will all die one day. Would you rather it be years from now, in your beds, or now, when we have a chance to save Baranur from the depredations of the Beinisonian heathens?" "What are the virtues that Cyruz the bard has taught us lo these many months?" Galina asked. "Has he not taught us that the Stevene's Light calls us to be courageous, faithful ... loyal? Has he not also taught us that those who uphold the Stevene's Light will be rewarded in the next life?" "But what did the Stevene ever say about God choosing queens?" "Mayhap the Stevene said nothing directly," Galina said, "but God did choose Dara to rule this land and I do not presume to question His will. I did not let the force of superior numbers turn my heart when I *knew* what was right, and I won't do that now. We will ride for pride and honour, knowing that right will prevail as long as there are good and brave folk alive in this land. We will ride for our hearts and our faith, knowing that the Stevene favours the just. "Dara will reign in Baranur; righteousness will reign in Baranur because we stood firm when others would fall cowering back. And should we lose our lives in this fight, our blood will have purchased more than life: a victory of loyalty and honour in a kingdom where fear and greed shall never reign! "We have perhaps lost our chance to share in that victory here on Makdiar, but we have been given a chance to give this victory to generations to come. Let us make such an end for ourselves that it shall be sung by bards down through the ages! Let every stride we take as we charge to embrace the enemy be a resounding thunderclap in heaven for those who would uphold the good against all odds " "Hear, hear!" Boris shouted, his voice echoing off the temple walls. Several of the knights nodded in approval. A few more audibly assented. Finally, one of the youngest of the host, Sir Aleksandr Kozulin, raised his fist and shouted, "Let it be so! I'd rather die two menes from now knowing I did my duty than a thousand years later having shirked it! "By Cephas, let us give the traitors something they shall ever remember Fennell by!" "And give them that we shall!" Galina slammed her fist down on the stone slab altar, forgetting its religious nature. "Let us adorn ourselves as if for a grand tournament and ride out onto the fields of battle one last time in the name of our God and our queen!" Everyone cheered, then spilled out of the temple and into the streets. Those who were not staying in the peasant woman's tavern had commandeered villagers' homes, and each went to his dwelling to prepare for the battle the next day. Galina and Boris roused their squires, and their son Oleg, and ordered that their weapons and armour be polished and cleaned as for a plaisance. Long into the night they worked, even going so far as to sew additions with what cloth they could find to their surcoats and horses' caparisons such that they would resemble what one would wear to a glorious tournament. When this was done, there was little point in sleeping, not when all knew this was their last night alive. Outside the tavern, Galina could hear Cyruz and the other Stevenic priests who had accompanied them singing hymns and other songs of praise and worship. While their followers did this, Galina and Boris bathed one last time, that they might face their end at their best. Boris pleated his wife's hair as for a banquet. They spent the remaining bells in a tender embrace, remembering all the blessings that had been bestowed on them in their lives. Firil 30, 902 Galina Fennell waited astride her horse, several paces ahead of her knights, on the field north of the village of Balkura. Out of the corner of one eye she could see a farmhouse about half a league to the west. Beyond the house lay dense forest blanketing the horizon. To the east, the borders of the forest were even closer. She knew that if she turned in the saddle she would be able to see Balkura itself several leagues behind her, with the small temple and the wattle-and-daub houses huddled around it. Ahead, she could see the Northfield army approaching. Blue banners flapped in the air. Some of them bore the black falcon that denoted the presence of Northfield vassals but not the duke or duchess of Northfield, in which case there would have been a white falcon somewhere amid the banners. She could see the banner of Baron Bastonne, a blue field divided in half by a red bar starting in the top-left corner. It also bore the blazon of a baronial crown, as did Galina's, and stag's horns, indicating the baron fancied himself a great hunter. The army was hemmed-in by the forest that had not been cleared as far back from the road at their position as it was at Galina's. As such, it was deployed with a very small frontage of troops that Galina judged would be unable to surround her knights when they charged. As she expected, the baron's representative, a young noble who looked as if he'd just eaten something distasteful, cantered away from the army and towards Galina, who also urged her mount forward to meet him. As they approached one another, she could see his eyes move over the line of Fennell knights arranged in one row abreast of each other. His eyes widened in shock and his voice bore a note of indignation when the two met. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "We have arranged in order of battle to face an army, yet there are but three dozen knights here!" "I see your liege-lord has not taught you manners, child," Galina said mildly. The youth's face reddened and she didn't think it was out of embarrassment. "Even in times of war it is customary to address nobles by their proper rank." The boy looked as if he were about to say something more, then thought better of it. He glanced back at the Northfield army, which had now stopped. Galina looked also and was glad to see the troops milling about in confusion and a degree of disarray rather than prepared for battle. "Begging your ladyship's pardon," the young noble said grudgingly, "what do you intend to do with but a handful of knights versus the mighty host aligned against you?" Galina looked from left to right, taking the measure of the army. They stood about, as if fighting were the last thing they expected to do today, and well they might. Their ranks were not much wider than her own knights' frontage, and packed dozens of soldiers deep. The bulk of the army was positioned behind these front lines. There were archers and varying degree of men-at-arms, from peasants with farm implements to well-equipped castle guards bearing shields with their lords' livery and chain hauberks. Their cavalry were not in their customary places on the flanks thanks to the forest; in fact, Galina could only assume the Northfield cavalry was stuck further north, unable to manoeuvre to the front quickly enough to face her. "I do not know what strength we have, but I do know this," Galina finally said after close to half a mene had passed while she surveyed the troops arrayed against her. "You will not be allowed to leave this place. These soldiers will not reinforce Duke Northfield at Dargon." The youth snorted, but did not laugh outright. Instead he looked at her with raised eyebrow, as if to say he thought her completely mad. Galina pulled a piece of cloth that she had tucked beneath her mount's saddle. It was a piece of her gown, the type of favour a non-fighting lady might give her champion at a tournament. She held it out for the Northfielder to take. "You will take this to the Baron Bastonne as a token of my respect for him, but he will not be allowed to leave." The boy took it and Galina turned her horse and rode back to her knights. Each was resplendent in his or her personal heraldic devices, scrubbed and cleaned to a fine gleam in the morning sun. So too, did their armour sparkle. Each had their crest proudly displayed on their great helm. Indeed, each was adorned as if for a tournament, and they had turned out their best, for this would be the last course they would ever joust. As she reached the assembled knights and squires, many of them nodded to her or saluted with their lances. Cyruz of Vidin and a couple of other Stevenic priests were also there, having prayed for them through the night and given blessings while they had waited for the Northfielders to arrive. Galina's squire trotted up on one of the baroness' horses. So too, did Boris, his helmet not yet donned, a soft smile upon his lips. He took Galina's hand and kissed it, even though it was covered with a chainmail mitten. "Better to end our lives now while we are still full of a new convert's zeal, would you not agree, my love?" Galina could feel tears sting her eyes. She reached out that same mailed hand and stroked Boris' leathery cheek with it. Yes, in a way it was good to end thus, before the fires of her love for the Stevene's word might die out, or a hundred other horrible things might happen. She only prayed that what she did today would not only save Queen Dara, but keep her own children safe who were now in Fennell Keep. "Yes, my love. Before the day is out, we shall be basking, together, in the Stevene's Light." One of her children, her eldest son Oleg, was not safe in Fennell Keep, but rather riding up alongside her, bearing the baronial banner. He was dressed as a squire, with no devices on his heraldry, and wearing far less armour than the knights. He had only a chainmail hauberk and leather leggings to protect him. He looked a lot like his father, with a square jaw he had set with a look of determination. "Mama, I am proud to be able to serve the queen thus." Galina shook her head. "No, Oleg, neither you, nor any of the squires will accompany us this day. You must take them back to Fennell Keep after the --" "No! I'd rather die now with you than live a thousand lifetimes knowing I abandoned you." "Oleg," Boris said in a gravely voice. "You have never disobeyed or dishonoured us before. Do not start now. You must lead the barony for us." As with all sixteen year-olds Galina knew, Oleg had no real concept of what death meant. Galina remembered her own attitude at that age, thinking she had been invincible, that nothing could harm her. She knew the same held true for Oleg. Despite his brave words, he did not really think he would die. "Fennell will need a good ruler, and none of your siblings is old enough for the task," Galina said, "and you are the only one who has learned of the Stevene's Light with us. You must share that with them." "Father Cyruz can do that." "No, you must." Galina fixed her son with a glare that would brook no contradiction and took the banner from him. "Now take the other squires to safety ... and keep my great helm in remembrance of this day." She motioned for the squire who had first ridden up to her to give the helm to Oleg. She leaned over to hug her son. She let the tears that had been welling flow down her face as she kissed him on the cheek. When she pulled away, she could see that his face, too, was wet with tears. He did as she commanded, however, and slowly turned and led the squires away from the battlefield. Galina sniffed and felt her husband's hand on her shoulder. She turned to him and they held each other's gaze for a few moments. There was nothing more for either to say. She kissed him on the lips and whispered, "May our love burn as brightly in the hereafter." He then donned his own great helm and took his position with the other knights. Galina took a short moment to collect herself. She looked across again at the enemy army. They must have seen the squires leaving and appeared to have taken it as an indication that the Fennell knights would soon follow suit. Many were leaning lazily on their spears; others looked to be chatting with one another. Baron Bastonne had not ordered any change of formation it seemed. When she looked to his banner, she could see that several of his knights had left his side and were trying to cajole the troops back into order, while the baron himself seemed to be shouting. Galina nodded her head; the time was now. She turned to face her knights and held her banner high. "This *is* to be our end, but let it be such an end as to be spoken and sung of for hundreds of years in great halls. Let us, God willing, purchase with our steel and our blood the crown that Queen Dara so richly deserves to wear. It is better to die for a cause than to surrender it, and our cause is the defence of our true queen!" The knights, barely three dozen of them, raised their lances and cheered as Galina spoke the words. She held her war hammer aloft and rode down the length of her assembled host, her voice growing louder and steadier with each pronouncement she made. "King Caeron was denied his rightful inheritance by King Stefan, but the Stevene's Light allowed him an opportunity to take that which was lawfully his. Let us not squander that opportunity he was given, by our cowardice on this field! Though Caeron, our great king, was laid low by the knives of traitors at Magnus, his queen and son live on to continue the Tallirhan line!" The knights cheered again, more loudly. Galina turned her horse and galloped along the line of knights. "Follow me into the warm embrace of the Stevene as he will greet us in death! Follow me for the queen! For Baranur!" "For the queen!" some knights shouted; others bellowed, "Long live Queen Dara! Long live House Tallirhan!" "For Fennell!" Galina was now screaming at the top of her lungs. Her horse reached the middle of the line and reared up on its hind legs. The destrier's powerful hooves then pounded upon the earth and Galina surged forward, the faithful knights of Fennell close behind. Galina focussed her gaze on the soldiers across from her, wearing the blue livery of Northfield, her vassal Bastonne, and the other houses of that duchy that seemed to blend into one another. Their eyes were wide with shock and with fear. Bowmen fumbled frantically to bring their weapons to bear, while other soldiers drew swords and other hand weapons. Some broke and ran while the charging knights were still many strides away. A deep, melodious voice, like snow and boulders rumbling down the side of the Skywall Mountains, filled the air. Galina's heart began to beat yet faster, and she felt lighter in her saddle as Cyruz the bard's sacred chant of praise reached her ears: Prostrate I adore thee, deity unseen, Who thy glory hidest 'neath these shadows mean; Lo, to thee surrendered my heart is bowed, Tranced as it beholds thee, shrined within the mist. Taste and touch and vision to discern thee fail But hearing only we may here prevail. I believe all that the Light hath told; What the Stevene hath spoken that for truth I hold. The other priests who had come to the field to bless the knights joined in the song. It seemed as if all other sound from the battlefield was no more, for Galina could only hear that beautiful polyphony as she neared the enemy soldiers. Time seemed to move slowly as she closed, and she was filled with a deep and abiding calm. She bore no lance but could see out of the corner of her eye the lowered lances of her comrades. The first rank of soldiers crumpled before her as lances pierced flesh and bodies were trod underfoot. Time returned to normal, and rather than the sonorous chant of the Stevenic priests, Galina's ears were filled with the terrible sounds of battle. Men and women screamed, shouted, and moaned. Metal clashed with metal and hundreds of feet pounded the ground. Galina swung her war hammer again and again. A small band of soldiers tried to pull her from her horse. She shattered the skull of one with the hammer, then impaled another through the eye on the backswing with the point that balanced the hammer head. Her horse reared up and bore another to the ground under sharpened, flailing hooves, and others fled. Almost as soon as the first engagement had begun, it seemed to be over. Enemy soldiers were fleeing in a disordered mob. Galina knew too well that the battle was far from over. She called to her knights to reform a line and prepare for another charge. They obeyed, forming a neat line with Galina at the centre. She could see that the Northfielders were scrambling to get into better position to fight, now that she was in amidst them. "Charge! For the Stevene!" she screamed and launched her mount forward once again. This time, arrows started to whiz through the air past her as she and her knights surged towards the enemy. She heard a few cries of pain as one or two of her knights were wounded by the shafts. They pressed on nevertheless, and were quickly in amongst Northfield troops once again. Galina laid about her with her war hammer with all the might she could muster. Men and women fell to her blows one after another. She turned and saw Aleksandr Kozulin being pulled from his horse. Once he was on the ground, the soldiers pinned him and, pulling up his gorget, slashed his throat. Bright red blood spurted out and the knight soon stopped struggling. Galina charged the band of soldiers and her horse's powerful body knocked several to the ground then trampled on them. Charge after charge she led her knights on, leaving bodies strewn all across the roadway and grassland that separated it from the trees. More and more of the brave souls she led fell to arrows and spears as the morning progressed. Galina had no concept of how much time passed, nor did she have time to consider, as Baron Bastonne finally started moving his own knights into position. Without trying to form into a line, or even take stock of how many men and women still fought on her side, she charged towards the enemy knights before they were properly arranged, screaming a battle cry as she went. At least a few hooves pounded after her, and once again the melodious polyphony of Cyruz and the priests' chanting reached her ears. The sound filled her with renewed vigour, and she lifted her tired arm to smite one of the enemy knights with her hammer. The man's helmet caved in and he toppled from his horse. His fellows, armed with lances in preparation for a charge, were ill prepared to meet this sudden attack. Galina parried a clumsy attempt to use a lance as a club, then slammed the sharp point of her weapon into her opponent's throat. Confusion swirled around her, the world descending into a cacophony of noise, the stench of blood and faeces, and the constant shift of shapes as knights rode about her and slashes and parries were traded. At one point, she somehow managed to break free of the enemy knights and onto a small rise in the land. She could see bodies strewn in every direction. She recognised the heraldry of one or two of her knights here and there, scattered and surrounded. They hewed and slashed with their weapons, dropping many of their enemies, but in turn, they were hauled down from their horses or cut down by enemy knights. She could see one of the priests, dressed as for a Stevenic celebration in a church, lying dead a short distance away amidst the bodies of enemy soldiers. She was deathly tired, such that she could barely hold her weapon or her banner, but she resolutely refused to drop either. Mustering up the last of her energy, she whispered to herself, "May our love burn as brightly in the hereafter," then spurred her horse towards the nearest group of enemy knights. Galina lay on her back. She could see the sky and noticed that the sun was not yet at the midpoint; no, it had crossed the midpoint and was already on its descent into night. She struggled to move, but found that she could not. From the waist up she felt as though she'd been stabbed a hundred times, though from there down she felt nothing. She wanted to sleep; her eyes started to flutter shut. But what of the battle? She opened them again. She was certain all of her knights were dead; she remembered that much of the battle. But what harm had they inflicted? A dark shape blocked out the sun. She looked towards it, and as it drew nearer recognised the heraldry of Baron Bastonne adorning a dirty surcoat. The man knelt down next to her. "The day is yours, milady," he said. Galina realised this was the baron himself. He was younger than she had expected. "W-what do you mean?" She could barely speak. Her mouth tasted of blood and her throat felt as though a strong hand were choking her. "My army is broken. I have never seen such bravery before." He shook his head. "I cannot continue. Not only have I hardly anything left to fight with, but ... your courage, your loyalty ... the empress does not command such as these." "Then why do you serve her?" "Hmmm. I don't rightly know ... In truth, I do not know that I can serve her any longer after what I have seen this day." For a moment, Galina felt happiness that eased the pain wracking her body, but then she felt coldness begin to creep into her. She started sobbing without intending to. "M-my husband," she stammered through tears. "Where is he? Please, let me see him one last time?" "Your valour has earned you that and more. I only wish my physician could do something for you," Bastonne replied. He signalled, and a short while later the limp body of Boris was dragged into Galina's fading sight. The tall, thin man pulling him placed him so that his head rested upon Galina's chest. "Rest easy, my lady." She recognised the voice of Cyruz of Vidin. "You have done your duty; now you may rest in the Light of the Stevene." Galina could say nothing but only cried more. She could not move her arms to clutch Boris to her; in fact, she could no longer feel her arms either. Cyruz put a hand to his throat and stretched another over her. She was vaguely aware of him saying something, but could not make out the words. It only sounded like rolling thunder. Then when she could feel nothing, and could not even move her eyes but only stare up at the clear blue sky, Cyruz moved his fingers over her eyelids and there was darkness. ========================================================================