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 DargonZine                                     Distributed: 06/27/1998
 Volume 11, Number 5                            Circulation:        679
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 A Spell of Rain 1            Stuart Whitby          Janis 28, 1016
 A Daughter's Duty            Mike Adams             6-10 Ober 1015
 Deliverance 1                John Doucette          24 Sy, 1014

========================================================================
 DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
 collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
 We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
 Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
 on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues
 are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
 public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.

 DargonZine 11-5, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright June, 1998 by
 the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
 Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
 All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
 and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
 without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
 of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
 Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================

                               Editorial
                         by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
                           <ornoth@shore.net>

     For many of our readers, their academic year winds down in May and
June, but things are just getting started for us, because this is when
we usually hold the annual Dargon Writers' Summit. The Summit is
unquestionably the biggest event of the year for us, and this year ten
of our contributing writers made the pilgrimage to our annual writers'
gathering. This time the event was hosted by longtime DargonZine
contributor Carlo Samson, and took place in Chicago in mid-May.
     Each year, in order to get the most benefit from our time together,
we very diligently schedule a healthy balance of formal working sessions
and fun, active outings and into each day. But because we usually have
no more than 60 hours together, we usually aren't so conscientious about
scheduling sleep time!
     This year, we got more writers together than ever before, extending
the brotherhood and camaraderie of our core group to a larger group of
contributors. We devoted time to getting to know one another better, and
enjoyed hanging out together. Among the fun activities we enjoyed were
learning how to play a game called Icehouse, playing pool, eating at a
Mongolian grill, visiting Chicago's Navy Pier, and playing laser tag, as
well as Summit traditions like mini-golf and go-karting. Like I said,
there's little time for sleep!
     And as if that wasn't tiring enough, we also spent about ten hours
in formal working sessions, discussing all kinds of topics. We covered a
lot of ground, made more rapid progress than could ever be made on our
writers' email discussion group, and came to many very important
conclusions that are going to make the Dargon Project better than it has
ever been. Specifically, we made a commitment to raising enough money
from the writers to offset the magazine's production costs, and affirmed
that we want to begin a judicious advertising campaign in order to grow
our readership. We set in place a formal mentoring program, charged with
finding ways to bring new writers into the fold as gently as possible.
We also came up with a great way for readers to easily provide feedback
on individual stories, and that is currently being developed for the Web
site. And we kicked around a whole lot of other ideas that while not as
far-reaching, will improve the project and the magazine significantly.
     One of those smaller ideas that was suggested at the Summit was to
make our publishing schedule available on our Web site. Well, we never
had a publishing schedule until a couple years ago, because it was
difficult to predict when any given stories might be finalized. In
recent time, we've been able to predictably distribute issues every six
to eight weeks, and so we can now made our tentative distribution dates
available to you, along with whatever we know about what each issue will
contain. The Publishing Schedule can be found at
<http://www.shore.net/~dargon/pub_sched.shtml>. That's just one example
of some of the brainstorming that we do at the Summit, and how it
translates into better service to our readers.
     So this year's Summit was another great experience for us. If you
are interested in reading more about the Summit or checking out some of
our pictures, visit our 1998 Dargon Summit Web page at
<http://www.shore.net/~dargon/summit98.shtml>.

     In addition to last month's Dargon Summit, I'm pleased to announce
that this issue marks the debut of another new writer: Stuart Whitby.
Here Stuart prints the first installment in a three-part storyline
called "A Spell of Rain" that I'm sure you'll enjoy.
     It's always a pleasure for us to be able to introduce new writers.
After all, our mission is to reach out to aspiring new writers and help
them improve their writing. However, last year we only had one new
writer print his first story, and that was a serious concern at the end
of 1997. This year, we focused on fixing that problem, and Stuart will
be our third new writer to see print so far this year. I hope to have
the privilege of introducing several more to you over the remainder of
the year!

========================================================================

                               A Spell of Rain
                                   Part 1
                              by Stuart Whitby
                            <StuWhitby@sol.co.uk>
                               Janis 28, 1016

     The winds whipped around the tower, causing moans and whistles to
sound through the rooms and down the stairwell. By the time they echoed
their way to the room in the basement -- a room which was a foundation
for the tower and study for an aspiring mage -- they had quieted to soft
and eerie whispers of their former voice, as if not wanting to disturb
the room's sole occupant. Jason paid them no heed as he sat hunched over
a flawed piece of quartz, concentrating intently on the opaque surface.
His mind was clear of all but the stone, which he spun slowly in his
hands. He had to get *inside* the rock, had to find the very essence of
the force which originally shaped the rock, and bend that force to his
will.
     The rock spun and the bells passed. The winds slowly died as
daylight gave way to dusk and clouds rolled in from the sea. A candle
guttered and extinguished itself in the sconce on the north wall. Jason
watched it fade and die, the light reflected in one of the stone's
shinier surfaces, before giving up, his concentration broken. He
straightened slowly, the vertebrae popping and cracking their way back
into position as he did so, and eased his way to his feet. Feeling old
beyond his thirteen years, he leaned against the stairwell and let the
feeling return to his legs.
     That done, he paced gingerly across the room, legs numb from so
much time spent sitting on a stone floor, and tried to chafe some warmth
into his backside. His legs eased as he wandered, and he eventually
decided he was fit enough to make his way to the top floor.
     Looking up the stairwell, he saw that it was dark above, and so,
taking one of the remaining candles from the wall, he made his way up to
his father's study, leaving the rock lying beside the bottom stair for
use in his next attempt. Reaching the forbidding, arched doorway, he
paused to sigh before steeling himself to knock.
     He rapped three times and waited for the invitation which he knew
and dreaded. "Come," came a voice from behind the door. Sighing yet
again, he raised the lever and opened the door to a scene of perfect
order.

     Kilan Rainmaker's workplace was a study in neatness. Everything was
catalogued, ordered, and referenced in a leather bound tome on his desk.
Scrolls were stored in labelled leather cases on a shelf on the southern
wall, with potions and powders below. Blocks of wood were stacked with
almost perfect symmetry to either side of the fireplace; its brass grate
still gleaming where the soot had not blackened it. A poker, brush, and
shovel sat to the right, and a number of dried peat blocks to the left
for use overnight. Three tomes sat on his desk -- two folio sized books
written in his own hand, and a smaller one, bound in green, tooled
leather sitting atop them. All were aligned perfectly at the front right
hand corner of the desk, while two oil lamps hissed gently at the back.
The man himself sat writing on a piece of parchment, long moustaches as
black as the ink he used.
     Kilan noticed his son from the corner of his eye, but continued to
write a while. When he was finished, he cleaned and replaced his quill
in the writing drawer, shook sand onto the paper to blot any excess ink,
and closed the drawer. Only then did he deign to look at his son.
     "Did you unlock the stone, then?" he inquired, pale eyes looking
into the boy.
     Jason sighed again, and replied. "No. I tried for bells. I can lock
the image in my mind, I just can't see inside it." His hands clenched in
frustration, and his head was lowered slightly as a result of yet
another defeat.
     The older man huffed, obviously annoyed. "Jason, the quartz is the
simplest stone to unlock." His exasperation showed plainly on his face.
"Even to look at it, it is slightly translucent. Looking on an ethereal
level, you should not have any trouble at all getting a glimpse of the
weaves that you need. I *know* that you can visualise properly. The way
you describe the things that you see -- you sound like your grandfather
or myself. This skill is part of your heritage. If you would only learn
to use it, I *know* that you would do your ancestors proud." He fell
quiet as he began to see the depths to which this latest failure was
affecting his son. The boy wore a pained expression, and looked on the
verge of tears. He changed tack, and said gently, "Come, boy, and sit by
the fire. I know how cold it can be in that room at times," and standing
up, he placed a stool by the fire.
     Jason slunk across the room, and sat as far back on the stool as he
could in order to get the full benefit of the log fire behind him. His
father moved back to his own side of the desk and began to interrogate
him to find what had gone wrong. He sat back in his chair to think a
mene, then leaned forward, fingers steepled before him.
     "If you close your eyes now, can you still visualise the stone?"
     Jason sighed and complied with the request. Holding his head in his
hands, he closed his eyes and concentrated. After some moments, he
replied with a hushed "Yes."
     Still looking at his son, Kilan went on. "Do you see any cracks in
the stone?"
     Another uttered "Yes."
     "Move toward one of those cracks. Ease yourself into it and become
the stone. Feel it. Breathe it. Be it."
     Silence. Jason's face started to twitch with the effort of
embracing rock. He looked as if he was about to say something, but his
mouth did little more than twitch. His eyes were still closed, but a
frown appeared on his brow.
     Knowing that Jason was no longer at ease with his inner self, Kilan
interrupted. "Jason. Jason!" Jason's eyes opened, and he looked about in
desperation, at the window, at the desk, the walls, the books --
anywhere but at his father. His eyes were starting to show a wet sheen,
and his mouth opened and closed in a futile attempt to explain why he
could not force himself into the stone, no matter how he tried.
     Kilan stood and walked around the desk. He knelt and held his son
to him as the tears started to eke from his eyes. "I can help you, you
know," he whispered in his son's ear as his hands made their way to the
youngster's temples. The boy broke free violently, overbalancing his
father as he jumped up, breathing hard. His eyes were wide in anger and
fear.
     "No! I don't want you messing with my head like you did with my
mother's!"
     "But Jason, I just want to take a look," said Kilan from his prone
position, looking hurt that his son could say such a thing. "I wouldn't
do anything, just try to find out why you can't get anywhere. If I know
where you fail, I can guide you past that point."
     "No! I know what happened to my mother. I *know.* And though I
believe that you are a great weatherweaver, I just don't think you
understand people well enough to start playing with *their* weaves.
Maybe I'm just not destined to be like you, but please, accept that
rather than trying to change it." He then turned, ashamed of being so
forthright with his father, and made his way to the dim shadows of the
far wall. He leaned back into it, folding his arms in front of him in a
sulk.
     Kilan stood, using the desk for support, and made a shamefaced
appeal to his son. "Jason, I know that the past few years have been
hard, first with your mother dying ..." Jason rolled his eyes and
laughed a disgusted laugh, which his father chose to ignore. "... then
trying to unlock the power that you have in you. But that power is
*there,* son. You have it. I know you do. All you need to do is find a
way to take hold of it, and you will be well on your way to a good life.
Fishing towns like Armand pay well to have a weatherweaver nearby; you
see the evidence of that here." He gestured around the well furnished
room, watching his son's downcast eyes intently the whole time. "You
have that power, Jason. My father had it, as do I, and now you. Just let
me help you take it." The last was said as an appeal. Kilan watched his
son, hoping to see him come to his senses, but saw only distrust when
his son looked at him, holding his gaze for some moments before leaving,
unbidden.

     Back in his room, Jason sat on his bed and hugged his knees to his
chest. For two years he had been trying to get inside rocks, look beyond
the water, see the patterns in the clouds, and feel where the wind was
going. Not once had he succeeded. His father kept saying that he had
great potential, that he would become a great weatherweaver, that it was
in his bloodline, but Jason had tried and failed at any of the more
advanced exercises. He could see the outside of rocks, and hold that
image in his mind, but could never see past the surface. He could see
through the water, but never to anything other than the bowl holding it.
Clouds were just clouds, and while it was true that if you looked hard
enough you might see recognisable shapes, there were no consistent
patterns that he could see.
     All this after two years of work. All that time spent in useless
effort, and he was getting nowhere. All this because his father said he
should follow in the family line, and become a weatherweaver. For two
long years he had tried, and failed. Not that his father was a bad
teacher -- he had helped his son through all the problems at the start,
before getting stuck on the problem of helping him see beyond the
surface of an object. Kilan had spent four months trying to help, before
retreating to his study and telling his son to keep at it, that practice
was the key, and that it would come in time.
     Rocking backwards, Jason put his head back and started to keen
softly, mourning over the loss of his childhood, his mother, two years
of his life, and his father, who had abandoned him in favour of his own
studies. Tears started to overflow from his eyes, and made an erratic
path down the side of his head, only to pool in his ears. If he did not
think he had failed his father before, the fact that Kilan was now
countenancing using the same type of magics on him that he had used to
disastrous effect on his own wife proved just how far Jason had fallen
in his father's esteem.
     Slowly, his pained expression changed to one of resolve. The
rocking stopped, and he lay down flat on the bed, hands crossed behind
his head. There was a way out of this which should benefit everyone
concerned. A plan was coming together in his head. Once the creases were
pressed out, he considered a while and decided it had to be done. He
arose from the bed and made his way quietly to the kitchen to start his
preparations.

     Kilan was slumped in the cushioned leather chair in his study, eyes
closed tightly as he knuckled his furrowed brow. Why could the boy not
understand that he needed help to get past this mental block? For over a
year now, Kilan had worked on spells which would help his son focus his
mind, and thereby his power. He knew it would work. It had to. The only
thing he had been unable to take into account was the paths that magic
ran through *within* his son, since the fool boy did not want any magics
directed towards him. Kilan could have wrenched the patterns from him,
but the boy would notice, and his trust was important.
     Kilan bowed forward onto the desk, head resting on the cool
surface, and groaned as he considered his situation. He knew his son
would never trust any spell or potion that his father directed towards
him because of the misunderstanding over his mother's death. He knew his
son was reaching the end of his patience for magic, and would soon give
up even trying. And he knew that potential for power could not be
allowed to go to waste. Looking grim at what had to be done, Kilan
picked himself up and made his way to the shelves to retrieve a number
of mortars, pestles, weights and jars. A set of scales complemented the
weights, and he went to work, weaving a great magic into the herbs,
powders and roots, which would enhance and maintain its effects. In the
end, he tipped a small pile of dark green powder into a glass phial,
returned the ingredients and equipment to their proper places, and
trembling, went in search of his son.

     When Kilan arrived in the small room which served as a kitchen, he
saw that his son had been busy. A black dough was rising in a large clay
bowl on one side of the kitchen -- seed-bread if he was not mistaken.
Eggs from the hens in the courtyard were laid out in preparation for
tomorrow's breakfast, as was a small slab of bacon. A peat fire could be
seen burning slowly in the grate, banked for the night.
     Searching the stairs behind him for any sign of his son, Kilan made
his way furtively to the rising bread, and after checking behind him
again, took a last pensive look at the phial of powder before emptying
its contents into the bowl.
     That done, he released a breath he had not realised he held. The
only sound was his heart pounding in his chest, and the shaky breaths he
took. He turned to sneak out of the room, but found his legs weak from
relief at having the task accomplished. He leaned back against the
trestle as he tried in vain to get his breath back, and holding his
hands incredulously before him, saw them shake from nervous energy.
     Suddenly, a door banged shut somewhere down the stairs. Kilan
jumped, and looked around himself like the rabbit who spies the hawk,
and searches frantically for the nearest bolthole. He found one in the
bowl behind him, and spun to knead the dough.
     Hearing his son arrive at the door and stop, Kilan realised that he
was still trembling. Releasing a shaky breath, he commented "Hard work
this breadmaking, isn't it?" The tension in his voice sang out to him.
He hoped it was mistaken for exertion.
     Jason stood silent witness to the unusual sight of his father doing
any menial task. Since his mother had died, it was only on very rare
occasions that he had seen his father do any work away from his study or
rooftop. Jason held his place at the door, awaiting his father's next
move.
     The dough back to a flattened state, Kilan turned to his son.
"Jason, I want to ... apologise. For what I did in the tower earlier."
Jason's eyebrows raised in surprise. This was something new.
     Still in a state of controlled panic, Kilan grasped for the first
straw excuse that he could think of. "I had no right to even contemplate
probing the paths your power follows, especially when I know how you
feel about submitting to magic.
     "Jason, I know what you think happened to your mother. But you're
wrong about me. She was dying, Jason. I had to do something to help her!
I know that I failed, but I've learned from that failure. I know what
went wrong, and I would never make the same mistake with you, my son."
He trembled still, but looked hopefully at the young man before him,
waiting to see the acceptance in his eyes.
     Kilan was not the only one who shook. Jason's hands were clenched,
white-knuckled, at his sides. Only this did not look like fear or
trepidation. This was more like a controlled rage. Jason spoke in tones
which were as cold and measured as the words were considered. "My mother
was not dying. She was getting older. Your vanity was the only thing at
stake when you attempted to slow her ageing to the same rate as your
own. Only it doesn't work like that, does it, father? You knew that, but
you just couldn't accept it, could you. You believe in nothing but your
own superiority." Jason paused as his father's mouth worked silently up
and down. "You can't keep doing this, father. All that will happen is
you will end up killing someone else, and I don't want to be the
recipient of that particular gift."
     With this, he turned slowly and left, thumping stiff-legged down
the stairs to his chamber. Kilan leaned weakly back against the trestle
as he took in what his son had said. Almost half a bell passed before he
eventually stood, and made his way back upstairs, whispering "It's not
true. This *will* work," but realising that his son must never know what
had been done to help realise his potential.

     Jason hardly slept that night. He thought of the words which he had
never expected to say aloud to his father, and his father's reaction to
those words. He knew they would make no real difference -- his father's
ego had walls built higher and stronger than Magnus' own. He just didn't
want to have his flesh made cold the next time his father decided to go
against proven magical principles.
     As the false dawn brought some small light to the sky, Jason
steeled his resolve and arose. He made his way to the kitchen and threw
some small sticks and larger logs on top of the peat which burned
beneath the oven, and opened the vent in front fully. Taking the side of
bacon, he rubbed the fat onto a metal tray and dumped the bread mixture
on top. After putting both bacon and tray into the oven, he returned to
his room to pack the few necessities he would need.
     Spreading his blanket on the bed, he chose carefully. A linen shirt
was folded, and placed in the centre. Then came a fresh pair of
breeches, three pairs of thick woollen socks and a woollen pullover. He
looked around, confused. Something was probably missing, but he had all
the clothes he would need -- the only things missing were food and coin.
The food was cooking, and he had a few pennies of his own that would
have to do for money. He shrugged off the feeling and went instead for
slate and chalk, made his way to the kitchen, and composed a short note
to his father.
     Finally, as the sun could be seen taking its leave of the horizon,
Jason left the note deliberately in the centre of the small kitchen
table. Juggling the hot bread and bacon which he had removed from the
oven, he made his way back to his chamber. Once there, he tore off a
side to chew on as he walked and piled the remainder on top of his
clothes, then wrapped the lot in his blanket. Taking a last look around,
he reluctantly left his room and headed for the courtyard, feeling every
bit the runaway that he was, but unbowed and unrepentant.

========================================================================

                           A Daughter's Duty
                             by Mike Adams
                      <meadams@sunherald.infi.net>
                             6-10 Ober 1015

     I lay in a bed -- whose bed I did not yet know -- and I struggled
through the dim forest of sleep, trying to reach the bright clearing of
the waking world. Usually I waken quickly; a man who carries a
sharp-edged weapon had better do so. But full awareness seemed to elude
me, as if to shield me from the savage truth.
     Of course, with that thought, the mists cleared from my mind, and I
realized that some of my reluctance to waken was a result of the large
amount of drink I had consumed the previous night. I was sure I visited
more than one tavern, and I could clearly remember singing a bawdy song
while staggering down the street. What I could not recall was the face
of the maid who had taken me into her bed, and her body, if I was not
mistaken.
     That question was answered as soon as I opened my eyes. The shock
of red hair told me what I needed to know. My gasp of surprise must have
awakened her, for she lifted her head, and looked fondly at me. I was
spared the necessity of a reply by a loud rap upon the bedroom door.
     "Mistress Raneela," came a clear voice, quickly followed by the
head and upper body of one of the healer's apprentices. "There's a
Master Jetru what wants to see you," continued the young girl. "He says
he's lookin' for his bodyguard." The girl managed to look both startled
and disapproving concerning the man in her mistress' bed, but she
managed to hold her tongue.
     Raneela responded with no hint of self-consciousness. "Tell Master
Jetru that I shall attend him shortly."
     After the door shut, Raneela turned to me. "I can tell him you are
not here, if you wish," she said with a question in her look.
     "No," I quickly replied, "I will see him." Apparently I had
answered too promptly, for the hurt on her face was obvious. I, however,
was completely baffled. Less than a sennight ago, this woman and I had
fought, and only two days ago she had forced me from her home. Confused
and hung over, I dressed as quickly as I could manage and escaped the
bedroom.
     When I reached the main room, I herded Qanis out the door, barely
giving him time to place his mug of tea on a table.
     "I didn't actually expect to find you there," Qanis said, as we
hustled through Dargon towards Qanis' house. "Only, that was the last
place I knew you were going, so I decided to start there. Quite
fortunate you were there."
     As was his usual practice, Qanis continued without waiting for a
response. "I did manage to find some work for you only this morning, and
because I like you, I only took half my customary percentage." Qanis
flashed a weak smile at me, like that of a child who wants to be praised
for doing something distasteful.
     "Thank you, Qanis," I murmured.
     Satisfied, Qanis went on to tell me about my new job. It seemed
that a minor noble who traded his produce through Qanis had a daughter
who was getting married. The marriage had been arranged by the noble's
brother, one Lansing Bartol. Qanis said that this Lansing Bartol was not
only a bard, but a confidant of the Duke as well. The implication was
that taking care of the needs of this noble would put us in the good
graces of his brother, and possibly the Duke as well. I think Qanis was
more interested in his own opportunities, but even a mere mercenary can
find it useful now and again to know someone in power.
     Apparently, the father, Laren Bartol, had been in Qanis' office,
settling his accounts with the trader, and during their conversation had
told Qanis that he had a feeling the girl was not entirely in favor of
the match. Unfortunately, he had duties at home he could not escape, and
would only arrive in Dargon on the day of the wedding.
     Qanis, ever alert for opportunity, had offered my services, for a
reasonable fee, and all that remained was to convince me to take the
job. It seemed that Qanis was overly generous in calling this a job. It
seemed more like an errand, but I was in no position to quibble. If I
did not accept, I could end up having to ask Raneela for a place to
stay, and I was not ready to try to understand *that* situation.
     Just before we arrived at Qanis' office, he told me offhandedly
that I would need a horse, but fortunately for me, he had recently
acquired one, complete with saddle and tack. I could use the horse for
this short journey, and if I wished, we would work out a deal for the
animal after I returned. Bemused by Qanis' thorough preparation, I
agreed.
     Upon arriving at Qanis' home, I went directly to the small stable
to inspect the horse the trader expected me to buy. To my surprise the
horse was a fine specimen, a dark grey gelding. It has been said that
gelding a horse makes him docile, but I have always believed it just
focuses his attention on the important things.
     From the way the horse snapped at my fingers when I reached for its
head, it had been through some training for combat. I spent the rest of
the day in the stable with the animal, whom I named Flanduil after a
mythical Mandrakan monster.
     As a child my favorite story had always been the one concerning the
death of Flanduil, legendary protector of the House of Mandraka, at the
hand of Kess Dragonslayer.

     The Slayers spear swiftly flew
     Across the wide blood-dampened green,
     Long would Mandraka keen,
     When Flanduil, the Dark Hand slew.

     I would dream that I avenged Flanduil upon that foul and hated
name. In Mandraka, even today, to be called a dragonslayer is a blood
insult.
     By the time Qanis' cook called me for supper, I had acclimated the
horse to my presence enough to saddle it for a short journey, and had
then brushed and fed him.

     Qanis' staff all went to bed with the sun, and I used the small
room I had been in only a few nights ago. I slept soundly, and rose as
usual, just before dawn. I washed my face and hands in the kitchen
basin, and went to the stable to saddle Flanduil. I had just finished
when I heard the clip-clop of another horse in the street. As I left the
stable I saw Qanis greeting a brown haired man of medium height. The
trader saw me and gestured me over. When I had joined them, Qanis spoke
to his companion.
     "Milord," said Qanis, "this is Bren kel Tomis, master swordsman,
and a fine bodyguard."
     I bobbed my head at the man, and said, "It is good to meet you,
milord. I appreciate the opportunity to serve you."
     Bartol's voice had an unexpected bass tone. "I only wish it were
unnecessary. Be that as it may, we'll ride as soon as I finish with
Master Jetru. We'll be but a few moments."
     With that, the two entered the building, apparently going to the
office. I went to the kitchen and quickly drank a mug of tea, scalding
my tongue. I packed a bag with bread, cold meat, and a wineskin full of
cider, and placed them in a saddlebag just as Bartol came out.
     Several bells later the father, named Laren Bartol, and I were some
leagues out of Dargon City, heading southwest, towards Bartol's lands.
Lord Bartol kept to himself, and I am certainly not talkative, so it was
a quiet journey. The sun was warm for once, and when we stopped at a
small stream to eat our midday meal, I took off my cloak.
     I shared my bread and meat with Bartol, who had cheese, and some
spicy sausages. We washed it down with the cider, and continued on our
way.
     Just before sunset we stopped for the night at a tavern whose sign
was so faded and worn that I could not make out the name. The platter of
food we were served in the common room was not fit for animals, so I ate
the remainder of my lunch. I slept in the stable with the horses; it
looked and smelled cleaner. From the look Bartol gave me as I left for
the stable, I think he agreed.

     Early the next afternoon we arrived at Bartol's estate. It was a
small holding, but looked prosperous. The animals were sleek, and the
small garden near the manor house was neat and well tended. There was a
solidly built stable near the garden, and after I had taken care of
Flanduil, I walked around the rest of the area, all of which spoke of a
man who took care of what was his. It seemed that Lord Bartol could
afford a decent dowry for his daughter.
     I ate the evening meal in the kitchen in the presence of a
red-faced cook who was less inclined towards speech than her master. She
spoke not more than ten words while I ate, but she did cook rather well.
I had three portions of the roast fowl, which was smothered in a
delicious onion gravy, although the dressing was a little rich for my
liking. There was no cider, but the beer was cool and refreshing.
     Just as I finished eating, mopping up gravy with warm dark bread, a
young servant entered the kitchen and walked up to the table where I
sat. He tried to stand as tall as possible, but I guessed him at no more
than six or seven years of age. The page, probably the son of an ally
receiving his training, finally spoke.
     "Sir Fighter," he said, "Milord requests you come to the hall."
     "Right away, page," I replied, keeping my voice serious. I could
remember how afraid I had been, far from my family, as a young page at
the College of Heralds. As we walked out of the kitchen, I leaned over
and said quietly, "I am no knight, my boy. Call me Master Bren. If a
true knight hears you name a man Sir who is not, there will be trouble."
I ruffled his hair to show him I meant no harm.
     We entered the hall, a room I estimated at about fifteen strides
deep by ten wide, large enough for its purpose. The walls were covered
in tapestries, the usual method used to help keep out the cold. At the
far end of the room burning logs crackled and sparked in a large
fireplace. A long table was placed across the room not too far from the
fireplace, individual chairs on the far side, and a bench opposite the
chairs. All in all, a very typical manor hall.
     There were three men seated on the left, and two women on the
right, but the only person I recognized was Bartol, who sat at the far
left, sifting through some documents.
     "Milord," piped up the little page, "Master Bren at your request."
     Bartol looked up from his papers. "Thank you, Reen, see if cook can
get you some dinner." The page, Reen, bowed hastily, and sped back to
the kitchen.
     "Master Bren, sit here with me," Bartol said, gesturing to the
bench across from him.
     "Thank you, milord," I said, approaching the bench.
     My lady wife, and my daughter, Jeleen," Bartol said, starting the
introductions.
     "Ladies, it is a pleasure," I said. It seldom is, but the forms
must be followed by all parties in these social transactions, and the
two women smiled at me as if they cared what I thought about meeting
them.
     As I sat down, Lord Bartol went on, "This is my seneschal, Kitron,
and Sregon, a priest of Ol, who will bless the marriage."
     I nodded at the seneschal, a thin, frail looking man, and murmured
politely, "Greetings, seneschal." I ignored the priest, as is my wont,
and after a moment of silence, his fat, bearded, face went red. I was
not concerned, however, for unlike insulting a noble, a priest won't
have you whipped. They usually threatened damnation of some sort, a
threat which never upset me. I found it strange that the gods used such
fools to be their fleshly representatives.
     No one else had noticed the byplay. Bartol had continued, "Kitron
and I are riding the borders of our land tomorrow with my neighbor to
the west. He has just inherited, and it can't be put off."
     I was aware of the tradition of riding a common border. It usually
occured when a new lord came into his inheritance. It didnt solve all
border disputes, but it did reduce the number of complaints.
     "We are due in Dargon in a few days for the wedding," continued
Bartol, "But Jeleen must spend some time with the seamstress, fitting
her wedding clothes, which is why I need you to take her there."
     "But Father, I told you I will not marry him!" The sudden outburst
from Jeleen surprised me, but not her mother, who quickly turned and
slapped the girl full across the face.
     "Your father has spoken, and you will obey him," Lady Bartol
exclaimed loudly. "And while you ponder your ill ways, you can ensure
the servants have packed your things properly." Jeleen, the red slap
mark clear upon her cheek, was dismissed with a small wave of her
mother's hand.
     Outwardly, I maintained a neutral expression. After all, when
everyone lives in the same three or four rooms, privacy is a rare thing.
It is only good manners to pretend not to see certain things. Otherwise,
we would soon be unable to coexist in harmony.
     Inwardly, I applauded Lady Bartol's open support of her husband. It
seemed to me that many women sought to strive against the natural
superiority of men, and often assumed rights and privileges not their
own. The society which succeeded was one in which men and women took on
the roles for which they were properly suited.
     After Jeleen had left, Bartol turned to me and spoke for my ear
alone, "She is a good girl, kel Tomis, although a bit headstrong. After
this outburst I am almost tempted to miss my border ride, but I cannot.
Watch her closely, and deliver her safely to my brother."
     "On that you have my word, milord," I replied, as quietly as
Bartol.
     Just then a servant entered the room with a wick, to light the
torches in the hall, as it was now approaching dark. Bartol sent her
from the room, announcing to everyone, "It is an early start tomorrow, I
suggest we retire." Bartol and his lady left, and then the rest of us
trailed out.
     I laid out my bedroll in the common room with the servants. Several
were already snoring near the fire, which had been banked for the night.
Quickly blocking out the ghastly chorus, I was asleep in moments.

     I was up early enough the next morning to step outside and see
Bartol and his sons empty their stirrup cups and ride away. To my
disgust, however, it was nearly midday before my small party left for
Dargon. Jeleen and her maidservants delayed at every turn. I nearly
turned the pretty wretch over my knee several times, but forbore from
doing so, retaining some dignity, if not temper.
     I got my first good look at the girl that morning. She was not the
kind to turn men's heads, but she was pretty enough. Moderately tall,
she wore her dark brown hair tied up neatly on top of her head. She was
well shaped, and looked to have the hips to bear children without much
difficulty. That is always important in a bride.
     At long last, we left the mansion. I had the larger of the three
male servants ride ahead, and hoped he would not have to draw the short
sword which hung awkwardly from his hip. I had spent a short while that
morning determining the male servants' abilities, and I was none too
encouraged. Jalosh, riding up front, was the best of the three, and I
was sure he'd wet his breeches before dropping his sword and running, in
the event of an attack. Fortunately the road was well traveled, and
considered quite safe. Jeleen's two maidservants were next, followed by
another man, Jeleen, myself, and the last servant.
     We made slow progress, Jeleen using any excuse to call a stop. I
made attempts to speed our progress, but I did not press the issue. By
mid afternoon I knew we would have to make a camp for the night, and I
started looking for a suitable location. About half a bell before
sunset, I called a halt, and directed the servants to make their
preparations.
     As they did so I scouted the vicinity, for I had a good notion
about what Jeleen might have planned, and I wanted to be ready to
counter her. When I returned to the camp, a small pavilion had been set
up for Jeleen, and the bedrolls were in place. After a short meal of
bread, cold meat, and hot tea, I chivvied everyone to their respective
bedrolls. I had purposely laid my bedroll near the horses so that I
would be out of the view of those near the fire.
     As soon as it was dark, I quietly rose and moved away from the
camp, and took up a post near a trail leading away from Dargon. Soon my
scouting paid off. Someone was leading a horse up the trail, someone not
well used to either horses or woods.
     I waited for the person to pass me by. If it was Jeleen, I knew
from my observations that morning that she wouldn't be able to mount
before I could stop her. If I did not stand between her and the camp,
she might see me, and retreat, rousing the servants and causing a
disturbance I knew neither of us wanted. As soon as Jeleen had passed,
for it was indeed her, I stepped out from my place of hiding, and spoke.
     "The night air is refreshing, is it not, milady?"
     Jeleen, startled out of her wits, dropped the reins and made a
strange squeal deep in her throat. The frightened horse tried to bolt,
but was between Jeleen and myself. Cursing myself a fool for being
unnecessarily dramatic, I quickly grabbed the reins and calmed the
horse. I then took the girl by the arm and led both her and the horse
back to the camp.
     Once the horse had been picketed, I stoked the fire and made a pot
of tea. I glanced over occasionally as I worked, and could see by her
stiff posture that she was angry. Taking two cups of the steaming brew,
I stepped across the camp of still sleeping servants to the log on the
eastern edge of the camp where Jeleen sat, pouting over her failure to
escape.
     At first she refused the cup, but soon the chill of the night
airimproved her judgement, and we sat on the log, sipping tea and
listening to the night. It was very companionable, and I waited for some
time, letting her calm down and regain what sense she normally retained.
     I started the conversation by asking, "So, what is his name, then?"
     Jeleen's surprised expression told me that she thought her secret
well hid, but she responded anyway. "His name is Oburt, and I love him,"
she said, ending with a note of belligerence.
     "I'm sure you think you do, my girl," I replied, "But you have an
obligation to your family that supersedes your personal desires and
wishes. Your father has agreed a match, for the good of the family. Your
responsibility is to your family, not yourself."
     "What would you know about duty?" Jeleen countered, scathingly.
"You're nothing but a common mercenary."
     I paused, trying to decide whether to speak openly to the girl, to
help her understand where her duty lay, or just to bundle her up and
deliver her as quickly as possible to Dargon.
     "I have not always been a mere fighter," I replied, having decided.
"I have been much more, and fallen from a greater height than you know."
I hesitated again, ashamed, but then I continued, realizing that my own
failure to my duty spoke more clearly than cliched platitudes. "I once
held high rank in the service of my king," I began. "It was a position
of great responsibility, and duty was my god. One day, however, not much
more than a moon ago, I met a woman. I became lost in her, her manner
..." My voice trailed off as I recalled Kira, who has used me so badly.
Even now, I ached at the thought of her.
     "Was she beautiful?" asked Jeleen, sounding caught up in my tale.
     "I have never seen any maid who caught my breath like she did," I
replied wistfully. "But her heart was as black as her hair, and that was
my undoing. She asked me to commit a wrong, and I did it gladly for her
love. It was not until afterwards, when she had no more use for me, that
I realized what a grievous wrong I had done."
     I recalled the blow that had cut down Regan kel Bor, and shuddered.
"Kel Bor was no more. I had killed a good man, and betrayed my duty, for
nothing. I can taste the bitterness of that feeling even now. When I
arrived home, my king stripped me of position and honor, and exiled me
to this far land, where the rain and cold may well be the death of me."
     "You poor man," Jeleen commiserated. She placed a hand on mine, and
squeezed gently. "You have been through much."
     "You think that the end?" I laughed grimly. "Those punishments are
nothing. The true penalty is in my own heart. I now know that I am a
mere man, bound to fail, and fail miserably. I have no honor, and so my
soul is bereft." The pain became so intense that I could no longer
contain it. Tears ran unbidden from my eyes. From my throat came the
whispered words, "Toran! Help me!"
     Now undone, sobs wracked my body. I could feel Jeleen holding me,
trying to comfort me, and I slowly gained control of my emotions as the
moments passed.
     "I am sure your god will give you the strength you need," she
whispered to me, mistaking my cry to my slain friend.
     "I worship no gods," I replied quietly. "Toran was my companion, a
great friend who fought by my side, and another good man who died
because of me. You see, I punish myself, and I see no end to it. I
struggle through each day, hoping to make some small step towards
redeeming my soul, my honor, my duty. That is the precipice upon which
you stand, dear girl. Step away from your desire, and towards your duty,
or you will surely regret it, as I have."
     She pulled back from me for a moment, frightened by the intensity
in my voice. Then she nodded her head, and no longer appeared afraid.
     We spoke for a long time. She opened up to me, speaking of her
father, and her uncle. As the bells passed, I could sense that she was
coming to the right decision in her mind. Sometime during the night, I
retrieved my cloak, and placed it around her, warding her from the cold.
     There, in the quiet dark, I examined my soul. I hadn't spoken to
Jeleen about Raneela, but the healer had not been far from my thoughts
that night. I could not say that I returned her obvious affection, but I
knew that I had again shirked a duty. I had treated her shamefully, and
another blot was on me.
     I felt the black mood coming on me again, but this time I resolved
to fight it. I had admitted my weakness to Jeleen, and in doing so had
finally admitted it to myself. I now knew I could fail, and the
knowledge made me stronger in a way I did not yet understand. With that
thought, the mood retreated, and my heart was less heavy in me. I had
reached an epiphany in that moment, as if I had waited my whole life to
come to that realization that I could fail, and still yet succeed by
persevering.
     Just before sunrise, having been quiet for a while, she said, "What
about Oburt? I cannot just forget him, even though I do my duty."
     I chuckled out loud, but quickly stopped, seeing the hurt look from
the offended girl. "Jeleen, you do not have to forget him. Wait for a
time, and then send for him."
     Jeleen looked shocked. "But my duty ..."
     I interrupted her, "You must never dishonor your husband, and your
public face must always be one of love and support. But the nobility are
as human as any other; they have the same desires as any other. As long
as you do not make a fool of your husband, no one will object; it is
done all the time. I am sure your husband will do the same. When you get
to Dargon, make friends with some of the other wives, and they will show
you how the dance is done."
     We watched the sun break through the floor of the world, and then
roused the others. The days' travel went smoothly, and Jeleen and I
spent most of the time talking of inconsequential things. I felt
relieved that I could talk to her; we had become close friends in a
short night.
     That is one reason I despised the priesthood. They wanted your
soul, but not your friendship. I remember many long talks with Toran
over a mug or three, and cannot recall ever seeing one priest in the
tavern. Never trust a man who will not drink with you; it is a good rule
to live by.
     We made quick time this day, and before the sun was three quarters
across the sky, our path joined the Street of Travelers, and Dargon Keep
loomed in the sky. At this time of day most traffic was headed away from
the keep, so we made good time, and were at the gates well before
sunset. I ordered the servants to wait under the stern eyes of one of
the guards at the Keep gate.
     We passed into the inner courtyard, and I took a moment to glance
around. While not as grand as The Breakers, the castle of the King of
Mandraka, Dargon Keep was impressive. The three towers protected the
keep from the river and the sea, while the steep, winding road leading
to the gate would prevent a large scale assault on the landward side.
     "Gardener," I called out, speaking to an old man weeding between
the courtyard paving stones. "How do I find Lord Bartol?"
     Leaning on his hoe, the peasant paused, and then replied, "Through
that door, milord, then down the hallway, to the main hall. There you'll
find the bard." Casually turning away, he continued his work.
     Jeleen and I were reached the corridor the gardener had described,
where a clerk took Jeleen's name, and promised to reach Bartol as soon
as possible, although when that be could be hard to say. Jeleen seemed
out of her depth here, so I stepped up to the small table.
     "Would this help you to locate Lord Bartol?" I asked, laying a
Royal on the table.
     "Lord Bartol shall be with you presently," the clerk responded with
a smile. I shook my head in resignation. It seemed that every clerk in
every castle was cut from the same fabric.
     The clerk hissed at a page, and we were escorted to a small chamber
outside the Grand Hall. It was furnished only with several chairs, and
apparently functioned as a temporary waiting room. Soon there were
footsteps in the corridor outside, and the door opened.
     "Uncle!" cried Jeleen, who threw herself at the tall, dark-haired
man in the doorway. The reunion was over in short order, and when Bartol
glanced at me, Jeleen introduced me.
     "Uncle, this is Bren kel Tomis, a personal friend who accompanied
me to Dargon," she said, exaggerating our relationship somewhat. Bartol
thrust his hand out to me, and in reflex, I clasped his forearm in the
greeting of equals.
     "Milord," I said, "The lady is too kind. I was hired by her father
to bring her to you. If you wish, I will escort her to your home, and
then take my leave."
     "No, Uncle," Jeleen interjected, "He has done me a great favor. I
owe him a debt, and since we are family, you also owe him a debt." As
she said the last, she turned and smiled at me, and I was satisfied that
she seemed to understand her duty.
     Bartol looked at me again, in a more appraising manner. I did not
turn from his inspection, and he spoke. "You seem to have affected our
Jeleen, Master kel Tomis. You are from Mandraka, are you not? I seem to
recall that style of naming."
     "I am, milord. It is a way of retaining our link to the land. My
father was the Count of Tomis. As a noble son, I was allowed to insert
'kel' in my name."
     Jeleen turned to me with a piqued look, as if I had withheld
information from her. Bartol just smiled and nodded, then spoke, "Well,
kel Tomis, I will have a servant escort you and my niece to my home. How
may I find you later, if I so wish?"
     "A message sent through the trader Qanis Jetru, on Commercial
Street, should reach me," I replied.
     With that, we took our leave, and followed the servant Bartol had
summoned. We walked through the streets of Dargon, the sky darkening
around us. Once we arrived at Bartol's house, Jeleen wept and held me
for a moment. I had never had a relationship with a woman that didn't
involve sex, but it was good to return her embrace without ardor. I said
goodbye and left the housestepping into the cool evening air.
     Leading my horse, it wasn't until I was ten paces down the street
that I realized I didn't know where I was going to stay. I didn't have a
home, and I would not impose on Raneela. I paused in the middle of the
street, oblivious to all. Maybe a small gift would be a good start for
my apology to her. Finally, I turned towards Qanis' house. I decided
that he could put me up for the night. Tomorrow I would find a place of
my own, and continue rebuilding my life.

========================================================================

                              Deliverance
                                 Part 1
                            by John Doucette
                           <jdoucet@cycor.ca>
                              24 Sy, 1014

Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
24 Sy, 1014 B.Y.

     The night sky was aglow with the fires raging among the
closely-packed buildings across the river. Great columns of smoke boiled
up into the night, obscuring the stars. Nochturon slowly marched across
the sky, silent witness to the events transpiring in Magnus' poorest
quarter. You could hear the screams.
     The light from the fires illuminated the Laraka, mighty even this
far upriver. The silhouettes of biremes, and the occasional trireme
sitting at anchor near the middle of the river stood out in stark
contrast to the masses of flame hungrily consuming all on the river's
eastern bank. The docks hard against the massive walls of the Old
Districts on the western bank and the wreckage of what was Kheva's
Bridge were lit with torches. Sentries walked slowly back and forth in
the torches' light, alert for any sally by the enemy encamped but a
league or two eastward.
     The eastern half of Baranur's capital was not totally occupied by
the enemy. Five thousand troops of the Magnus Militia and the Legion of
Death still manned the walls of the New Districts. Those troops did not
need torchlight -- the fires sweeping the Fifth Quarter were racing
towards the fortifications the soldiers of Baranur now occupied.
     High up on the ramparts of the Old Districts, on a section of wall
that formed part of the defences of the Royal Quarter itself, a man
stood and watched. He was of slightly more-than-average height. He wore
a black surcoat over a plain shirt and trews. A dagger rode on his hip
and a squared cross with a black pearl set in its centre hung from a
silver chain around his neck. The scar on his face running from the
right side of his forehead down to his left cheek lent his face a
sinister aspect in the flickering light of the torches atop the walls.
He did not speak to the sentries nearby, merely stood there and stared
across the river as half of Magnus died in fire and agony. Half of the
city that was the heart of his adopted homeland. Half of the city that
he was charged to protect and defend. He was Knight Commander of the
Armies. His name was Sir Edward Sothos.

     At six feet even, the figure that emerged from the tower onto the
wall was tall for a man, even more so for a woman. She drew her cloak
around herself and looked along the wall for someone. When she found the
person for whom she was looking, she started unhurriedly toward him,
nodding to the saluting sentries as she passed, her red hair catching
the torchlight.
     She stopped next to the man and looked out upon the fires on the
east bank of the Laraka. The wind this high-up was cool, even for high
summer, and she gathered her cloak more tightly around herself as she
shivered. She glanced down at the man beside her, and, noting his
expression -- or lack thereof -- she let out a sigh.
     She looked away across the Laraka once more. "I thought I might
find you here."
     The man did not move, did not turn his head, did not even change
the position of his hands on the battlements. "You thought true, then,"
he responded in a neutral voice.
     "Do not do this to yourself, Edward," she said, staring outward.
"Come down."
     "I am not favourably disposed to argue with you this night,
Commander," Sir Edward stated in a cold voice.
     Jan let out an exasperated breath and turned to face her friend and
commander. "What good shall this do? Will your being here put out those
fires?" she asked, pointing. "Will your being here make any difference
to those across the river?"
     Sir Edward turned his head to answer. "Mayhap not. It will satisfy,
in some small measure, mine own honour." Sir Edward indicated the fires
raging on the far bank. "At the very least I owe it to those who have
died because I failed them."
     Jan slapped the stone hard with her hand. "Failed! Gods' Blood!
Failed? How? How have you failed, Edward? It was not you who ordered us
out to meet the enemy! It was not you who ran at the first sign the
battle was going against us! If the King had not--"
     "*Enough!*" Edward's shout shattered the night like sword on
shield, startling the sentries. "You forget your place, Commander
Courymwen!"
     Jan had not seen Sir Edward truly angry on very many occasions and
the sight that greeted her now made her pale somewhat. She swallowed and
held her ground. "Do I?" she asked in the same quiet tones with which
she began the conversation. "You know I speak the truth, sir, you know
it! I do not malign the King, I swear I do not! I am a member of The
King's Own, I would never speak ill of His Royal Majesty! It is not
treason to look upon one's commander in the cold light of reason and
judge his actions. The King erred in putting Northfield before you and
that is why we are faced with such an unhappy position as now presents
itself."
     Edward said nothing, merely turned to stare across the river again.
To those who knew him, his silence at Jan's statements showed her
arguments had struck their mark. "It does not matter. The duty was --
*is* -- mine and mine alone."
     Jan cursed under her breath, her hands curling into fists. She
hated it when Edward got this way. She cared deeply for this foreigner
who had become her dear friend, but there were times when his honour and
sense of duty were absolutely aggravating.
     She sighed, admitting defeat, and tried to salvage some sort of
victory. "Will you not at least come down and get some sleep?" When she
got no answer, she moved closer, laying her hand on his arm. "Please,
sir," she implored, "you have not slept in three days." When Edward made
as if to protest, she added, "What good will it do for the commander to
be so fatigued that he cannot think clearly?"
     Edward shifted his gaze to the small fleet of ships in the river.
"It is fear," he said quietly.
     "Sir?"
     Edward placed his right hand over Jan's and squeezed. "I am afraid
we shall lose this battle."
     A cold feeling swept over Jan. She had not -- *ever* -- in the six
years she had known this man heard him admit to fear. Not even at the
news of the disaster of Shark's Cove had he shown fear. "Surely we have
force enough to hold until Knight Captain Westbrook arrives?"
     Edward let out a small, despairing grunt of a laugh. "Martis is en
route, true, but with not much force. The greater part of the army of
the Southern Marches must, of necessity, remain in the South to contest
with the forces of Beinison so present. There," he said, pointing
eastward, "but one or two leagues distant lie two-score thousand of the
enemy's best. We can muster five thousand on the far bank and an
additional nine on this. Knight Captain Connall has indicated that he
can raise no more troops from the North at short call, and short call is
what we must be content with. Even were I to order General Verde to
concentrate her cavalry on Magnus this instant, that would but add seven
thousand to our tally. We would still be outnumbered as near as to
two-to-one as makes no difference."
     Edward nodded at the far bank and spoke in a semi-detached
monotone. "Untar has bigger siege engines than we have and more of them.
In the morning, once the fires have burned themselves out, his troops
shall swarm over the walls and take the New Districts. Once he has the
far bank, he will move his siege engines to the shore and pound our
fleet to dust. Once the ships are gone, he shall be able to cross the
Laraka unopposed. He will surround us, besiege us, and starve us out."
     Sir Edward turned to face his aide and friend. "This army is the
last we can muster. The fate of Magnus is the fate of Baranur."
     Jan tried to assume a cheerful air. "Well, staying awake worrying
over it will do neither of us any good, will it?"
     Edward nodded. "Let us go, then." Jan smiled and turned to walk
towards the tower. Edward looked one last time across the water then
moved to follow.

     Someone had grabbed a hold of Edward's shoulder and was shaking him
fiercely. Edward tried to twist out of his adversary's grasp and when
that proved to no avail, he lashed out, only to have his wrist enclosed
in a grip of iron. Whomever it was seemed to shout at him.
     "Sir!"
     Edward opened his eyes to find Captain Daniel Moore standing over
him. Edward groaned and shut his eyes. "What is it, Daniel?" he asked in
a groggy voice.
     "You asked me to waken you before half-noon, sir," Daniel answered
in an apologetic voice.
     Edward sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Is it that already?",
he enquired.
     "Sorry, sir." Daniel straightened. "Shall I leave you to sleep
awhile yet?"
     Edward smiled slightly, the scar seeming not so harsh as usual.
"No, Daniel. Much as I would dearly love to do so, there is too much to
do." He opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows. "My
compliments to King's General Wainwright and would he assemble all unit
commanders for Council of War. Also, go you to His Royal Majesty and
would the King's Grace, and whatever of his advisors he so determines,
attend the council at the King's pleasure."
     Daniel saluted and was halfway out the door when Edward called him
back. "What of General Verde, Daniel?"
     "She and her commanders arrived within the last bell or so, Your
Excellency."
     "Good. Convey them to the council as well."
     Daniel nodded and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Edward lowered himself back down onto his bed and sighed, rubbing the
sleep from his eyes. He was tempted, sorely tempted, to let himself fall
back to sleep.
     Edward lay there for several menes, working up the energy to get up
and moving. With a sudden, decisive exhale of breath, he flung the
bedclothes from him and made his way over to the large chest next to the
stand on which his mail and gambeson hung. He opened the chest and
selected a pair of brown trews. He put on the trews, belted them, and
then pulled on a set of heavy leather boots sitting behind the chest.
Next, he took the gambeson from its stand and shrugged himself into it.
Finally, he removed his mail from its stand and spent the next several
menes struggling into his armour.
     Once Edward was satisfied that his mail was as comfortably seated
as he could get it, he pulled on his surcoat, belted on his sword and
dagger, and then put on both his chain of office as Knight Commander and
his wreath of honour that marked him as a knight of Galicia.
     He left his suite of rooms and walked briskly through the halls of
Crown Castle, making his way toward the Council Chamber, the very same
room where the decision for war was debated the past winter. Edward
rounded the corner leading to the chamber, noting the two members of The
King's Own standing guard. They saluted smartly and opened the doors.
     The Royal Army officers, some two dozen or so, noble and common
alike, stood as Edward entered the chamber. Only the King and his
advisors, and the nobles who were not part of the army, and thus, not
under Edward's direct authority, did not stand.
     The room was fifty feet across and circular. A raised dais was
against the wall to the right of the doorway. King Haralan sat in a
single high-backed chair in the centre of the dais. Flanking him were
his advisors in several smaller-backed chairs. The King had chosen only
his seneschal and the High Priest of Stevene to accompany him to the
council. A page and two additional guards stood behind the King, the
guards on the extreme right and left of the dais.
     Starting to the left of the doorway and running along the wall
almost to the dais were a series of stone benches arranged in the style
of an amphitheater, leaving a ten-foot diameter space in the middle of
the room between the dais and the benches.
     Edward strode into the chamber, nodding at King's General
Wainwright, General Verde, and one or two of the other assembled
officers and nobles. Edward bowed to the King, and Haralan indicated
with a nod and a glance that Edward should begin.
     Edward turned and spoke to the assembly. "Please, take your comfort
that we may begin." The army officers sat amidst a great cacophony of
armour against stone. Edward waited for them to finish seating
themselves before continuing.
     "Time grows short, our options grow limited, and the enemy grows
restless. Thus, I shall dispense with the usual pleasantries and get
straight to the meat of the matter." As he spoke, Edward let his gaze
roam over the faces of his audience. On some he saw fear, on others,
resignation and despair, on most determination. On all he saw the marks
of sleeplessness. In private, Edward would grudgingly admit to most of
those feelings. In public, things were different. In public, a leader
must convey confidence and decisiveness. And so, Edward buried his
misgivings deep within, smiled slightly, and went on in an upbeat tone
and manner.
     "Your Royal Majesty, Your Graces, officers of the Royal Army.
Within a day, two at the outside, the last resistance in the New
Districts shall be crushed and the east bank of the Laraka River shall
be in the hands of the enemy. Once that happens, we shall, of necessity,
be forced to send the Laraka River Flotilla down river -- Gateway or
Port Sevlyn -- and Untar and his self-styled 'Fist of the Emperor' shall
cross to this side unopposed."
     Edward noted the general reaction of dismay in his audience. He
smiled once more. "We can expect to face thirty-five to forty thousand
of the enemy. Against such strength we can muster the better part of
nine thousand, discounting the cavalry and whatever force Knight Captain
Westbrook may bring."
     "I note a decided lack of enthusiasm on your faces for these
figures, however, figures are not all. We have sufficient strength that
a direct assault would prove too costly, even for one as arrogant as
Untar. While he may be able to take the Merchant's Quarter, or mayhap
even the Royal Quarter, Crown Castle's fortifications are not conducive
to a quick reduction. Therefore, he must siege us. Therein lies our
hope."
     He shifted his stance somewhat, casually resting his hand upon his
sword-hilt. "General Verde," he asked, addressing his question to the
recently-promoted General of the Cavalry, "how long would it take you to
concentrate your Hussars?"
     Verde pushed her fingers through her blonde tresses, her eyes
narrowed in calculation. "A day," she answered confidently.
     Edward nodded and smiled in satisfaction. "For certes, that is the
best news I have had this day. Our course of action shall be thus: When
Untar crosses the river, we let him do so. Further, we make no effort to
oppose his encirclement of the Old Districts. As we both shall be in
stalemate, and as we are much better provisioned for a long siege than
is Untar, we shall wait behind our defences whilst General Verde and
Knight Captain Westbrook, should she arrive after Untar crosses the
river, do spread consternation along what part of Untar's line of
communication as can be reached without undue effort. Untar's supplies
shall dwindle, he shall be forced to send more and more troops off to
protect his supplies, and we shall bleed his army as if it suffers from
the Red Plague."
     He let his audience ponder and reflect on his remarks for a while.
When the expressions of thoughtful consideration gave way to fidgeting,
he asked, "Are there any that wish to pose questions?"
     The Duchess of Welspeare spoke first. "I find myself mostly in
agreement with your plan, Sir Edward. I do, however, have two main
queries."
     Edward bowed. "Certainly, Your Grace."
     Duchess Welspeare crossed her hands in her lap and proceeded. "My
first question centres on what role you envisage for the House Troops."
     Edward paused, collecting his thoughts before answering. "Since the
major portion of the House Troops are mounted, my intention was for
those mounted contingents to work closely with General Verde and her
Hussars." Edward noted the nods of approval from most of the dukes and
duchesses. The exceptions, the dukes of Oneda and Monrodya, and the
Seneschal of the Duchy of Northfield, came as no surprise. Edward also
noted that Sarah Verde, General of the Cavalry, indicated with a glance
and a nod that she was also aware of the potential sources of friction
with which she would have to deal.
     "As for those Foot contingents of the House Troops, prudence would
indicate that they should work hand-in-hand with Knight Captain
Westbrook and her forces." Again nods, this time from all present.
     "Does that satisfy Your Grace?" Edward inquired.
     Duchess Welspeare smiled graciously. "On the first point, entirely,
Sir Edward. My second query is of a more immediate matter and concerns
the current deployment of forces in the capital, specifically the
dividing of force between Old and New Districts and whether or not such
positions are defensible."
     Edward shifted his position slightly before answering Welspeare's
question. For one known for being near-impossibly stoic, it was an
indication that the immense pressures, both military and political, of
prosecuting such a large and far-flung conflict were beginning to take
their toll.
     "The current disposition of our forces is not what one would name
desirable," Edward said in a monotone. "It was dictated more by the
outcome of the ill-advised attempt to meet the enemy host on the field
than by military sense. I do not believe the New Districts to be
tenable. Neither can we reinforce nor evacuate -- any attempt to do so
would surely be observed by the Beinisonians and would bring their
entire army down upon the heads of those defending the New Districts. We
might possibly succeed in getting one or two thousand out before the New
Districts fell or we might not get any out. And should we attempt to
reinforce, we would only be putting cudgels in the mob's hands."
     Duchess Welspeare nodded and sat back, obviously troubled by the
Knight Commander's bleak evaluation. As well, there seemed, for just an
instant, an expression of satisfaction on Her Grace's features, almost
as if she had just scored a point in some sort of game.
     "Are there any others with questions?" Edward asked, scanning the
room.
     "I might question what it is we have done that God has visited this
punishment of war and invasion upon us, Sir Edward," the Duke of
Monrodya spoke, "but as to your military dispositions, regrettably, I
can find no fault. All that can be done, in good conscience and military
sense, seems to have been done."
     Edward nodded in appreciation. "Since it does seem that we are all
agreed ... General Verde, concentrate your Hussars three leagues
northwest of the city and await my call." Verde nodded, stood and
saluted both Sir Edward and King Haralan, and departed with her
officers.
     "Your Graces, would you, as the King's Grace gives you leave to
depart, see to the assembling of your forces northwest of the city,
there to await the arrival of General Verde and her Hussars?" The Dukes
and Duchesses all indicated their affirmation, even those
representatives of Houses opposed to the Knight Commander's policies.
     Edward turned to face Commander Jan Courymwen. "Commander, see to
it that the troops are well-fed and rested. And see to it, as well,
that, if it has not already been done, all remaining foodstuffs are
brought inside the city." Jan stood, saluted, and left the chamber, the
Royal Army officers following.
     Sir Edward turned last to his King. "Your Royal Majesty, if Your
Grace requires nothing further of myself or King's General Wainwright,
he and I should take further counsel."
     "We should like to have King's General Wainwright remain awhile. As
for Your Graces," Haralan nodded to the assembled Dukes and Duchesses,
"We charge you, look to your troops and bury this animosity between you
and the officers of the Royal Army lest that very animosity bury
Baranur." Some nodded vigourously, others reluctantly, and a few,
defiantly. "Go then, and may Stevene smile upon us all." The nobles
stood and bowed to their King and quit the chamber.
     Haralan turned to Edward and smiled. "Go, my friend. There are some
few diverse matters upon which I wish to take counsel of King's General
Wainwright. I shall not keep him overly long."
     Edward bowed. "As Your Majesty desires."
     Haralan watched his Knight Commander depart and then dismissed his
retinue, coming down from the dais to sit next to Wainwright. When the
two were alone, Haralan turned to the King's General of the Royal Duchy
and asked, "What do you know of the political maneouverings here in
Magnus?"
     Wainwright smiled slightly. "Somewhat, Your Majesty. I try to keep
myself out of politics as much as I am able. What is it that Your
Majesty is referring to?"
     Haralan sighed. "Surely you know why I gave Northfield command of
the defence of the city these few days past?"
     Wainwright looked his King squarely in the eyes and said, "No, I do
not. To be honest, I have always considered Duke Northfield to be, ah,
somewhat lacking in the skills of war. His performance against the
Beinisonians proved that."
     Haralan grunted, accepting the criticism. "That was well-struck and
honestly deserved. I had no choice, General Wainwright. There is a
movement afoot to replace Edward." Haralan held up a hand to forestall
Wainwright's protest. "This is a game of power, General. Northfield and
his faction see an opportunity to elevate their own man to the position
as Knight Commander, using the less-than-spectacular course of events
thus far as their justification."
     "As well," Haralan continued, assuming a more comfortable position,
"there are other things, not related to the prosecution of the war, that
are at work."
     Wainwright's expression grew thoughtful. "Is it because the Knight
Commander is a Galician, then?"
     Haralan smiled slightly. "Partly, General, partly. In the main,
though, it is Edward's personal conduct with some, actually, one, of his
officers, that is providing further fuel for the arguments against him.
Arguments I am doing my best to ignore, but which, sooner or later, I
may be forced to listen to."
     Wainwright grunted. "It is his friendship with Commander Courymwen
and the talk about the two of them."
     Haralan nodded. "Yes, that is precisely the reason. I sense you are
one who supports Edward, General. That is why I am telling you these
things. With Marcellon incapacitated, there are few whom I can turn to
with trust. Those opposed to Edward continuing as Knight Commander are
close, very close, to forcing a resolution, one that goes against
Edward. Not only do I not wish that from a personal standpoint -- Edward
is perhaps my closest friend -- neither do I wish it as King."
     "Why not just leave Sir Edward as Knight Commander? You *are* the
King, after all."
     Haralan laughed. "Someday, when we have time, I shall explain to
you, General, that the power of a King is not as absolute as one might
wish. We do not have the time, however. We must act to save Edward and
we must act now. I have an idea that might buy some time. I am loathe to
propose it, but I can see no other alternative."
     "This is what I intend to do ...."

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