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 DargonZine                                     Distributed:   3/4/2001
 Volume 14, Number 2                            Circulation:        772
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 The Day Ordelius Dobber Died JD Kenyon              Firil, 1016
 A Woman's Determination      P. Atchley             Naia 1017
 What Price the King?         Mark A. Murray         Sy 1017
 Talisman Seven 4             Dafydd Cyhoeddwr       Yuli 11-12, 1013

========================================================================
 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 correspondence to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
 on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. 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 14-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright March, 2001 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>

     When I tell people about my involvement with DargonZine, I almost
invariably lead with the statement that it's the longest-running
electronic magazine on the Internet. With the number of people using the
Internet now measured in the billions, that's an extremely powerful
claim to make. And at least once or twice a year I also highlight our
longevity in DargonZine's Editorials.
     While it's great to share our pride in having been around so long,
I think that by overemphasizing our history we've overlooked something
far more important and worthy of note: that we're achieving our goal of
helping aspiring writers improve, and are highly valued by the people
who write for us. Despite how often I use it as a differentiator,
longevity is worthless if you're not succeeding and doing something
meaningful. So I'd like to take a moment and reflect on what we're
trying to do, and the evidence (other than longevity, of course) that I
see of our success.
     At our first big writers' Summit we drafted DargonZine's operative
mission statement: to provide a way for aspiring fantasy writers on the
Internet to meet and become better writers through mutual contact and
collaboration as well as contact with a live readership via the
Internet. Over the years we've brought hundreds of writers together from
all over the world, and promoted collaboration and peer review. We're
continually learning from one another what good writing is and how to
achieve it, and our readers have provided us with valuable feedback, as
well. We're not here to make money, or to have lots of readers, or even
to see our names in print; DargonZine exists to help writers.
     So perhaps the best way to gauge our success is from our writers'
attitudes toward the project. While DargonZine is in many ways like a
traditional face-to-face writers' workshop, it also requires a much
greater commitment of time and energy. While it's easy to critique a
story face-to-face, it can take a lot of time to type all that
information into an email. Receiving criticism always takes patience and
humility, and it can often take as much as five major revisions over
twelve months to get a story printed in DargonZine. Simply participating
in the Dargon Project as a writer takes a whole lot of time and energy.
Still, DargonZine's writers take their craft very seriously, and each of
them has decided that publication in these pages is worth that effort.
     But an even better demonstration of how highly our writers value
DargonZine is in the fact that just about all of them go beyond the
effort of simply writing for the zine and undertake additional
non-writing projects to help make DargonZine better. This includes large
tasks such as creating Dargon's maps, assembling a Dargon history and
timeline, putting together materials to help new readers and writers get
up to speed, fleshing out our database, and discussing the group's
direction for coming years. Those aren't things that we require of our
writers, yet it's something they willingly do because they have a strong
belief in what the Dargon Project can do for them and for other writers.
     While it's nice that DargonZine has been around so long, the things
that we should be most proud about are that we have succeeded at helping
lots of writers improve. And those writers, though the time, effort, and
energy they devote to DargonZine, have demonstrated that they really
believe in this project and the good that we do. And that's something to
be truly proud of.

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

                      The Day Ordelius Dobber Died
                              by JD Kenyon
                         <janine_dee@email.com>
                              Firil, 1016

     Ordelius Dobber knew that today was the day he was going to die --
and there was nothing he could about it. The gods above issued the
portents of life, and in his case, death. In the dark bells that had
passed the night before, he had prayed silently to Ol to change his
inevitable fate. His prayers had failed, for he had woken with an icy
cold grip of dread still clawing into him, its unseen talons piercing
his heart as his life force slowly seeped away. All that he had left was
today. He moaned weakly and rolled over in bed, his clammy face pressed
into the pillow, stifling the anguish he felt within.
     "Delius!" Mona screeched just outside the window. "Get your breech
end out of bed right now and come and feed these pigs."
     Ordelius pulled the pillow over his head with trembling hands,
clutched the shivaree's claw on the thong around his neck and rocked
gently. It was hard to accept that he would die on an ordinary day like
this, with his wife whining about the pigs being in need of their swill.
He groaned again and drew his knees up under the covers, hugging his
scrawny legs to his chest.
     "I said *get up*!" The words boomed in his ears as Mona suddenly
barged into the room, plucked off the pillow and tossed the bedding to
the floor. Ordelius knew that Mona was not a woman to be trifled with.
Over the years she had become rather broad in the beam, and there was
solid strength in her akin more to an ox than a cow. Ordelius shrugged
himself upright and swung his feet onto the cold floor, ducking to avoid
the blow aimed in his direction.
     "Turdation!" she cussed as she stormed out the door, grabbing a
bucket and broom on her way.
     Ordelius sighed deeply and stood up. He tugged his nightshirt over
his bony shoulders and ran cold hands over his skinny body, checking
carefully for any signs of malady or disease. Mona had left her wash
pitcher on the stand. He splashed some cold water on his face and
half-heartedly raked the stringy flap of gray hair over his bald pate
before pulling on his breeches and threadbare shirt. He slipped his bare
feet into his mud-crusted shoes and turned towards the door. Pausing on
the threshold, he tapped the ground twice with the tip of his shoe --
once for health, once for wealth -- the little ritual his mother had
taught him in childhood. It seemed rather trifling this morning, but now
he was ready to face the day. His last day.

     It had all started a sennight before, on a dark street near the
edge of Dargon, and on a night when Ordelius had perhaps had a bit more
than usual to drink. He had stumbled from the Shattered Spear -- or
rather, Jahlena had tossed him out the door because he had become rowdy
and impoverished at about the same time -- and had staggered into the
road just as the fourth night bell clanged in the distance. The world
had seemed a little unsteady around him and he had paused to regain his
balance. The air had been black and cold; each breath had burned his
lungs and made his head spin. The clouds had lifted, letting a bright
Nochturon shine down on him, and Ordelius had raised his voice in a
greeting, hailing the moon and thanking it for casting a light unto his
path. Then he had shuddered, overcome with the feeling that something or
someone lurking unseen in the shadows was watching him. He had looked
about, anxious, then had decided to hurry home, even if it was to face
Mona's wrath. That would have been all good and well, if it had not been
for the other thing that had happened on his way home.

     "Delius Dobber!" Ordelius dropped his head and shuffled the bucket
of swill across to the pig trough as Mona's heavy stride approached.
     "Skies above, Delius!" she exclaimed. "What in Stevene's name has
gotten into you?"
     "Sorry, dear." He stared at her, recalling how nice it was to
snuggle up behind her and place his arm around her, cupping her full
breast in his small hand as he fell asleep at night. She had a familiar
scent about her, almost sweet, but with an undertone of warm spice. He
would miss that.
     "You've been behaving very strangely." Her tone mellowed and she
reached out to wipe some splattered swill off his face. Her touch
reminded him of the days when he was courting her. It felt like a
lifetime ago.
     "You said you would be getting these things to Sian." She was
clutching a cloth-covered basket. He did not want to be away from home
on today of all days, but this errand was important to Mona. Once an
orphan herself, Sian had used money left to her by her adoptive parents
to give a home to street children. Ordelius and Mona had been childless
throughout their marriage, and he knew that she had found some comfort
in providing what they could from their land for Sian and her little
ones. Mona took the bucket from him and gave him the basket. Ordelius
heaved a long sigh, then pecked her down-soft cheek and set off for
Dargon.

     In truth, as he recalled, it had been an act of nature that dark
night that had signaled his imminent demise. After he had left the
tavern, he had felt more and more discomfort with each step, the result
of having drunk too many ales. A sudden rustling in the shadows had
startled him and he had increased his pace, silently telling himself
that it was merely the rats foraging in the gutters. He had felt a
growing sense of pressure and had hurried on until the urge to relieve
himself could no longer be ignored. With one hand fumbling with his
breeches, he had staggered over to the edge of the roadside buildings.
There was a tight, narrow gap between two of the walls, and he had
slipped in through it, gripped his bursting cod and unleashing a stream
of piss into the black night. In that instant, it was as if Makdiar
itself had sundered open. There had been a loud rattle and a feral grunt
as the ground beneath him erupted, buckling his knees and tossing him to
the dirt. A giant figure had risen up above him, blocking the moonlight
with an outstretched arm that jabbed violently into the blackness as he
cowered below. For just one moment, Ordelius had raised his head and had
found himself staring straight into the face of Death.

     "Hello, Ordelius," a voice called from behind, bringing Ordelius to
the present. He spun around to face the caller and saw Sian crossing the
road, little Kerith tagging behind.
     "Greetings, Sian." He extended the basket to her. "I was just
bringing this to you."
     "Thank you kindly." Sian gripped the basket and lifted the cover,
spying the fresh bread Mona had baked and the burly-beans from their
small garden. "You should be blessed, you are such good people."
     Ordelius swallowed hard and tousled Kerith's curls, wishing that
Sian's words were true, for he was not blessed, but doomed. The sun was
not yet fully high, but his hands were all clammy and he could feel his
shirt clinging to his body.
     "You should stop by and see Mona," he said suddenly. "Bring the
children. She'd like that." Sian gave him a quizzical look.
     "Of course." She put a hand on his shoulder and looked down at
Kerith. "Some of us would like to see the new piglets, wouldn't we?"
Kerith smiled shyly.
     "I'd best be off." Ordelius looked down at Kerith's pretty face and
realized she had a whole life ahead of her. He only had today.
     "All right, Ordelius. Tell Mona we'll see her soon." Sian clutched
Kerith's hand, swung the basket onto her hip and headed back across the
road towards Market Street. Ordelius watched until they turned a corner.
He felt hot and sticky, and his throat was very dry.

     The memories flooded back. While he had trembled near the ground in
the dark alley, the putrid stench of the gaunt being before Ordelius had
overwhelmed him. The creature's eyes were sunken in its head, the skin
stretched taut across the emaciated face. It had raised a bony hand in
his direction and spewed evil-sounding grunts. The hand clawed in on
itself and he watched in horror as it twisted towards the creature's own
neck, mimicking a stranglehold.
     Ordelius had pulled himself into a tight ball, afraid to face the
demon. His ears had filled with a frenzied rattling noise that echoed in
the alley. He had felt a cold, damp presence over his naked scalp and
had not waited another moment, but had scampered to the gap in the wall
and burst onto the road, his breeches flailing about his churning legs
as he raced homeward through the black night. Mona had looked up in
fright as he had crashed through the door, but after listening a short
while to the blubbering man in front of her, she had accused Ordelius of
being a no-good drunk and clobbered him solidly. He had spent that night
curled in front of the fire, listening to Mona's gentle snores in the
room next door, wishing that it had all been a horrible nightmare from
which he would awake in the morning.
     Indeed, when morning came Ordelius had put the incident behind him
and had almost forgotten about it until last night, when he had returned
to the Shattered Spear.

     The loud clatter from a wagon snapped Ordelius from his reverie. He
looked up, his chest tightening. He dragged his eyes away from the
shimmering blue heavens, fearful that his eyes would light upon the sign
that marked his pending doom. The sun was nearing its zenith, which
meant that the midday bells would soon ring out. For Ordelius, every
bell that tolled in Dargon this day rang with the echo of his funeral
dirge. After saying farewell to Sian, he had not returned home to Mona,
but had been wandering through Dargon's streets, on this, his last day
alive. He had been down to the docks to smell the brine of the ocean for
the last time. He had listened to the water lapping gently against the
dockside and watched screegulls swooping down into the waters after
hidden prey. He had followed a trail of voices and stopped to watch the
flurry of activity in the market place. It was so alive, with the sounds
of people talking and haggling, and animals squawking and squealing. He
would have gone to Temple Street, but he doubted that the Euilamon and
priests would have any answers. As he had paced through the dusty
streets of Dargon, he had come to a realization: he had met with Death
in the alley that black night and, from that moment, he should have
known that his days on Makdiar would end soon. All it needed was a sign,
and it had come, last night.

     It seemed fitting that he was now standing in front of the
Shattered Spear, for it was here that it had all begun. There was a
gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach as he ran his tongue across
his parched lips. He pushed the tavern door open and went inside, and
smiled forlornly at Jamis, the tavern owner, who was already decanting a
tankard of ale for him. Ordelius sank into his regular seat close to the
grimy window. A buxom serving woman brought the tankard, not caring that
she sloshed the dark liquid onto his lap as she set it down before him.
He gulped it down.
     "I want something to eat," he said. She waited mutely on him for a
few moments, but when he did not elaborate, she walked off, leaving him
to stare blankly into the distance.

     It had been right here that he had heard the news, on the night
before. Ordelius recalled that he had felt a strangeness in the air as
he had slipped out the cottage door and hurried to the Shattered Spear.
The tavern was crowded and he had scrunched himself into a corner close
to a huddle of burly sailors while quaffing his ale. For the most part,
his attention had been on the young wench serving them; each time she
had leaned over the table to pass down another tankard he had caught a
glimpse of her brown nipples peeking from the lace bodice. The little
thrill that it had given him made him tingle until he had heard one of
the sailors say, "It is a strange light -- I swear it -- up in the sky,
glowing like fire."
     There were rumblings and murmurs and guffaws around him, but
Ordelius had felt his chest grow tight. The sailor was getting annoyed
at his skeptical audience.
     "All right!" he had boomed, "If you don't believe me, step outside
and look for yourselves."
     Ordelius had felt a hard lump swelling in his throat as he waited
anxiously for the sailors and other tavern patrons to get up and
accompany the sailor to the door. He had spilled out onto the road with
the rest of them and looked upward.
     The dark shapes of clouds scudded across the starlit night,
blacking out Nochturon's yellow glow.
     "Stupid buffoon," a man had yelled and slugged the sailor who had
dragged them out.
     "No ... look ..." An unknown voice had caused them to fall silent
and stare at the strange light that was now clearly visible. Ordelius
had stared at the light. If he had ever doubted that he had met Death,
he could be certain now. The sign he had secretly feared was burning in
the night sky, and only he knew what it truly meant.

     "A bowl of soup." There was a thud as she plopped it in front of
him and Ordelius looked at her.
     "Thank you," he said politely. She looked at him and gave him an
encouraging smile, then walked off. Ordelius lifted the spoon to his
mouth and slurped in the hot broth. It had no discernible taste -- no
doubt made from the leftovers of last night's tavern fare. It was hot,
but not hot enough to take away the chill in his bones. She was suddenly
back with another full tankard.
     "Would you like some stew instead?" She had deep blue eyes, and on
any other day Ordelius would have been happy to drown in their depths.
     "The soup is fine." He clinked the spoon on the full bowl. "I am
not that hungry."
     "It's been awful quiet in here today," she said, "on account of
that strange light. People just want to be home."
     He was not in the mood to talk about the strange light.
     "Some say it's a bad omen," she continued, trying to engage him in
eye contact, "but others say it is the birth of a new god." She waited
expectantly for him to say something, but even after another good swig,
Ordelius's throat was too tight with fear to speak. She walked back to
the counter, swishing a cloth over her shoulder.

     Ordelius shifted uneasily on the bench. He was the only one who
knew the truth: that Death had no words, only signs and deeds. He had
fouled Death and such an evil act alone could have an awful result. From
the moment he had seen the light in the sky last night he had known that
it spelled his doom. He downed the last dregs of the strong bitter
liquid, burped, and took a mouthful of soup. He thought about his life.
There had been too many days spent here in the tavern, drinking, and not
enough time spent at home with Mona instead. Ordelius sat mutely, his
body trembling violently. He wondered briefly if he should go to the
healer who lived on Atelier Street. Raneela, he thought her name was.
But he doubted that she would see how the hand of Death had reached
inside him and was tearing him apart. His chest burned, his arms tingled
and his jaw felt rigid with the fear that crept through his body.

     The crackle and sputter from logs in the tavern's great hearth
brought Ordelius back to the present. He realized that it was getting
dark. Soon Death would be here to claim him. Ordelius shivered. He had
hardly touched the soup, and now it was cold and lumpy. He set the spoon
down and took another half-hearted swig of ale, letting it dribble down
his chin. An icy draft swept through the tavern as the door swished open
and closed behind a new patron. Ordelius looked up, but the stout man
was a stranger to him. He turned away and took another deep slug of warm
ale. The serving woman crossed the tavern and stopped just short of his
table, reaching up to light a torch on a nearby wall. The last rays of
daylight had faded outside. His head jerked at a new sound that had
intruded into his thoughts. He had heard that noise before. A tap. A
rattle. A tap, then a rattle. His eyes grew wide as he peered through
the tavern window into the encroaching night. He raised his hand to
brush away some of the mire on the murky glass pane. Staring back at him
he saw the cold waxen features of the creature from the dark alley.
Suddenly he was cold, so very, very cold.

     Raneela looked weary as she approached the scrawny little man who
was slumped over the table, his hair trailing in the soup bowl in front
of him. There was a small cluster of onlookers next to the serving
wench, who was blubbering about how he had looked all funny when he came
in and that he had been drinking and hardly eating and drinking more,
and then he had just keeled over.
     "I bet it was the food that killed him," Raneela joked, but the
humor was lost on the stout lass who bolted away, tears spilling down
her face. She looked away from Jamis, the tavern owner, and the faces of
a dozen or so curious drinkers as she slipped her fingers under the
floppy head and held them there for a mene.
     "Waste of good time," she shrugged with annoyance and turned away.
"There is no healing to be done here."
     Someone tipped Ordelius Dobber onto the bench, straightened him as
best they could and covered him with a blanket as Jamis walked with
Raneela to the door.
     "Be off with you!" Jamis shouted to a dark form that was skulking
in the shadows outside the door. They watched as the giant robed figure
scurried into the night, grunting under its breath, a bony hand stabbing
at the air and pointing skywards.
     "Who in turdation is that?" Raneela asked, clenching her nose to
expunge the rotten stench the man had left in his wake.
     "The Death Rattler." Jamis spat into the dark. "The man can smell
death. I swear he scavenges for dead bodies at night. Probably kills a
few live ones too."
     Raneela looked up at the night sky as the ball of light cast a
trail of fine sparks behind it. She had been kept busy ever since it had
appeared, with wild-eyed men and women at her door begging for herbs to
ward off this unlikely portent of evil. She wondered how anything that
beautiful could be feared by anyone.
     "Why didn't you throw him out?" she asked Jamis, jabbing her thumb
in the direction of the prostrate form on the bench.
     "Felt sorry for the puny little runt. His wife's a real tyrant."
Jamis sighed and bid the healer farewell.

     The light that assailed his closed eyes was painfully bright, and
Ordelius Dobber wondered if indeed there was life after death. Then he
heard a sound he dreaded. It hammered right into his aching head,
pounding through the haziness.
     "Delius Dobber! You get your breech end out here right now!"
     Ordelius forced his eyes open and surveyed the side edge of the
table. He dropped his feet to the floor and let the blanket slide down
in a crumpled heap, propping himself on the table for support. Jamis was
leaning over the counter with an amused look in his eye, but he
straightened up and took a step backwards when the formidable Mona
Dobber burst through the tavern doors, her shrill voice berating him
too. The wenches wiping down the tables suppressed giggles as Mona
seized Delius in a firm grip and marched him out the tavern.
     Jamis crossed the room and leaned against the doorway. He laughed
heartily as Mona Dobber strode up the road, dragging Ordelius by the
collar, stirring up the dust in their wake.
     "I bet right now poor Delius wishes he was dead."

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

                        A Woman's Determination
                             by P. Atchley
                           <dpartha@usa.net>
                               Naia 1017

     "You've come, have you?" Jahlena greeted Rasine. "We've been very
busy tonight. I would have been upset with you if you hadn't showed up."
     Rasine stared up at the bigger woman who was the bouncer at the Inn
of the Shattered Spear. The thought of the way Jahlena had threatened
her daughter Oriel earlier that day filled her with dread. Her entire
mind burned with one question: how to keep Oriel safe? The fact of the
matter was that Oriel would never be safe in all of Dargon after Jahlena
had decided she wanted Oriel to entertain at the Spear, much like Rasine
herself did. Therefore Oriel's safety could be assured only if the child
was not in Dargon. Rasine was unable to think past the impossibility of
getting her daughter out of Dargon.
     "Rasine, pay attention!"
     She jerked her wandering wits back to the other woman. She knew
Jahlena would never hit her in so public a place and so she took a deep
breath to calm herself before taking a quick look around. The common
room was more crowded than usual, full of smoke and men, some looking
dangerous and the rest merely dirty. There appeared to be a card game
going on in the far corner, generating loud shouts of laughter.
     "See that man?" Jahlena pointed to a thin, dark-haired fellow
sitting at the bar talking to Jamis, the owner of the Shattered Spear.
"Go. The room with the chains. The key is in the soup bowl."
     There was another shout of laughter from the card table. Rasine
stared at the customers as she made her way behind the bar, stopping as
she always did to look at the shadows on the ground and the wall from
the crockery on the counter. Someone had set three mugs close together,
and it created a shadow effect rather like cutwork embroidery; in fact,
just like the blouse Jahlena had been wearing that very day. Momentary
anger gripped her as she thought of how much money Jahlena had probably
paid for it.
     Still thinking about the money the bouncer spent on her own
adornment, Rasine bent and pulled out a key from the soup bowl. She
fumed at the thought of the manner in which she, Rasine, earned the
money the other woman used to buy herself fancy blouses and jewelry. She
came around the counter, intending to take her customer upstairs when
she looked down at the key in her hand. It was the key to Jahlena's
strong box. Annoyance surged through her as she walked back to the soup
bowl. That key had been there the previous night as well. What was it
still doing in there anyway? It occurred to Rasine as she dropped the
key back in the bowl that it would serve Jahlena right if she took the
key. She rummaged for the key to the room with the chains, savoring for
just a moment the thought of taking Jahlena's strong box key before
shrugging it away.
     Rasine came around the bar and then stopped, staring at the
dark-haired man who, despite being thin, had a big belly. He had come in
the previous night as well, and she remembered overhearing his
conversation with another customer. He had been talking with a fat man
about Heahun. What had he said? Something about a ghost killing the
cooks at the Heahun Inn, and the merchant's wagon that stopped there on
its way into Dargon, *and* on its way out of Dargon. As she realized
that a way out of Dargon did exist, faith blossomed in her mind -- a
faith that she could save her daughter. The next step though, was how to
find the merchant. She would find the merchant; she would make him take
them out of Dargon; she would save Oriel. It was a chant. A litany. A
vow.

     Later that evening when Rasine came back to drop the key back in
the soup bowl, she hesitated. The strong box key was still there, and
both Jamis and Jahlena were busy serving customers. What would happen if
she were to take some money from Jahlena's strong box? Jahlena could
hurt her badly, she supposed. A small voice inside her mind pointed out
that Jahlena would never know it was she, Rasine, who had taken the
money. Besides, she wouldn't take much at all: just a Round, or perhaps
two. Rasine considered that dispassionately for a moment.
     A part of her mind mocked: what about right and wrong? Right and
wrong were things one taught to children. She herself had taught Oriel
that a wrong was always punished. But real life wasn't like that. People
didn't get punished for doing bad things; quite the contrary, Rasine
thought bitterly. Jahlena, who hurt people, was rich and always had new
clothes.
     She extended her hand to the strong box and retracted it. It was
wrong! The thought thudded through her mind with the force of a hammer.
But Jahlena was bad. Rasine looked up, peering through the dim smoke.
Jahlena still sported the dark hair, but she was wearing a cutwork
blouse tonight. Since the blouse was fairly plain, she had added
jewelry, and lots of it. More than one chain hung from her neck, each
one slightly longer than the previous. The last one hung to almost her
waist. They glittered in the firelight, inviting attention.
     Rasine's mind rebelled at the beauty of the chains. Each one had
been paid for with blood, her own and others'. Did that make it right to
steal from Jahlena? Rasine shook her head, and fidgeted. The bouncer had
systematically taken money from her for so many years. Didn't that make
it Rasine's money? She worried at her lower lip, unable to reach into
the strong box, yet unable to walk away.
     If it was Rasine's money, then taking it wasn't wrong. She reached
out to the strong box, inserted and turned the key and then flipped open
the top. Coins lay heaped inside the box, glinting dully in the dim
light. Rasine stared down, her heart thumping so loudly that she
wondered why the others in the room could not hear it. She had paid her
debt many times over during the past few years. Surely it couldn't be
wrong to take the money? She picked up two coins and stared at them.
     "Rasine, you're still here!"
     She gasped and looked up, shutting the strong box quickly. It was
only Jamis, the owner of the Spear. She slid the key and the two coins
into her purse.
     "Could you walk Tira to the back room upstairs, the one over the
stable? I don't want any of these scum here bothering her," Jamis nodded
to the crowded room behind him. "The key's right there, in the soup
bowl."
     Rasine nodded limply, feeling weak with fear and relief.
     Jamis turned to his daughter. "You, be sure to lock your door, you
hear me?"
     Rasine went upstairs slowly, followed by Tira. A mene later, she
returned downstairs and walked slowly behind the counter. The strong box
sat there, the dark, polished veneer of the lid gleaming dully. She
stroked the lid and swallowed. She closed her eyes for a moment but it
didn't seem to matter like before. Quickly she pulled the key out of her
purse, opened the strong box and grabbed some more coins. And so the
deed was done. She was richer by several Rounds. She left quietly after
locking the strong box and dropping the key into the soup bowl.

     Events progressed quite nicely after she left the Spear that night.
Searching for the merchant who planned to stop at Heahun on his way back
to Magnus was easy. She found him at the second inn she had tried and he
agreed to let them join his wagon from Dargon to Heahun, provided she
paid him a Round. It was a steep price; indeed, it was highway robbery.
     The little voice at the back of her mind rose annoyingly to remind
her that it was *she* who was the thief, not the merchant. But she had
merely taken a small portion of what belonged to her, she reasoned. Who
was going to know that she had appropriated some money from Jahlena?
Anyway, it wasn't as if Jahlena was the nicest woman in Baranur.
     Rasine climbed the steps to her rooms with a sense of satisfaction.
She unlocked the door and entered her rooms, ignoring the aggravating
voice in her head. Even if what it said was true, she had no time to
argue right now. Still, convincing herself that she had done no wrong
was proving futile. She admonished herself to stop thinking about it.
She had more pressing things at hand. She had to get ready, because the
merchant was leaving the next morning. Rasine woke Oriel and dressed the
child in the warmest clothes she had.
     "Why are we getting dressed, Mama?" Oriel asked sleepily.
     Rasine smiled with pride at her daughter, full of questions even
when she was half asleep.
     "We're going away, dear. Hush, now. Here, put on these shoes; I'll
be right back."
     Rasine went to her room to change. She pulled out the small pouch
of money she had secreted in her clothing earlier that evening. It
occurred to her that it was quite fitting for Jahlena to pay for their
safe passage to Heahun. The thought that she had hit Jahlena where it
would hurt the most, her strong box, would be enough to make Rasine
smile all the way from Dargon to Heahun. It was something to balance the
guilt she still felt at stealing money, even if it was from Jahlena.
     She went back out and saw that Oriel had slipped on her shoes and
was sitting on the one chair that they had, asleep. "Oriel, wake up."
     "M-Mama, why do you want me to wake up?" Oriel murmured.
     "Come on, little one," Rasine half picked Oriel up and walked her
to the door. The little girl walked obediently, with her eyes still
closed. After they were outside though, the chill air woke her up.
     "Where are we going, Mama?" Oriel asked as they started walking
west along the oceanfront toward the docks.
     "Oriel, I want you to listen to me. This is very important. Do you
understand?" Seeing Oriel nod, she continued, "We are going to go on a
long journey. I'm taking you to wait for me in a special place."
     "What special place, Mama? And why?" Oriel yawned.
     "Hush. We'll be there soon." They continued down the docks until
they reached the river and turned toward the causeway. The warehouses
along the riverfront had been destroyed during the war and some of them
had been restored. The last three were the smaller ones and they were in
greater disrepair. Beyond that lay the marshland and then the causeway.
The first warehouse was being rebuilt while the remaining two were yet
to be. When they reached the last one before the swamp, Rasine said,
"Here we are. Now, I'm going to go back to take care of something. Here,
keep this." She handed the purse to her daughter.
     "What's this, Mama?"
     "Just hold it for me until I return, little one. I want you to stay
here, and hide. Don't come out at all, do you understand?"
     Oriel nodded vigorously. "But where are we going, Mama? And why are
we going?"
     "Do you remember Jahlena, the big, tall woman you met in the
marketplace the other day? Well, we're running away from her. She's a
bad woman." Rasine paused, frowning. "But, we'll be safe when we get to
Heahun. Oriel, you must hide here until I come back. Don't come out, no
matter what; do you understand?"
     "Yes, Mama."

     Rasine hurried back to the lodgings she rented near the oceanfront,
northeast of Dargon and outside the city. When she arrived at her
destination, she knocked at the door to the lower part of the house and
waited. When there was no answer, she went up the stairs and paused
outside the door to her rooms, staring up at the sky. The stars seemed
unusually brilliant. Were they proffering their blessing on her? Was it
a blessing for the journey or a blessing for the task at hand, or
neither?
     Enough, she thought. There was work to be done. She went in and
pulled all their bedding to the center of the living area. The heather
and hay she had gathered for Oriel's bed landed on top of the pile. When
at last she was satisfied that everything that would burn was on the
pile, she went to the small kitchen area and lifted a tiny container of
oil. She had been saving it to roast the eels for Oriel's birthday.
Oriel loved the way she prepared eels. She sighed. The oil dripped
gently, slowly through the bedsheets and crept through the little gaps
in the heather. Rasine turned her attention to the mud oven where she
had banked the coals before leaving earlier that night.
     The coals still glowed, albeit dimly. She scooped up the live coals
with a ladle and flung them upon the pile in the center of the room.
Nothing happened. She bit her lower lip in vexation, wishing the coals
would burn. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. She drew close to the
pile and tried to blow on the coals, but still, nothing happened. Rasine
glanced from the pile to the mud oven, debating what to do. The pile had
to burn in order for Jahlena to believe that she had perished in the
fire. She picked up a coal, intending to carry it over to the oven.
     "Ow!!" Rasine cursed aloud. She was far too old a hand in the
kitchen to be doing something so stupid. She picked up the coals again,
this time with a scoop, and dropped them into the bottom of the mud
oven. She blew on them gently, turning them over until a small flame
crept up. And this time, when she flung the coals upon the pile, it
blazed upwards obediently. She clapped her hands to her ears -- the
noise was incredible! After the chill of the outside the heat initially
felt pleasant, but already she was beginning to perspire inside her
tunic and she knew that it would only get worse.
     It was time to go. She exited hurriedly, making sure to shut the
door behind her, and clattered down the staircase. The cottages on
either side of the house were empty, so hopefully the fire guard would
be able to quench the fire before it got out of hand. She would make
sure they knew of the fire before she went back to the warehouse to get
Oriel. This way, no one would know where she had gone, or indeed, if she
were gone at all. A nice plan, thought Rasine, congratulating herself.
     She stepped off the last stair and looked upwards to the top floor
of the small cottage. She couldn't see the fire, but she could certainly
hear it. Surely those awake inside the town's perimeter could hear it?
But it was close to the seventh bell of the night, so perhaps people
were asleep. Suddenly there was an incredibly loud sound. What was it?
Thunder! She pulled her hand off the banister as if it scorched her: the
banister was reverberating. Her heart began to pound.
     "Oh Stevene!" She swore aloud. What was going on? Time to get out
of here, at once. She turned to go and stopped, mid-stride. A child's
wail. From inside the lower level of the house. No, no, no, she screamed
silently. The house was supposed to be empty. Who was the child? The
cold air enveloped her. She still perspired. Unwillingly, she turned.
The wail came again. A child, Stevene forgive her! She rushed to the
downstairs door, but it was locked. She tried to juggle the handle, but
it was so hot that the skin on her hands was scorched. The hurt did not
penetrate her distraught mind. The wails from the inside continued, the
high-pitched sound now distinctly panicked. Rasine became even more
frantic, every instinct responding to the terror in the child's cries.
The front door remained well and truly locked against all her tries.
     Back door! She ran. This door had a trick catch. She pushed. It
didn't work. She pulled. That didn't work either. What now? Slowly, try
it slowly, she thought. She swallowed her frantic haste, and closed her
mind's ears to the child's cries that seemed to be getting softer and
slower. The trick was that the door had a latch on top and one at the
bottom, and both had to be opened at the same time. She took a deep
breath and coughed. Umph! The air smelled very bad. She told herself
sternly to concentrate on the matter at hand.
     She pulled at the top latch, and pulled at the bottom one. If only
she were taller! Just a little more, a little more. There. Done. She
pushed against the door, the cries inside fading in and out. No, she
would not be too late. Uncaring, not looking one way or the other, she
ran inside. There was a gaping hole where the ceiling should have been.
She realized that that had been what had caused the tremendous noise and
reverberation.
     "Who's there?" she shouted. "Child, where are you?"
     "Here, in here," the answer came back faintly.
     In the front bedchamber, then. No wonder she had heard him. Thank
Stevene he had been in the front room. She skirted the red haze in the
center area and entered. It was the landlord's grandson. The little boy
cried with relief as she went to him. The small bed was surrounded by
fire on three sides; on the fourth side was the outer wall. Young as he
was, he had been paralyzed with fear. She extended her hands, and the
boy leapt into her arms and almost choked her with his grip. She
loosened his hands at her neck and coughed again. Quickly, she grabbed a
sheet from the bed and wrapped it around the child's head so that he, at
least, would be less affected by the smoke.
     She slipped back into the central area of the house, but the way to
the back door was now in flames that danced all the way up to the roof
of the house. Fear clutched at her mind, threatening an avalanche. She
*had* to get the boy to safety. She couldn't let the dread envelop her
mind.
     Rasine turned back and forth, her tired brain bereft of ideas on
how to get out of the house that had turned into an oven before they
baked. Literally. She giggled. As a cook, she had baked lots of
different things in her life, but never people. Somehow that seemed very
funny. Rasine, the cook, baker of breads, exotic desserts and people.
She giggled again. Dimly she realized that this wasn't funny, but the
giggles just would not stop. She gagged in the smoke and then giggled
again.
     The child coughed again and again, his tiny body shaking in her
arms. The child! Cold clarity entered her mind. She focused again, and
jumped over what seemed like a small flame. It was not small. The heat
from the top of the flame seared her legs. She screamed, and the child
screamed with her.
     "Don't. You're safe," she managed. The open back door! Could she
reach it? A rafter had fallen directly across the room and burned
merrily between her and the door. She turned again, like a cornered rat.
She had to save the child. Save the child, save the child. She recited
the litany like the prayers she had taught Oriel: prayers to avoid
temptation, prayers for mercy in punishment. Dear Stevene, was this
punishment?
     She prayed. She prayed to save this child; she prayed to save Oriel
and she prayed to save her own life. The prayers infused her with a new
determination. She would save this child. Her mind cleared. Front door.
She was taking the boy out of the front door and her prayers would work,
she thought grimly. The sheet around the child's head had worked loose.
She pulled it tight, wrapped it around his head as loosely as she dared,
so that he could breathe and yet the fire would not grab his hair. And
then she ran. Through the fire. To the front door. But it was locked!
     She turned again, and ran blindly, past coherent thought. She
tripped over the rafter. She couldn't get through to the back door.
Darkness beckoned in her mind; she fought against it because she knew
she had yet another task to complete: Oriel. She threw up another prayer
to the gods to help her save Oriel, but the smoke was too much for her.
She couldn't breathe. She tried to stand, but her knees gave way, and
she fell face down again. Her final thought was that if this was indeed
punishment, then so be it.

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

                          What Price the King?
                           by Mark A. Murray
                         <mashudo@netzero.net>
                            Dargon, Sy 1017

     The small, black Daeltis hawk folded its wings in and dove from its
lofty height. Down it plummeted through the night sky in a rush of air
and adrenaline. Clear membranes covered its eyes while tough, strong
feathers protected its body. A sharp beak had tightly closed and no cry
issued forth.
     It was a night predator and usually struck silently and deadly.
This night, however, it wasn't in search of food, but rather in search
of some thing. A foreign intelligence peered out from behind its eyes
and its choices were not entirely its own.
     Coldwell Height loomed quickly in front of it. Opening wings and
banking hard, the hawk flew in a circle around the area. It saw a few
men but not the ones sought. Sharp ears heard a voice and the hawk
turned around in a tight arc. It landed on a house roof a short distance
from the voice.
     "Will he challenge?" the voice asked. Turning its head slightly,
the hawk looked at the men. The one who belonged to the voice was tall
and husky. Short-cropped hair hung down evenly at neck level to offset
his squarish face. A small nose, large eyes and high cheekbones filled
out the rest of his face. He was dressed in fine silk and a large,
flowing cape that showed no tears, stains or wear.
     "He will, Darrin," the second man answered. The hawk was forced to
turn its attention to this man. He was of medium height, but his hair
was long and straight. Toned muscles pressed through his tight tunic and
formed myriad hills and valleys along his chest, shoulders, back and
arms. The hawk's sharp eyes watched for any movement around him, yet he
stood deathly still. Only his chest moved slightly as he breathed.
     "As planned," Darrin said. "Arthur, you will make sure he is
successful?"
     "Yes," Arthur replied. "As long as you pay me, you will be
successful, too."
     The hawk opened its wings as it was ordered to do and flew off into
the night. It traveled across the Coldwell River and headed for the bad
section of town. Somewhere between Ramit and Layman Streets and close to
River Street, the hawk slowed its flight. As it located the Shattered
Spear, it circled lazily over it, waiting.
     The door opened and three people walked out. One was a very large,
muscular man. The second was a tall, thin man walking behind the first.
It was the third person that the hawk had waited for. She had long wavy
black hair with blue eyes and a blue dye adorning her full lips.
Freckles spread across her cheeks and in the dark, only the hawk's
eyesight could see them.
     "Do you think we'll find any information at Spirit's Haven,
Simona?" the large man asked.
     "I hope so," she answered. "Me--" She looked upwards into the night
sky and searched it. Her eyes met the hawk's and she cried out.
"Something watches us!"
     The hawk swerved quickly and fled the scene.

     "Aaaah," he cried as he broke the connection and plopped back into
his soft, padded chair. The staff in his right hand stood straight and
tall held in his steady grip. Sighing as he rubbed his temples with his
left hand, he relaxed and let the sights of the night replay in his
mind.
     "Darrin, are you controlling events or is someone behind you
pulling your strings like the puppets in the marketplace?" he mused out
loud. Opening his eyes, he slowly turned his head left and then right to
clear the ache in his neck. Small tables were spaced throughout the room
and held many items: vials, scrolls, books, herbs, rings, bracelets,
mugs. A fireplace was set in the middle of one wall, but no fire burned
for the night was warm. Two windows looked out upon the old city. In
front of him, on another small table, sat a glass sphere. Under it was a
circular metal band that kept it from rolling. Around it, drawn on the
table, was a chalked circle inscribed with runic symbols.
     "Simona," he said. "Will you lead me to your sister, Megan? Do I
interfere in Arthur's plans? If he is controlling everything, taking
that away from him would be simple. If he isn't, I will need to find out
who is behind him. I don't have the time to devote to that, yet.
     "Someone, either Arthur or the one behind him, is trying to replace
the void created by Liriss's absence. He is trying to use the shadow
boys to aid him. They have the run of the city and know most of the
city's secrets. They would be valuable to the Night Lord of Dargon now
that Liriss is gone.
     "But Megan is in dire trouble and my magic pushes me to aid her.
There is no word from the Elders on what course I should take, but I
believe that both need to be resolved. If I follow Simona, she will
leave Dargon for Megan is not here. I have looked.
     "If I stay, I believe my headaches and cramps will worsen. Magic
dictates I find Megan. But it hasn't helped me locate her, just her
sister. One will find the other, I believe. Arthur and the shadow boys
must wait while I search for Megan.
     "Simona won't leave tonight, though. I will have time to look in on
the shadow boys ..."

     "I challenge leadership!" a boy called out. He stood defiant with
his hands at his sides clenched tightly into fists. Ragged and curly
hair fell around his face, but did not interfere with his piercing gaze.
"I am Tumas and I would be king!" Whispers raced through the group of
his challenge.
     "There is a challenge!" another boy yelled. He was skinny and bones
seemed to push out from under his skin. Blond, matted hair crowned his
dirty face. "I am Geller and I hear the challenge."
     "You must accept, Shadow King," Tumas cried out.
     "Why should I?" the Shadow King asked. "You are but one amidst our
family. One small homeless child among a sea of us."
     "I challenge!" another shadow boy yelled. "I am Crey and I would be
king!"
     "There are two!" Geller said. He looked about him in the deserted
warehouse and saw a myriad of faces looking back. "Are there any more?"
     "I challenge!" Ella yelled. "I am Ella and I would be King!" She
was small, but her body was fit and healthy. Her green eyes flashed
desire and she brushed a lock of blond hair out of her way.
     "There are three," the Shadow King sighed. "I submit to the
challenge. I am Dessin. I am king. I accept the challenges. Let there be
a run for who would be king. We now stand in a warehouse on the docks.
By my right as king I choose the corner of Thockmarr and Red Avenue as
the place for the flag. By my right, I decline the run." Startled gasps
ran among the group.
     "I am done with being king. It isn't what it looked to be," Dessin
explained. "Let the three make the run. For those of you who are new and
weren't here for the last run, here are the rules.
     "The first one to bring the flag back here *and* stand before me is
the new king. That's it. Only the one who can run faster, fight harder,
be more ruthless, and do what needs to be done to win can be a proper
king. It is how we have always decided and it will always be the way.
     "One of you will carry the flag to my chosen place. The first to
reach you will grab the flag. The first to bring it to me will be king.
We will wait until the next bell before the three run."
     A boy came forward, took the flag, and ran out of the warehouse.
The group moved back from the doorway while the three gathered together
near it. Ella stood between Crey and Tumas. They waited a little while.
     "Remember there is only one rule," Dessin stated. "Run!" he yelled
before the next bell could ring, catching all off guard. Crey and Tumas
started to run, but Ella reached out and grabbed their hair. Both boys'
legs went out from under them and before their bodies hit the ground,
Ella was out the door. Crey hit with a thump and rolled over to gain his
feet. Tumas hit, rolled backwards and sprinted out the door first. As he
got outside, he took a moment to slam the door shut on Crey. Laughing,
Tumas turned and ran to catch up to Ella. Crey landed a second time on
the ground, blood pouring out his nose and tears running down his
cheeks. He growled, got up and ran outside. The rest of the shadow boys
slowly walked outside to wait for their return.

     Ella was quick and she knew the streets as well as the rest. She
crossed Main Street and went through several alleys to the Street of
Travellers, where she turned right and ran. "I will win!" she thought.
"Being king, I'll get first choice on any food we steal, any jewelry we
grab." Passing by various shops, she went through the business district
and then the intersection of Murson. "Everyone will like me, just like
they like Dessin." She made it to Thockmarr and turned left to travel
down it. "I'll be able to get finer clothes and not have to wear these
rags. I can even get some of that scented water to wear." As she closed
the distance to Red Avenue, she glanced around to look for the others.
She didn't see any of them as she grabbed the flag from the boy holding
it. Turning, she started back along Thockmarr. As she passed an alley
near Traders, Crey stepped out and slammed her in the gut with a board.
The air left her in a huff and she passed out on the street with screams
of 'no!' filling her head!
     "You thought you were quick," Crey said as he grabbed the flag and
ran. "But I'm quicker. And I know more shortcuts through this town than
you ever will." He moved through alleys that had no name and crossed
streets whose names he couldn't remember. "I'll be king," he thought. "I
know the town and I know the right people. I can get us out of being
hated and feared." He skirted the hill of Temple Street and passed
quickly over Nochtur. "I'll be as good a leader as Dessin. No, I'll be
better. I'll make people look at us without hate or fear in their eyes."
He didn't look around because his concentration was on getting back to
the warehouse as quickly as possible. "I know some merchants and they'll
help us. We won't have to steal anymore. We won't have to worry about
where our next meal is coming from." His breath started to become ragged
as he leapt fences and ditches. His legs pumped steadily as he crossed
Travellers and Layman. After crossing Main, he let a smile break on his
face. He was going to win. "Everything will be all right." Tumas was
nowhere to be seen and Ella wouldn't wake up for awhile.
     He saw the group in front of the warehouse, but he knew Dessin was
inside waiting. As he closed the distance, a figure appeared suddenly
and tripped him. He fell, confused at who was there. He heard gasps from
the group; he was that close to winning. Landing face down, he bumped
his nose and pain shot through his head. A sharp pain in his back
followed that and blackness overcame him.
     "Well done, John," Tumas remarked as he stepped around the man and
stooped to pick up the flag. "Come on," he urged as he ran to the
warehouse. Shrugging, the man pulled his dagger out of Crey's back,
wiped it off on the boy's clothes and followed.
     "I am king!" Tumas yelled as he stood before Dessin.
     "He cheated and used a man!" someone yelled.
     "There are no rules!" Dessin replied. "It is done! Tumas is Shadow
King!"
     "Tumas is Shadow King!" they all said, although not together.
     "There is one thing to take care of before we let Tumas rule,"
Dessin said. "A man has killed one of us. That will not go unpunished.
He does not leave alive!"
     "What?" John said, a look of terror crossing his face. "That wasn't
the bargain. Arth--" His pleas were drowned out by the mob of youths
converging on him. His screams were short but painful.
     "Dump him in the sea," Tumas ordered. "I am Tumas. I am Shadow
King!"

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

                             Talisman Seven
                                 Part 4
                          by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
                        <John.White@Drexel.Edu>
                            Yuli 11-12, 1013

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-11

     Lord Aldan Bindrmon sat in his fiancee's boarding house room and
stared at the grisly contents of the box on his lap. Could the note be
true? Could the lump of greyish-brown meat laying at the center of the
coiled golden-blond hair actually be Tillna's heart?
     Aldan shuddered in revulsion at that thought. He lifted the package
off his lap and stood, knocking the chair over in the process. He dashed
to a window, dropping the bundle of cloth and box onto a table on the
way. Sticking his head out into the afternoon sunshine of Beeikar, he
took several deep breaths and tried to get the lingering scent of blood
out of his nose.
     Only two days before, Aldan's life had been normal. He'd had more
responsibilities than he'd really wanted as the son of the baron, and
his father had driven him hard in getting him ready to be baron someday.
But he'd had plenty of time to himself as well, and Tillna besides.
     And then his father, Chak Bindrmon, had returned from his regular
trip for the tax-taking to Fremlow City, the ducal seat of Welspeare,
with news: the baron had arranged for Aldan to marry the daughter of
their neighbor, Baron Durening. Millicet would bring with her a handsome
dowry which Chak had negotiated, including a portion of the Durening
lands located along the Renev River. All his father cared about was the
benefit to the barony; Aldan didn't feel the same. He was in love with
Tillna, a beautiful young woman who just happened to be a barmaid at the
Boar-Ring Inn, and didn't care to marry the thirty year-old Millicet for
any reason whatsoever.
     That very evening, Aldan had proposed to his barmaid right in the
middle of the Boar-Ring's taproom. To his delight, she had accepted.
They had made plans to journey to Fremlow City to get married and then
had spent the night together. The last time that Aldan had seen her had
been when she had left their room upstairs at the inn the next morning.
He could hardly believe that that'd been only a day before.
     He turned around and leaned against the window sill, looking at the
package he had found by the door of Tillna's room when he had come
looking for her. The white cloth that had been wrapped around the
package was spread out on the low table. The wooden box rested with a
corner toward him, making it look like a diamond. The cavity inside the
box was circular, so that the mass of blond hair, hair like Tillna had,
coiling within it formed a golden disk. And in the center of that coil
rested an ovoid lump of meat, somewhat reddish between the brown and
grey. The sight reminded him of something, but he couldn't quite place
what. Then he pushed aside the thought as irrelevant at the moment.
     Aldan walked over to the box and looked down at it. He still
couldn't quite believe that the box was evidence that Tillna was dead.
Who would kill her? Why? And why address that note to him, with the
gruesome line, "You have my heart, Aldan Bindrmon." Could someone be
playing a joke on him? Had Tillna run away, frightened by the idea of
getting married, and left this as some kind of farewell message? But she
had been the one hinting about marriage for months. She wouldn't run
having gotten her wish.
     Aldan looked around the room, and once again saw that nothing was
missing. She hadn't left, then. And she hadn't been seen in more than a
day. The note tacked to the inside of the lid of the box had been penned
in a very precise hand, and Aldan doubted that Tillna could read, much
less write. He looked back down, touched the hair, and accepted the
truth: Tillna had been murdered.
     Before he could begin to mourn his loss, a great weariness fell on
Aldan, and he sank to his knees. A sense of age flooded him, of having
lived longer than he could imagine, of having seen hundreds and hundreds
of years pass. The weight of the centuries bore down on him and he felt
like it would crush him against the floor and press him right through
it, but just then he felt as if everything around him was on fire.
Instead of being afraid, or feeling trapped by the encompassing flames,
he felt peace well up inside himself. The weariness vanished, defeated
by the flames, which faded more slowly. They seemed to leave a sense of
promise behind as they went.
     Aldan knelt on the floor for several moments, recovering from the
strange feelings. His sorrow at his loss had been burned away by the
strange flames, but a new emotion was beginning to take its place:
anger. He straightened up somewhat and looked at the box. He would
dispose of the contents properly, and then he would track down the
person who had done this. Someone would pay for killing Tillna.
     Aldan wrapped the box back up in the cloth after replacing the lid.
Carrying the bundle, he left Tillna's room and walked down the stairs.
He stopped at the door just inside the entryway and knocked on it. He
knew that the old woman who ran the boarding house kept her nose in
every resident's business; Tillna had complained about crazy Betta often
enough, and she was the reason that Aldan had only visited Tillna once
before.
     The door opened wide, and Betta stood there. She was
stoop-shouldered with age, and her face was covered in wrinkles, but her
hair was an utterly unnatural brown, even though her eyebrows were thin
and grey. She said, "Yes?" in a crotchety tone, but when she saw who was
there, she said, "Oh my, my ... Ah, what can I do for your lordship this
day? If you're looking for Tillna, she's not here."
     "Well, yes, I am looking for her," Aldan said, disconcerted that
this woman associated him with Tillna after only one visit. "When was
the last time you saw her?"
     Betta blinked a few times, and a sly smile appeared on her face.
"So, the baron's boy is really asking after our Tillna, is he?" She
cackled to herself, then said, "Yesterday's the last I seen her, your
lordship, sir. Leaving like always for her shift, right before seventh
bell. She ain't been back since, nor word of her either. By the rumor,
I'd a thought she'd be with you, your lordship."
     "No, ah, not just yet." She had left for her shift, but she hadn't
arrived at the Boar-Ring. Aldan thought for a moment, then lifted the
cloth-wrapped bundle he was carrying. "Did you by chance see who
delivered this package?"
     "Present from you, was it?" Betta asked. "Saw the tag, with
Bindrmon colors on it and all. This morning, it was, a boy came. He had
a green rag tied around his arm, like the young ones do that wait at the
docks and carry messages for a Bit. He had that package and gave it me,
said it was for Tillna. I took it to her room and left it there." She
paused as her eyes widened. "But, if it was you sent the boy, why'd you
be askin'? What's in it, anyway?"
     Aldan backed toward the entry and said, "Thank you, mi'lady, for
your aid. And if you do see or hear of Tillna, could you send word to
the keep? I'm ... worried about her."
     Betta nodded, and started to cackle about rumors and romance. Aldan
hurried away, wondering whether he should try to find the runner-boy or
not. He decided to save that for a last resort option, since it was
almost futile anyway.
     He then attempted to trace Tillna's path from the boarding house to
the Boar-Ring to see if he could determine where she had vanished. He
met with a complete lack of success; there were too many different ways
to go through the winding, intersecting streets of Beeikar. Close to the
boarding house, he found one or two people who remembered her passing,
though not necessarily the previous day. Beyond that, he learned
nothing.
     Once it became clear that tracking down Tillna's route was not
going to work, Aldan tried to think of some other way to tackle the
problem. Unfortunately, the only thread he had to follow was Tillna.
Unless ...
     He recalled the phrase from the note in the box: "You have my
heart." Aldan remembered uttering something like that phrase two days
before, first, to his father, in rejecting the arranged marriage to
Millicet, and then in the taproom of the Boar-Ring, proposing to Tillna.
Unless the use of those words in the note were coincidence, there had to
be some connection.
     Aldan knew that his father was utterly ruthless in performing
baronial duties. Baron Chak Bindrmon expected utter loyalty from his
staff, and punished disobedience or failure in sometimes extreme ways.
Aldan wasn't completely sure, but he suspected that his father had even
ordered certain servants killed at times.
     Aldan had crossed his father in refusing to marry Millicet. Chak
would see depriving the barony of her dowry as harming it, and take
whatever steps were necessary to deal with that problem. Aldan could see
that his father might attempt to prevent his marriage to Tillna, even
going so far as to have her killed -- a hard thing to suspect about
one's own parent. But he didn't think that the baron would then
deliberately taunt him with the deed by delivering that box to her room
for him to find. There was nothing of Chak Bindrmon in that act.
     Which meant it had to be someone in the taproom that night. Aldan's
mind leapt to the obvious choice: the Menagerie, who had been sitting at
their usual table not four strides away from where he had been standing.
The young nobles who made up the Menagerie certainly felt they had
reason to hate him. Aldan had once been part of the Menagerie; his
nickname had been Falcon. And then his father had dictated that he stop
playing childish games with his childhood friends and concentrate on the
duties of being baron someday. None of the six remaining members of the
group had taken his departure well, and all but Quinla, the only female
member of the group, still held it against him to some degree or other.
     Four of the Menagerie had been present that night, the Rabbit twins
being away in Fremlow City with their parents. They would certainly have
heard him proposing to Tillna, and he wouldn't put it past them to hurt
her, possibly even murder her, to get back at him. And the box was
certainly something that Fox or Owl, or even Bear might think of. From
the falcon on the lid to the grisly contents, to the taunting note
itself, it definitely had the flavor of the Menagerie.
     Now, he only had to prove it.

     Later that night, Aldan pushed open the door to the Boar-Ring Inn
and entered the taproom. Most of the dozen tables within were full, and
Aivney, the raven-haired, flirtatious barmaid had her skirt down and her
hair up as she rushed from table to table, ignoring the groping hands
and pinching fingers with a tired expression on her face. To Aldan's
surprise, Oablar, the proprietor of the inn, was out from behind his bar
and serving customers on the floor as well. He didn't need to dodge the
lusty attentions of the patrons; not only were his bald head and craggy
features enough to scare away goblins, but everyone knew that his wife
was jealousy personified and deadly with a rolling pin.
     Aldan also noticed that the table normally reserved for the
Menagerie was occupied by two gypsies and a man with flax-yellow hair
dressed all in green.
     Aivney stopped next to Aldan as he stood by the door, put a hand on
his arm, and said, "She's not here, dearest."
     "I know," he said, "I know. Busy, huh? Why's Oablar working
tables?"
     "'Cause I don't have four hands and eight legs, hun. With Tillna
quittin' early like she done, we ain't had time ta hire a replacement.
Someone's gotta keep their lips wet so their fists don't smash the
furniture and each other.
     "If yer not lookin' for yer lady, why're ya here?"
     "The Menagerie," Aldan replied. "Have they been here tonight?"
     "Sure, straight, they haven't been gone much longer than it takes a
bargeman to get drunk. Why?
     Aldan ignored her question, and asked another of his own. "Were
they here last night, do you remember?"
     Aivney said, "It's an occasion when they ain't here, dear heart."
She didn't notice him flinch at that, and continued, "They was here
early yesterday. I remember that Tillna didn't show up, and Oablar sent
a runner-boy to fetch me 'cause she had early shift. They was here when
I arrived, all happy and all fingers, too. I remember them getting loud
after dark, like always, and eventually they left. Why're ya
innerested?"
     "Thanks," was all he said. Aldan leaned over and kissed her on the
cheek, turned and left. Aivney looked after him for a moment, and then
got called back to her duties by the shouts of thirsty patrons and
Oablar's growl.
     Aldan slowly made his way back to the keep, no closer to finding
his prey than he had been that afternoon. He'd had no better luck trying
to find the Menagerie than tracking Tillna's steps. They hadn't done
anything out of the ordinary the previous day by all accounts, including
spending the evening bells at the Boar-Ring. If they had indeed abducted
Tillna and murdered her, they had done an incredible job of it. No one
had witnessed anything suspicious.
     He knew that just confronting them wouldn't help. They wouldn't
tell him anything; they didn't need to. There just had to be something,
though. Some mistake, some way to prove their involvement -- if only he
could find it.

     The next morning, halfway between fourth and fifth bells, Aldan was
racing down into Beeikar from the keep. He had his clue, and he cursed
himself for having taken so long to realize it.
     Earlier that morning, he had been trying to decide what to do with
the package from Tillna's room. The box was beautifully carved, but he
didn't think he could keep it considering its current use. He had
finally decided to burn the whole thing in the keep's forge-fire. He
opened the box one final time to say farewell to Tillna's remains, and
he caught sight of the note tacked to the inside of the lid. He pulled
it from its fastenings, then closed up the box and set it aside.
     He examined the parchment again. He had already noticed that it was
very precisely lettered. The hand was exact, the lines were even, and
each copy of any one letter was nearly identical. With the time to study
it like that, distanced from the emotional impact of it, Aldan realized
something: he had seen enough professionally inked documents to know
that these were the trademarks of a scribe.
     Looking closely, he saw an ornate spot of color in the lower right
corner which turned out to be the letter S encircled by several loops of
blue and red. He knew that signature: it belonged to Sestik, the only
public scribe in Beeikar.
     Aldan arrived at Sestik's house out of breath. Once he had realized
that the scribe was the link he had been looking for, he had wasted no
time in going after him. His fervent hope was that the Menagerie had
overlooked their error in using Sestik in their plans.
     When he'd caught his breath and composed himself, Aldan knocked on
the scribe's door. At the sound of "Enter," he did. He found himself in
a narrow room that seemed to run across the front of the house. In the
center of the room was a narrow table that spanned the width of the room
just under the window. Behind it sat Sestik, parchment before him,
inkpots and brushes next to him. Behind Sestik was the door to the rest
of the residence.
     Sestik rose and said, "What service may I render you today, my Lord
Aldan?"
     Aldan presented the note from the box, and said, "Is this your
work, Sestik?"
     The scribe glanced at it and replied with pride, "Yes, my Lord, it
is. I take it that you received the surprise that Lord Kuvey and mi'lady
Tillna prepared for you? I do hope that my craftsmanship did not detract
from it in any way. I wasn't given time to properly illuminate the
document, after all --"
     "Did you say Kuvey *and* Tillna?" Aldan interrupted.
     "Well, that's what Lord Kuvey said when he dictated the words, yes.
I --"
     Aldan interrupted again. "So, you didn't see Tillna?"
     "No, no. Just Lord Kuvey."
     "And when was this, if you recall?"
     "Two days ago," said Sestik. He thought for a moment, then said,
"Midday, or perhaps more nearly sixth bell. Yes, that's right, because
--"
     "Thank you, Sestik, you have been a great help. I will reward you
for this information, I promise, just as soon as I have dealt with them.
I cannot possibly thank you enough. Fare well." Aldan turned and walked
out, ignoring Sestik's confused stammer of, "But ... but I only wrote a
note of love dictated by a go-between. What kind of information is that
to be rewarded for?"
     Outside of Sestik's house, Aldan paused momentarily to savor his
triumph. He had the proof he needed: Lord Kuvey was Weasel of the
Menagerie. The note had been commissioned before Tillna's disappearance,
which meant that the abduction and murder had been planned out in
advance. He still needed to find them, but with any luck, they didn't
know that he was chasing them. Beeikar wasn't large enough for them to
hide in for very long. He was looking forward to his vengeance.

     The Menagerie of Bear, Fox, Owl, and Weasel were walking into the
market square that afternoon. It was mostly empty, since Beeikar wasn't
large enough to require a daily market. The few occupied stalls were
ragpicker merchants, and of no interest to the four young lords.
     Bear said, "We got away with it, didn't we?"
     "So far," replied Owl. "So far. No one even seems to know that
she's dead, which is only good for us."
     "We showed him, didn't we?" gloated Bear.
     Fox grinned slyly, and said, "That we did, Bear, that we did."
     "Do you think he's found it yet?" asked Weasel.
     Owl replied, "We couldn't very well go and ask, now could we? After
all, it's no business of ours what's in Tillna's room or who's visited
it. He'll get it eventually, never fear. That tag was perfect, Fox, and
the box will get to him one way or another."
     "I only wish that the note could have been more decorated," mused
Weasel. "Some twisty leaves around the edge, a falcon here or there,
maybe even a rat next to his name. But Sestik is too much of a
perfectionist; he said it would take a --"
     Fox was suddenly standing in front of Weasel. "What did you say?"
he asked in a low, menacing tone.
     "D-decorations? Leaves ... rats?" stammered the perplexed Weasel.
     "No. Sestik, you gutter-flop. Did you say Sestik?"
     "Y-yes, Fox. I ... you know my writing hand is shaky at best. The
note needed to be readable, and you didn't give me all day to get it
right. So, I went to Sestik. Don't worry, I made up a story and
everything ..."
     Fox's unrelenting glare caused Weasel's explanation to dwindle and
fade away. Fox's fists were balling at his sides, and his right temple
was pulsing as his jaw clenched and unclenched. He turned away abruptly
and with a hurried, "Come on!" he began to run.
     The others followed as Fox raced through the streets of Beeikar.
They arrived in front of Sestik's home, and Fox barged right in without
knocking. Sestik looked up as the others piled in behind Fox. The scribe
said, "Welcome Lords Wannek, Lothanin, Eywran. Lord Kuvey, Lord Aldan
was here earlier. I believe that the surprise you planned went well, or
so it seemed. I'm not sure why he came to me, but --"
     Fox turned to the others, shot Weasel a murderous glare, and said,
"Go!" They all dashed out, slamming the door behind them. Sestik just
said, "Hmph!" and put the intrusion out of his mind as unfathomable.
     Outside, the Menagerie huddled around each other. Fox spoke what
they all knew. "He's found the box, and thanks to Weasel, he knows we
are responsible. We're murderers, and he's got the proof. We've got to
get out of here, now."
     "But where will we go, Fox? We've never been anywhere," whined
Bear.
     "Magnus," said Fox. "We'll head for Magnus; he'll never find us
there. Separately, so it will be harder to track us. Go home, get money
and supplies, and leave for Magnus as soon as you can."
     "If Magnus is big enough to hide us from Aldan, how will we find
each other again?" asked Weasel.
     "I shouldn't even tell you, you slug-brained scut, but ... I don't
know," said Fox.
     "The Bardic College," suggested Owl. "Starting in a fortnight,
we'll gather on the steps in front of the Bardic College at fifth bell
until we are all together. Straight?"
     "Straight," said Fox, and the other two nodded. "Good luck." He
gripped Owl's right wrist with his right hand. Owl grabbed Bear's wrist,
Bear grabbed Weasel's wrist, and Weasel gripped Fox's, forming a square
between their hands. They all looked at each other, panic beginning in
Bear's face and behind Weasel's eyes, resolve on Owl's face and, of
course, Fox's. With a final squeeze, they broke apart and left, each
going their own way. They knew they'd be back together in a fortnight in
Magnus.

     Lord Kuvey, or Weasel as he preferred, was running along a forest
path south of Beeikar that night. He looked back over his shoulder, but
he couldn't see his pursuit. He didn't slow down; he knew that Aldan
wasn't going to give up that easily.
     Weasel was very sorry for his mistake. Both of them, actually. When
he had gone to the village scribe, Sestik, to write the note, he had
never imagined that Aldan would be able to figure out where it had come
from. Fox should have been the one to get the note. Fox always thought
two or five moves ahead, which was why he always beat Weasel at King's
Key. Fox wouldn't have made that first mistake.
     Or the second one, most likely. Weasel had gone home after the
Menagerie had discovered that Aldan knew who had killed Tillna. He had
packed up his belongings, and then raided his mother's strongbox. With
loaded saddlebags, he had ridden right to the Boar-Ring instead of
toward Magnus. He had wanted to say farewell to Aivney before leaving
forever.
     He had planned to give her a quick kiss, and maybe a Round as a
final tip, and then be on his way. Instead, he had found Aivney free for
a few bells. Tillna's replacement had been hired and shown around. The
tall, willowy redheaded woman was experienced as a barmaid, and Oablar
wanted to see if she could handle the room alone.
     He had spent those few bells, and a few more besides, upstairs with
Aivney, saying a proper farewell. The new woman had worked out very
well. That, combined with a light night, and Aivney hadn't been required
downstairs until the third bell after dark.
     Weasel had expected that the only result of his unplanned tryst
would be leaving for Magnus a little late and with some very pleasant
memories. When he had walked down the stairs a short while after Aivney
to find Aldan walking up to the bar as Aivney angled toward him, Weasel
had known utter panic. He had moved as quietly as he could over to the
door but just as he'd reached it, Aldan had turned around and spotted
him.
     Weasel had been rooted to the spot for a moment, watching as
Aldan's eyes widened in surprise, and Aivney reached his side. Aldan had
started dashing toward the door. Aivney had said, "What?" Aldan had
shouted, "Tillna's dead, and --" before tripping over a bench that had
been accidentally moved into his path.
     The crash had jolted Weasel out of his shock, and he'd raced out
the door. He'd heard rushing footsteps inside the inn and hadn't even
taken the time to unhitch his horse but had taken off on foot.
     He'd been fleeing ever since. West along the river first, and then
south when the first bridge came along. He had glimpsed Aldan from time
to time, but whenever he thought he'd shaken the baron's son from his
trail long enough to take the time to get a mount or find his friends,
Aldan had reappeared.
     Weasel was getting tired. He needed someplace to hide, someplace to
lie low until Aldan gave up and he could resume his journey to Magnus in
peace. So far, the road he'd been following had been through farm
fields, but up ahead was a deep stand of trees. Maybe he could lose
Aldan in there.
     Weasel angled across the edge of one field, and plunged into the
trees. The light of the clear summer night sky was immediately cut off,
and he had no choice but to slow to a walk as he felt his way from tree
trunk to tree trunk. He tried to keep going in the same direction, but
it was hard to do. It didn't really matter, he knew, as long as he
didn't end up back on the road just yet.
     He feared he was doing just that as the light began to increase,
but he soon came out into a small clearing filled with the white light
of the moon and capped with the brilliant stars of summer. The clearing
was only ten strides across at most, and considering the difficulty he'd
had maintaining a path through the darkness of the trees, Weasel didn't
think it likely that Aldan would be able to find this same clearing.
     He sank down on his haunches and leaned back against a tree at the
edge of the clearing. He was panting as he calmed down from his
exertions. Sweat dripped down his neck, but he was too tired to wipe it
away just yet.
     He heard a rustling behind him, but it was so soft that he knew it
had to be some forest animal resuming its foraging. He didn't realize
he'd made his third mistake until the shadow fell over him.
     He looked up, and there was Aldan, knife in hand and hate in his
eyes. Weasel bolted, dashing across the clearing, intending to disappear
into the trees on the other side.
     Weasel thought he was running across level ground, but the
moonlight was deceptive. He stumbled badly on the first hillock his foot
caught when he was almost all the way across the clearing. Then he felt
his ankle wrench badly in a depression that he couldn't see. Off balance
and in pain, he tripped over a stone hidden by grass and fell headlong
between two tree trunks.
     The pain of his fall was intense, and startled a short cry out of
his lips that masked the strange cracking noise from beneath him. When
the burning pain in his chest didn't abate, however, he knew something
was wrong.
     He wanted to push himself up and see what had happened to his
chest, but he didn't have the strength. Weasel began to have trouble
breathing, and he started to call for aid, but only a very faint, "Help,
help" came out of his mouth.
     When Weasel felt himself being turned over by rough hands, the pain
in his chest increased, forcing him to scream raggedly. He was propped
up against someone's lap, his head tilted so he could look down along
his body. He focused his blurry vision to see the broken end of a dead
branch sticking up out of his chest, blood bubbling around the wound and
oozing down his tunic. He looked up and saw Aldan gazing down at him, no
pity at all in his eyes.
     "Where were you going, Weasel? Where are the others?" Aldan's
questions were forced through gritted teeth, and his eyes demanded
truth.
     Weasel thought about lying. Then he thought about Tillna, lying
dead, while Fox cut her chest open, and Bear hacked off her long braid.
Aldan deserved the truth, and he didn't have anything to lose anyway.
Fox certainly wasn't going to get even with him now. Fortune had already
taken care of that. He'd tell Aldan about Magnus, and about the
rendezvous at the Bardic College every fifth-bell starting in a
fortnight. Aldan would find them, and give them what they deserved, too.
     Darkness started to close in on his vision as he whispered, "Rat
..." Aldan leaned closer, so he could hear. "Rat ... sorry, Falcon ...
they went ... to ..." Weasel couldn't feel his hands or his feet, and the
pain was fading away. With a last effort sent on his dying breath, he
said, "Dargon."

     Aldan felt Weasel slump, dead, on his lap. "Dargon," he repeated,
mulling over Weasel's last words. "They've gone to Dargon."
     That sounded like them. Run as far away as possible, and Dargon was
pretty far away. Aldan nodded to himself. "They won't escape me that
way," he said to the corpse of his former friend. "I'll follow them
wherever they've gone, even if it is as far north as Dargon. I swear
they won't escape me!"
     The body of Weasel didn't reply.

     The author would like to thank the folk-rock group Steeleye Span,
     and one track from their album "Back in Line," for the inspiration
     for this story.

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