DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 14 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 5 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 5/26/2001 Volume 14, Number 5 Circulation: 740 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Triskele: Genesis P. Atchley and Vibril 20, 1018 Rhonda Gomez Flingers Rena Deutsch and Seber 10–17, 1017 Cheryl Spooner Death Has a Pale Face 1 Nicholas Wansbutter Seber, 1017 ======================================================================== 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 or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site at ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 14-5, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright May, 2001 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Jon Evans . 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 If you read the HTML version of DargonZine, you should already know about our Online Glossary, which lists every character, place, and thing in the Dargon world. So for example, if you were to follow a link in one of our stories to the Glossary entry for the shadow boys, you'd be presented with an encyclopedia-like description of that group, and a list of every story that they appear in. You will also get a description of the role they play or what happens to them in each of those stories. If you've been using the Glossary recently, that might not be news to you; all our new stories have provided this information for more than a year. However, it's only now that I can say that the job of filling in reference data for all our back issues is finally done. There are now reference details for every single appearance of every Dargon element in every story we've ever published! One reason why that's worth noting is how useful that information is. For our readers, having reference details allows you to more easily follow your favorite characters and things through all their appearances in the magazine. By knowing whether the shadow boys play a major role in a story or are just a passing reference, you can more easily decide which previous stories you might want to go back and read. For our writers, that same information makes it much easier for them to research what's already been written about Dargon elements that they might want to use in the stories they're presently writing or outlining. In both cases, knowing not just what stories something appeared in, but also a summary of its role in the story, is valuable and useful, and we're pleased to be able to make that information available to everyone. The other reason why the completion of our "Reference Update" is noteworthy is because it was an immense job that required lots of effort and time from a large number of people. To create this information, we had to re-read more than 300 Dargon stories and write over 8,000 reference descriptions. That effort began more than four years ago, and its completion has been a top priority of ours since 1999. Our writers don't join the Dargon Project to become researchers, but many of them voluntarily put a lot of their spare time and energy into pushing this goal forward, in the interest of helping both our readers and future writers. You might not think of it at first, but the Reference Update is perhaps the single biggest project we've undertaken as a group, and after years of pushing, it's immensely gratifying to be able to say that it's 100 percent complete. I hope it helps our writers create more interestingly interwoven stories, and makes reading DargonZine a better experience for you. I want to publicly thank and recognize the many writers who donated their time to this effort. And having this finally behind us should free up resources that we can use on additional projects to make DargonZine even better! In this issue we begin with two stories, each which has two authors. We begin with the first of the three-part "Triskele", which was written by P. Atchley and Rhonda Gomez. The second story is "Flingers", a cooperative effort between two people who live 8500 kilometers (and eight time zones) away from one another: Rena Deutsch and Cheryl Spooner. Co-authoring has once again gained popularity amongst our writers, with six stories among seven writers being published jointly in the past 18 months, and there are more on the way. Co-authoring will also be a major theme at our upcoming writers' Summit. The the first half of Nick Wansbutter's "Death Has a Pale Face" rounds out the issue. I hope you enjoy them all! Our next issue will continue both "Triskele" and "Death Has a Pale Face". It should appear in late June, and also feature a debrief from the 2001 DargonZine Writers' Summit, which is being held this year in sunny California! ======================================================================== Triskele: Genesis by P. Atchley and Rhonda Gomez and Vibril 20, 1018 From my vantage point in a tree on the highway from Dargon to Kenna I watched as the wagon crawled through the muck and mire. A brief thaw had made slush of the king's highways and even though spring was nigh, it was still blisteringly cold. I forced myself to stop clenching my jaws; the chill and tension from the forthcoming violence had set my teeth on edge. The air around me had that brooding, heavy quality of approaching twilight and I hated the forest at nighttime. We had picked a bend in the highway where the forest pushed up directly against the road and the trees were dense, providing excellent coverage from which to stage a raid. Yet I had to keep reminding myself that we had plenty of time to complete our business before nightfall. "Ol's piss!" the wagoner cursed as the wheels of the wagon dipped into yet another deep rut. Mentally, I echoed the curse. I was feeling strangely anxious even though holding up caravans on this road was something my band had done countless times before. My cohorts and I had endured an extra-hard winter and this was the first wagon we had seen in over two months. The booty we could get from this robbery would pay for food and some much-needed leatherskins. The two tired-looking horses pulled out of the dip, causing the entire cart to shake. I wondered what had made the wagoner agree to drive his passengers from Dargon at this time of year, especially since the recently melted snow had made every road close to impassable. Very few people were foolhardy enough to travel this early in the year, mainly because of the weather, and honestly, I was a little surprised to find this caravan on the road. Money, I supposed -- something even a sane wagoner couldn't turn down. Suddenly the wagon came to a complete stop, mired in the mud. It was close enough to me that I could make out the color of the dirty scarf the wagoner wore. I watched him lean over the side of the wagon to stare at the wheels and frown. A gust of wind whipped through his hair and he shivered. Up in the dense leaves of the hemlock tree I shivered too. It was close to the seventh bell of the day, and the cold sank through my skin easily. I looked up and saw but a few white clouds marring the darkening sky. I whistled a loud call and was quietly pleased to see that the prearranged signal went unheeded by the driver; it never ceased to amaze me how incredibly easy it was to fool travellers. I continued to watch the tableau unfolding before me. A head peeked out of the cloth-covered wagon. It was a boy, and when he spoke, I could hear the words faintly over the brisk Vibril wind. "What happened, Tobias? Why have we stopped?" The boy was older than I had thought at first: a young man with long hair that swung around his thin face like that of a girl. He sniffed, and I guessed that his eyes and nose were watering in the cold wind. "We're stuck," the wagoner, Tobias, explained. "In the mud," he added helpfully. "Oh," said the young man, blinking rapidly. Abruptly he pulled his head back inside. The distant sound of approaching hooves alerted me to expect my companions. The occupants of the wagon heard as well. I didn't wait any longer and slid down the tree trunk just as my three companions burst onto the scene. All of the men dismounted easily; one of them, Nuru, vaulted onto the front of the carriage near the wagon driver. "Don't move!" Nuru snapped at Tobias. "Hold the horses, man!" "What do you want?" Tobias growled, trying to calm the restive horses. Meanwhile, I circled around from behind so that I could ensure no one from the wagon ran off with any of the valuables. "Jelani!" It must be the wagoner shouting, I guessed, at the young man. With the tip of my sword I flipped open the fabric that covered the rear of the wagon and said sharply, "Out!" The young man jumped out of the wagon with a huge sword in his hand. "Bandits! I will kill you!" He brandished the weapon rather ineffectually. I wasn't an expert swordsman of any level, unlike the chief of our little band, Kamin, who was quite the fencer. Still, it was the work of a moment to disarm the younger man. I caught at his blade with my own, rotating my wrist deftly. The other's grip loosened almost at once and within moments his sword fell into the slush. I ran my blade into the younger man and then realized I had an audience. An old man and a young woman had been watching my little disagreement with the pretty young man, and when the girl saw Jelani die, she screamed in short, shrill outbursts. My teeth ground together and momentarily, I regretted the fact that I had killed the young man in front of her. "Hush, daughter," the old man tried to calm her. "Gaia, be calm." She was young, maybe thirteen or fourteen, her figure showing the promise of curves to come, with hair the color of wheat and eyes that were tremendously blue. She'd make a fine woman in her time. I would have been more circumspect if I had realized that a girl had been watching. But since it couldn't be helped now, I told myself it didn't really matter. The chances of this girl remaining alive were slim. At least she wouldn't have to live with the nightmares. Nightmares were something that I had intimate acquaintance with, thanks to my late master, Mon-Haddar the mage. I felt a tingle along the flesh of my back and had to resist the urge to reach over my shoulder and rub the itch. The mage's lessons had been burned into my brain and onto my back during my youth, as a result of which there were many things that I was not likely to forget. Really, she was better off dead, I consoled myself, and then shrugged the regret away. "Out! Move it, now!" Father and daughter stepped out of the wagon obediently. The old man's face was blue with cold, and he stumbled. I gave him a mighty shove, and he moved forward and fell face-down into the snow on the side of the wagon near the front of the carriage. The girl knelt by him rubbing his chest, trying to ease his breathing. Kamin came up behind me. "Well, old man, where's your money, hmm? Tell me." Kamin was the younger son of a noble, although no one knew which one, and perhaps because of this, his manners and language were exquisite. I had often wondered about Kamin's past and what opprobrium had caused him to throw in his lot with the robber brotherhood. Sometimes I had even found myself imitating his gentlemanly manners. He had an air of authority, and somehow without even realizing it, everyone obeyed him. While his orders were always given as requests, no one made the mistake of treating them as such. He could and would kill as easily as he breathed and sometimes his kills had not been as quick as I could have wished for the unfortunate victim. I remembered an incident about a year prior, when we had stopped two men travelling on horseback. One of them had offered to fight with Kamin on condition that if he won, he and his companion would be allowed to go free. Perhaps he thought he recognized a gentleman in Kamin, I don't know. Of course, Kamin, being the fencer he is, won. He took a sennight to kill them -- probably the longest sennight in their lives, the bleeding snuppers. Now Kamin brought out a tiny dagger and waved it at the old man. I felt my stomach heave as I recognized the dagger: it was the one he used to persuade others to his way of thinking. The persuasion usually involved the dagger and the blood and pain of the poor sod. "Kamin," I said, allowing a hint of disapproval to lace my voice. I realized that this was why I'd felt anxious at the beginning of the raid. We had been cooped up for a long time without any activity and I knew that Kamin would feel the need for a little needless ... diversion. The robbery of these people would go without a hitch, but I dreaded Kamin's later activities. He glanced at me. "Ah, our little Yellow is a little yellow." He laughed softly at his own bad joke. "Now, now, my dear, the old man is going to die anyway, so why can't I have a little ... eh ... practice, hmm?" He drew the knife in a downwards motion along the old man's cheek and then abruptly pushed it into his shoulder. The old man screamed. Kamin left his knife in the wound and smiled gently at me. I glared at him. Kamin knew I hated my name, one that had been given me during my time with Mon-Haddar, because of the bright yellow of my hair. The unfortunate connotations of the name had dared me to do things in the past which, on my own, I would rather have not; even now it never failed to sway me into actions which were against my nature. The first time I had killed had been because of a taunt. But no taunt had yet been enough to make me torture another person, and I frequently prayed that nothing ever would. "Old man, tell me where your gold is," I said sternly. I brought out my own knife and held it against the old man's neck. "Talk!" I could feel Kamin's approving glance as I threatened the old merchant. To my mind, there was really no point in all of this drama, but Kamin needed it, and I -- well, I hoped to save the poor old man from Kamin's attentions. Surely a clean death by my hand was better than a lengthy one at Kamin's hands. The girl screamed, "No, Father, don't give these thieves anything!" "Fine. Kill them, Yellow," said Nuru, who was standing in the cart with a knife at Tobias' throat. Kamin walked around to me and gestured me towards the wagon. "Go and check inside. Find the money." I slid my knife back into its sheath and hurried over to the wagon, sparing a glance behind me. Kamin had a smile on his face, one that, more often than not, gave me nightmares. I recognized that smile; it reminded me of Mon-Haddar. The two of them shared a quality that I hated, which made them enjoy the helplessness of others -- more, the pain and terror of others. I quickened my steps and jumped into the wagon, throwing the cushions to one side, searching for the strong box I knew I would find. Within moments I rushed back out. "I found it in the back," I said breathlessly. "It's there." "The goods are in the back, gentlemen. I'm getting them out. Nuru, please deal with this lot. Kill them." Kamin turned and went to the back of the wagon. "Please, no. Take whatever you want, don't kill us. Please," Gaia begged. "My father's old. Please don't kill us." Draage, standing next to Gaia, gave her a push and she fell backwards with a cry. "What did you do that for?" I snapped at him. "She was in the way." He pulled a long rag from his belt and slipped it around the old man's neck. "No, no!" The old merchant began to struggle. "Here, leave him alone," Gaia yelled. She sat up and screamed, "Tobias, help him." She stood up and rushed toward Draage, but I moved forward and held her immobile. I tried to twist her body to one side so that she would not have to see her father die, but she fought me. I watched Tobias stare unblinkingly at the girl, who watched her father die strangled by Draage. Poor girl, I thought again. She would be better off dead. "No!" Tobias tugged at the reins and the horses moved. Nuru lost his balance and fell heavily. I threw my knife at Tobias, but in the deepening gloom I was unsure if it had hit its mark. As I moved toward the wagon, Gaia screamed. "No, no. Leave me alone. No!" There was the sound of clothing being torn. Gaia sobbed. "No!" I turned abruptly from the wagon and hurried toward the girl. "Quiet!" It was the gruff voice of Draage. "Be quiet, girl." I had always found something abhorrent about rape, perhaps because of my own close shaves with it; my time with my master had left more than just physical scars. One of the guards the wizard had employed had delighted in tormenting me and I'd also been the subject of the mage's ... experiments. Now I said harshly, "Draage, why don't you leave her alone? We got the loot. Let's just kill her and go." "Yellow by name and yellow by measure," growled the other man. "I'm not leaving until I've had my pleasure." The grin that covered his face made my stomach turn and I felt my head begin to throb. Gaia was weeping softly now, with little outcries. Suddenly she screamed again. I couldn't bear it any longer. "That's it. Enough!" I reached for my knife, and found it gone. But Kamin's knife was still in the dead old man's shoulder. I bent, grabbed it, stepped forward and, in one quick motion, slit the girl's throat. Gaia gave one last sob and then there was silence. My vision blurred and as she fell to the ground, I saw her face meld into another's. For one sharp yet fleeting moment, she appeared to be a much older woman, with startlingly black hair and big eyes of bottomless brown. In the next instant, I saw that I had been mistaken; it must have been the deepening gloom. Absently I rubbed the knife against my tunic and slid it into the sheath that lay against my side. At least this girl wouldn't be in my nightmares, which didn't need any more new faces. "What did you do that for?" Draage shouted. "I don't hold with rape," I said shortly. She would be at peace now. Really, I had done her a favor in killing her, I thought. "That's it, Yellow, I've had it with you. Who do you think you are, son of a bleeding guttersn--" Draage rushed me and succeeded in shoving me to the ground. I rolled away from him in the direction of the woods on the far side and came up fast, throwing a punch where I expected Draage to be. It connected to his abdomen with a satisfying thud. Both of us were equally fit, although I was the taller of the two. We were evenly matched and had frequently sparred together in practice bouts, something which Kamin had instituted among our little band, much to the annoyance of two of our group; Kamin had killed one for failing to practice and the other, Piet, had run away. I knew I had to be careful, for Draage gave no quarter. He threw one punch after another, gaining the advantage. We moved backwards, and I heard a loud roaring sound. I spared a corner of my mind to wonder what it was, but my attention was on Draage. I knew that I was fighting for my life. Kamin was probably still counting the money, and even if he had realized that Draage and I were fighting, he would never interfere. I knew that he would cheer the winner and go off with him. I was on my own. Suddenly Draage tripped on a stone that lay behind him and fell backwards, but he rolled to the side almost immediately and I, though I'd intended to jump upon him, found myself sitting on the ground instead. Both of us jumped up agilely, and began to circle around. At that moment, I recognize the sound: it was the river, Thyerin's Run, named for the god of the elements. I hadn't realized we were so close to it. An idea sprung into my mind. If only I could lure Draage to the water ... My break in concentration cost me. Draage's punch connected; my nose began to bleed copiously. I only hoped it wasn't broken. I now found myself on the defensive. Draage was throwing punches that I managed to block almost at random. Another one of his punches connected, this time to the abdomen, and I doubled up momentarily. Taking advantage of my bent position, I moved forward, hit him in the stomach with my head, and jumped backwards immediately after hitting him. I knew that although he was holding his belly, Draage sometimes feigned injury. True to form, his right leg kicked out in a circular motion that failed to hit its target. He regained his balance quickly and began to punch me, pressing me backward towards the river. I allowed myself to be pushed in the direction of the river, letting a corner of my mind plan out what I wanted to do. I would let Draage think he had me, and that I was weakening. Draage was very good, but he could only think one move ahead. In that respect, without vanity, I knew I was better than him. I weaved artistically, aware that I really needed to judge the distance behind me. I took a deep breath and let another one of Draage's abdomen punches connect. My breath left me in a whoosh and I shoved him to the ground with my shoulder. Quickly I turned and saw that I was barely a stride from the river's edge. But I had underestimated Draage. By the time I turned back, he was at me with a knife. I danced backwards and to the side, but it was not enough. He struck and I felt the knife slide into me. It rent the skin on my side with ease, like freshly churned butter. The pain grew inside me like a living thing, growing, consuming, devouring me. I took the pain and fed it to my rage and fear, rage that Draage, woman-raper that he was, might best me, and fear that this time, I might die. Fury enveloped me and I reached for my knife. The knife was my weapon. It was something that I had wielded to good effect in the past, even when I had apprenticed with Mon-Haddar. The mage had taught me where to strike to kill instantly, and Kamin had taught me where to strike so that the victim lived. I chose to give Draage no chance at life. I thrust my knife at Draage forward and up. He fell backwards, blood pooling at his lips, a wry expression in his eyes. I sighed and stepped backwards away from the corpse. "Oh. Aaaah!" I had not paid attention to where I was. My last step had been on the slippery banks and the furious waters had grabbed me for their own. It was so cold that my teeth were chattering. Chunks of frozen water floated past me, with me -- I felt as if I was becoming one of them. I couldn't feel the wound in my side because the icy Run had numbed it. I couldn't even feel my arms or legs. I tried to paddle, but not only was the river flowing too fast, I was losing my senses. My best option would be to let the river do what it would. I felt keenly the irony that Draage had bested me even in death. I embraced the rage and fury in my mind and tried to use it to fight Thyerin's Run. My efforts were too flimsy to win against something that could swallow a dozen of me. My head bobbed up and down on the surface of the river, and I tried not to swallow the water. It was a wasted attempt, for I could control nothing. Thyerin's might was absolute. It was then that I remembered the falls that crossed the river. The cold was affecting my head so that I was no longer certain which way was up or which way was down, but I knew what the roaring sound was. A single thought, straight and clean as an arrow, shot through me: I was going to die. ======================================================================== Flingers by Rena Deutsch and Cheryl Spooner and Seber 10–17, 1017 "Sian! I'm home!" Aren listened as he opened the door and stepped inside, but the house was unusually silent. There were no answering cries, no sound of children playing and squabbling, or Sian's laughter or scolding. His voice echoed in the quiet as he looked around. Everything was in its place and he saw no sign of them having left in a hurry, yet it was rare for everyone to be out all at once. "Sian? Kerith? Briam? Finn? Where are you?" He went to the room he shared with Briam and Finn, some of Sian's other foster-children. Even that was tidy, which was a strange thing in itself. It rarely looked this neat except when Sian had just cleaned it. He moved to the room his sister Kerith shared with Oriel, the latest addition to their family of orphans, but again it was empty. The rag-doll Sian had made for Kerith lay on the floor between the girls' beds, and Aren picked it up, idly fiddling with its woolen hair as he wondered where they might all be. Glancing out through the window, he noticed the laundry drying on the lines. A strong wind was blowing now, moving grey clouds quickly across the sky. "I'd better get the laundry in before it starts raining," he grumbled to himself. Sian would scold him if he left it out to get wet. With a sigh, he dropped the doll on Kerith's bed and hurried down the stairs and outside to gather in the laundry. "Aren! Aren! Come and see!" Aren turned, arms laden with clean laundry, to see his sister Kerith, brown curls bobbing as she skipped towards him. Her blue eyes were wide as she tugged on his arm, her voice high-pitched, almost squealing in her excitement. "Aren! Go and put that laundry down and come and see!" "All right! All right!" he laughed. Why were seven-year-old girls so excitable? He dropped the clothes into the basket he'd taken out with him, then picked up the whole load and took it into the house, with Kerith tagging along, urging him to hurry. Once the laundry was safely deposited on the table, he took Kerith's hand and let her lead him outside, shaking his head and chuckling at her breathless excitement. She led him out the back door, across the yard and out into the street. In the distance, coming up the road, were Sian, Briam and Finn pulling a wagon, with Oriel pushing from behind. The wagon appeared heavy, because they were moving slowly, as if it was taking them all their time and effort just to move it. "Come *on* Aren! Come and see!" Kerith jumped up and down and tugged on Aren's hand. "Come on, hurry up!" "What has you so excited, little sister?" Aren looked at her. Her mouth curved in a little smile and she shook her head and touched her nose as she skipped alongside her brother, deliberately jumping in all the puddles. "Just wait 'til Sian tells you what we got and what we'll be doing." "Now I'm curious! What did Sian bring this time?" Aren asked, noting the smugness of her smile with a grin. So, his little sister had something to tease him with for a change. "I'm not telling you that we got big baskets!" Kerith giggled. "All right then don't tell me, but what are the baskets for?" Aren smirked, he knew how to make his sister tell him everything, and sure enough, it worked. "We'll put flingers in them and then sell them at the festival!" "Flingers?" Aren wasn't quite sure he'd heard right, but then he remembered. "Oh yeah, flingers! That should be fun! Do you remember what to do with flingers?" "What do you do with flingers?" Kerith looked at him as though she wasn't quite sure what a flinger was. "You pick one up, throw it as hard as you can on a rock," Aren told her. "When it breaks open you let a fortune teller read your fortune, and then you cook it and eat it. So, we're going to collect some and then sell them at the festival? Who's doing the fortune telling?" "How did you know we're going to sell flingers?" Kerith cried, her eyes wide as though she couldn't believe her brother already knew all about it. "You just told me, sis," Aren laughed, ruffling her hair. "You never could keep a secret around me!" Kerith looked at him, her eyes suddenly huge and her lip trembling as though she was going to cry. Aren quickly comforted her. "I won't tell Sian you told me. It'll still be a surprise." He smiled at her, and her smile returned. He chuckled to himself as he hugged her, amused by the way her tears were so easily forgotten. "Race you to Sian!" he grinned. "One, two, three, go!" Aren watched his sister run ahead and then followed her quickly, taking care to stay just behind her so she "won" the race. "Hi Sian," he said as he approached. "It looks like you could use some help. What's under the cover?" "Oh, I'm so glad you're here, Aren. This thing is such a weight! Here, take this and I'll go round back and push with Oriel and Kerith." Sian brushed a stray lock of her long hair back from her eyes as she handed Aren the rope. "I'll tell you all about it when we're at the house. That is if Kerith hasn't already spilled the beans." "I didn't spill any beans, Sian! I didn't even go near them!" Kerith stood in front of Sian, hands on her hips, her eyes indignant. Aren and Sian laughed out loud. "What's so funny?" Finn asked. "Nothing Finn," replied Sian, "You and Briam keep pulling the wagon. With Aren's help we'll be home shortly and I'll warm some stew." When they were all sitting round the table, enjoying stew and warm bread, Aren again asked Sian about the contents of the cart, now safely stowed in the outhouse. "We hauled the biggest kettle you ever saw, Aren!" Briam interrupted excitedly. "Straight," Oriel chimed in, "Not even Jahlena has one that huge!" "Where'd you get it?" Aren asked curiously. "Rebecca, the midwife, let us borrow it," Oriel answered quickly. "And we get to go down to the beach t'morrow, real early, and catch flingers for the festival!" Finn added through a mouthful of bread. "You'll help me catch the most flingers, won't you Aren?" Kerith pulled her brother's shirt, "Won't you? Won't you?" "I didn't think this was a competition, Kerith," Sian said. "We'll all work together." "Won't you tell me what's going on?" Aren looked at Sian, his eyebrow arched quizzically. "I'd really like to know what I've been volunteered for." Sian laughed, "No one volunteered you for anything, and I can understand if you have to help out at the inn that day. The big festival with the blessing of the fleet is in less than a sennight and the children and I decided that we could catch flingers for the festival and sell them. Rebecca agreed to read people's fortune, but she's too old to go catching flingers and doesn't want to cook them afterwards either." "We're going to get up real early in the morning and go to the beach to catch flingers. Are you coming too Aren?" Briam looked at his friend. "Sure he's coming!" answered Kerith before Aren could say a word. "He'll help *me*!" Aren laughed, "Sounds like I don't have a choice." "Straight!" answered Kerith. "Well then, you four eat up and go to bed!" Sian looked at Briam, Finn, Kerith and Oriel. The four younger children finished their stew and went to bed, for once without having to be told a second time. "I almost forgot," began Aren and pulled out his little purse. "I got paid today." He placed four Bits on the table. "Keep them, Aren. You've been such a help those past months, and even fifteen-year-old young men need a little money to spend now and then." Sian got up and collected the dishes. A big yawn escaped her. "I'd better go to bed as well. The rain should bring the flingers to the shore. With some luck we'll find enough tomorrow." "I'll come with you. I don't have to be at the inn until lunchtime." "Will you see to the fireplace and make sure it's ready for the morning?" Sian asked him, yawning as she stood and walked towards the foot of the stairs. "I'm rather tired." "I'll do that, Sian. Good night." Aren turned to the fireplace, took shovel, and started clearing the ashes. "Good night, Aren," Sian, called, already halfway to her room. A heavy thudding on the door had Rebecca awake with a groan. "Cease your banging!" she grumbled as the thudding sounded again. "I'll be out in a moment!" She sat up, pulling her shawl around her to keep out the chilly night air as she fumbled for her tinderbox to light the lamp that stood on her dresser. "Rebecca!" a young voice shouted. "Hurry!" She opened the door, facing an anxious boy. "What?" "It's mother!" he interrupted, hopping from one foot to the other, "Baby's coming! Hurry!" He reached for her hand, trying to pull her with him. "I need my bag," Rebecca muttered and turned around to get it. "No!" the boy yelled. "We need to go now!" "Not without my bag!" she snapped at the boy, silencing him momentarily. Rebecca slipped into her shoes, tied them, pulled her shawl close and then reached for her bag, tossing it to the boy. "You can carry it. Now lead the way!" The boy clutched the bag to his chest and hurried down the path. Every now and then he stopped to see if Rebecca was still following him. As they approached the house, they could hear the screams of a woman. "That's my mother," the boy cried and pulled Rebecca's arm. "Hurry, please. Help her!" Rebecca stopped at the door and placed her hand on his shoulder. "I will help her. You have brothers and sisters?" "Yes," he nodded. "A brother and two sisters." "Take your siblings and bring them to your neighbor. Stay there!" "Straight," he answered, swallowing his tears, and opened the door. Screaming greeted Rebecca as she entered the room. A woman covered with blankets lay on a mound of hay. Her husband stood next to her looking helpless. In the far corner were three children cuddled together, looking frightened. Rebecca now recognized the couple; she had delivered all their children. Not wasting a moment, she stepped to the bedside and silenced the screaming woman with a firm yet controlled slap to her face. "Save your strength for later, you need it to bring your baby into the world!" Rebecca commanded the woman, then turned to the husband. "Sengar, I need some hot water and a clean blanket, and get Morgana some water to drink." Without a word Sengar did as he was asked. Rebecca cleaned her hands then turned to Morgana who was breathing heavily. Rebecca lifted the blanket and all color drained from her face. There was a tiny foot sticking out. "Not good, not good," she muttered to herself. "What is it? Rebecca?" Morgana called out, "Tell me what's wrong! I can feel something's not right!" Sengar, who had been standing behind Rebecca, answered his wife. "There's a foot sticking out." "The baby's backwards, I have to pull it out," Rebecca said after a moment of thinking, "It's not going to be easy. Babies aren't supposed to come feet first." "Can't you turn it?" Sengar asked "Too late to turn," Rebecca answered, "I would have been able to do that before her water broke." She reached into her bag, pulled out a root, and handed it to Sengar. "I need you to sit behind Morgana, support her head, and hold the root so she can bite into it." While Sengar took his place, Rebecca removed the blanket and instructed Morgana to pull her legs up. "I want you to push with all your might when the next pain comes," Rebecca told Morgana. The woman nodded briefly, biting on the root. Rebecca placed her hand on the woman's swollen belly. She felt it tightening. "Now! Push!" While Morgana pushed, Rebecca pulled on the baby's leg. The whole leg became visible and soon the second leg dropped out. "Stop pushing!" Rebecca instructed Morgana while she felt her way along the baby's body to its shoulders. Carefully, she pulled each arm downward and gently aligned the baby's arms with its body then told Morgana to push again. Rebecca pulled on the baby's body, but it wouldn't move any further. Pearls of sweat started forming on her forehead. Impatiently, she wiped them away. "Push! Morgana, push with all the strength you've got!" Rebecca commanded, pulling on the baby's body, yet she made no progress. "Why isn't my baby coming out?" Morgana asked, breathing heavily. Rebecca looked directly at her, "The head is stuck. I ..." She interrupted herself when she noticed the worried look on their faces and then finished confidently. "I'll get him out." When she felt the tightening of Morgana's stomach again, Rebecca pulled, but to no avail. She slid her hand alongside the baby's body and felt for his jaw. Hooking her fingers into the baby's mouth, she forced the head down. Morgana screamed, then her face went ashen and she fell silent. Her limbs flopped to the side. "Pull her legs back, Sengar!" Rebecca commanded. "The baby's almost out." While Sengar did as he was told, Rebecca pulled one last time and the baby was free of his mother. She lifted the little one by his feet and tried to make him cry yet he remained still. Rebecca shivered. She took a cloth and began rubbing the baby's back, drying him. She yelled at the baby, "Breathe!" but nothing happened. "Leave him be, Rebecca," Sengar said quietly after several menes. "He wasn't supposed to stay with us." Rebecca looked at Sengar and nodded. She cut the cord, wrapped the lifeless baby into a piece of cloth, and handed him to his father. He pulled his son close for a moment, a single tear in his eye, then placed him in a box by the fire. "The afterbirth is coming," Rebecca said, turning her attention back to Morgana. Gently pulling on the cord, she eased the purple mass out and placed it in a bowl. A stream of blood followed, which soon slowed to a trickle. Rebecca looked into the puddle of blood and felt the color drain from her face. For a moment she saw a man's face. The face changed into a flinger and then vanished. Swallowing hard, she finished her work. Rebecca looked into Morgana's face and noticed her color had returned. She was sleeping now, breathing normally. After cleaning herself, Rebecca reached into her bag and pulled out some herbs. She ground them into a fine powder and gave them to Sengar. "When your wife wakes, make her a strong tea with this. It will dry up her milk. Let her see the baby if she wants to. Send your boy if you need further help." "Thank you," Sengar replied and reached for a small bag attached to his belt. Rebecca shook her head. "Keep it," she said, "You'll need it for the Rattler." Grabbing her bag, Rebecca left the house and made her way home, shaking her head and muttering to herself, "'Tis not good, not good at all." On the day of the festival, Sian woke the children early. They would have to make several trips to get all the baskets to the docks, even with Aren's help. May had given him the day off work and he was looking forward to the festivities, and to helping Sian sell the flingers. They'd gone out every day to collect flingers from the beach, until all the baskets Sian had brought were full of the reddish-hued animals. He was also proud that they'd managed to keep them all alive by covering the baskets in water-soaked cloths -- something one of the old fishermen down by the docks had told him about. The morning was unusually cool for the month, and fog engulfed the docks and those parts of town closest to the docks. Despite wearing a warm cloak and pulling the heavy wagon, Aren shivered in the chill morning air. "I'm cold!" complained Kerith to no one in particular. "We all are," Aren told her. "Once we have the fire going for the kettle you'll warm up quickly." The group reached the site at the docks Rebecca had mentioned to Sian when they'd bargained. It was a good place to attract customers: everyone attending the festival had to pass by them and Rebecca had always had her tent there. People would remember it simply because it had always been there. Quickly, the children unloaded the wagon. Aren, Briam, and Finn made their way back to pick up the remaining baskets of flingers while Sian, Oriel, and Kerith built the fire. When the boys returned, the fireplace was set and extra firewood was stacked within reach. After unloading the baskets the boys took buckets to haul water for the kettle. No sooner did they return when the first people came walking down the street. Aren noted that the women wore gaily colored dresses, far different from the everyday drab browns and greys they would normally wear around the city. The men too were dressed in their best, with brightly colored tunics over their breeches. Children ran, skipped or walked alongside, eyes bright as their clothing with excitement for the coming festivities. Aren smiled to himself as Kerith started jumping from one foot to the other in anticipation. "Where is Rebecca?" Aren asked, ruffling Kerith's hair. "Her tent is all set up, but it's still closed." "Why don't you run up to her place and see if she needs help, Aren," Sian suggested. Aren hesitated for a moment. As the oldest of the boys, almost a man as Sian kept saying, he felt it his duty to stay and take care of the others. On the other hand, he didn't think it would be a good idea to send any of the others on such an errand. Finn would get sidetracked, Briam would get impatient and the girls were too young to send off on their own. "All right Sian, I won't be long," he replied eventually, taking one last look to make sure everything was as it should be before turning in the direction of Rebecca's house. Rebecca sat at the table, drinking tea and staring into the hearth. Flames danced on the logs and sparks swirled in the smoke like fireflies. In the midst of the flames she saw the face which had appeared in the vision the previous night. It had haunted her dreams, making her fitful and restless, and yet it was no one she knew. All she did know was that the face, appearing as it did at such a bad time, was not a good omen. She was getting too old for all this, she decided with a sigh. Too old and tired to be troubled by visions and what they meant. It was time she retired ... and yet, what would she do? Midwifery was all she'd known. Could she ignore the knock in the middle of the night? Refuse to assist in a birthing? Rebecca shook her head. She could no more do that than stop the visions from bothering her. They'd troubled her for as long as she could remember, even as a child. Sometimes they were good things, but most often they foretold of tragedy. Rebecca shook herself and pulled her shawl about her shoulders as she rose to clear her mug and mend the fire. It would be time to go soon. She would have to shake this mood and get ready for the fortune telling at the festival. Fortune telling was easy; she just told them what they wanted to hear. No visions involved there, just a gift of being able to read a face and know by the eyes what their hopes were. It wasn't real. Not like the visions. The visions came unasked for, and more often than not were unwanted. Worse still, there was nothing she could do to alter the outcome. Useless things! She placed another log on the fire, damping down the flames a little with the remains of her tea so that it would burn slowly and keep the house aired while she was gone. As she did so, a knock sounded at the door. Time to go, she mused with a heavy sigh. All at once a shiver ran up her spine, raising the soft hairs on the back of her neck and making her shudder. A sense of panic overwhelmed her and she suddenly didn't want to go. The knock sounded again and she froze, biting her lip. "Foolish old woman!" she told herself angrily, trying to shift the feeling of dread that had chilled her, bone-deep. It was all she could do to move, to force herself to answer the door, but she crossed the room, slowly, feeling for all the world as though she was walking through cloying mud. "Get a hold of yourself Rebecca," she muttered, shaking her head to try and rid herself of the dark thoughts. "It'll happen whether you're there or not, so just get on with it." When she finally opened the door she found Aren waiting there, smiling nervously. "Sian sent me to help you," he said, and she nodded, not trusting her voice. She picked up her bag from the table and handed it to him, closing the door behind her as she stepped out into the street. She didn't speak the whole of the way to the harbor, but listening to Aren's cheerful whistling as he walked alongside helped her to focus on something other than the vision. By the time they reached her tent the sense of panic and dread had passed, and she felt able to deal with whatever the day would bring. "It's good to see you, Rebecca," Sian greeted her warmly, the younger woman's light grey eyes smiling with relief. "Good to see you, too, Sian," she replied, and she meant it. Sian was always so pleasant, and the way she cared for those children she took in impressed Rebecca. "Thank you for sending the boy to help me with my bag. A very polite young man." She turned to Aren "Thank you lad." Aren bowed. "You're welcome, Rebecca." "It's good to see a boy with manners. Would you please help me to my tent? I can take care of the rest myself then and you can send the first people with their flinger to me." "I wanna be first! Me first!" Kerith jumped excitedly from one foot to the other. "Please, can I be first?" Rebecca turned around and looked at the little girl, smiling. It was nice to see such untainted excitement: blue eyes so big and wide in wonder at anything and everything. She had been that way herself once, many, many years ago, before the accursed visions had come and put an end to innocence and wonder. "Come on then little one, bring your flinger," Rebecca said, turning to walk into her tent, leaving an excited Kerith to pick her flinger. Once inside, Rebecca let her smile slip, rubbing her eyes wearily. Sounds of excitement from outside and the sound of a flinger being hurled against the rock had a false smile on her face in an instant. It wouldn't do to let the children see her this way ... and hopefully, the vision she had seen would not come to pass today. "Sit down child," Rebecca instructed, as Kerith hurried into the tent, holding the broken flinger out eagerly. Rebecca took it and placed it on the table between them, giving Kerith her most mysterious look. "Now, pretty one, let's see what the future holds for you." She studied the flinger, the position of its legs, the crack in the shell, and told Kerith she would grow up to be a beautiful woman, have many children of her own, and live a happy life. Of course, the answer wasn't really in the flinger; it was in the child's face. Rebecca merely had a knack for reading eyes and faces, and knowing what they wanted to hear. The fortune-telling using flingers was merely a way of earning money, a show for the visitors, her real gift was in the visions, and was a gift she'd never wanted. Kerith smiled when she heard Rebecca's forecast and thanked her, picking up her flinger to rush outside, calling out excitedly to Sian and the others about the fortune Rebecca had told for her. Then came Briam, a nice enough lad, but a trifle lazy, Rebecca thought as she studied his face -- a far more important action than studying the flinger. She told him what she saw in his eyes. He would be a guard, just as he wanted, as long as he worked hard. His face fell a little as she made the statement, and she smiled to herself. He'd wanted to be a guard, but not liked the part about working hard, she sensed. Oriel entered the tent as Briam left. Rebecca looked at her, remembering the fire that had killed the girl's mother. She studied her eyes, then looked down at the flinger in front of her with a smile. This youngster could be anything she wanted, judging by the willpower Rebecca had seen in her eyes. She told Oriel that she would do very well for herself, in whatever she chose to do. Oriel thanked her and left, smiling. Next into the tent was Finn, and Rebecca suppressed a chuckle. The carrot-headed youngster was so full of life and mischief it shone from his hazel eyes as she read his face, despite his obviously trying to be calm and nonchalant. This one would get himself into scrape after scrape as he was growing up, although there was a lot of good in the boy, deep within, and he would make a fine man. She told him he would have a life of adventure and his eyes lit up like beacons as he jumped up and hugged her. "Oh get away with you, scamp!" she laughed as he kissed her cheek and ran out of the tent. Rebecca shook her head, chuckling to herself. Perhaps today wasn't going to be such a bad day after all. Aren slowly approached the kettle, looking pensive. He hadn't been in to have his future foretold, but wasn't sure if he shouldn't turn around and ask Rebecca to read his flinger. He decided to go with his first decision, threw his flinger in the kettle, and watched it turn red. While he waited for it to cook, he took a look around. Finn was drawing little lines in the dirt, his permanent grin even wider than usual. Kerith, Oriel and Briam, were busy talking to the people walking down Division Street, telling them about their flingers, and inviting them to have their fortunes read for a Bit. Soon the first customers lined up outside Rebecca's tent. The day was chilly. A brisk wind moved white and grey clouds across the sky. Every now and then the sun broke through and showed the docks and the brightly decorated ships of the fleet. Whenever a few customers were waiting to have their fortunes read, the children took a break and stood around the kettle to warm their hands. "Sian, how much longer do we have to sell flingers?" inquired Kerith. "'Til we've sold them all, Kerith," replied Sian. "We only have one more basket; that shouldn't take too much longer." "And then we can go and look at all the ships?" asked Briam. "Yes, then you can go. Aren will take you. Now go and find some more people, there's only one person waiting right now." Dutifully, Oriel, Briam and Kerith went back to work. Aren followed, wanting to do his share of getting customers for Rebecca. He watched as Kerith approached an old man who was walking slowly down the road. "Good day, sir," Aren heard her greeting the man. "Would you be interested in buying a flinger? I have lots and Rebecca the midwife will read your fortune. And then you can come over and cook it in the big kettle Sian has set up. They taste really good." Kerith held up the flinger for the man to see. "Don't want my fortune read, girl," replied the man and continued on walking. Kerith was persistent. "They're only a Bit, and if you don't want your fortune read you can always cook it; they taste ever so good." The man stopped and looked at Kerith. "What's your name, girl?" "Kerith." "You don't give up Kerith, do you?" Kerith smiled. "It's fun to have Rebecca tell you about your future. She told me earlier. And the flingers taste good. What's your name?" "I'm Drew Molag. What did Rebecca tell you about your future?" "She said that I'll be beautiful when I grow up." Kerith straightened herself. "And for only a Bit she'll tell you about your future." She held up the flinger. Drew Molag let out a short laugh. "All right, I'll buy your flinger. Where is Rebecca's tent?" He handed Kerith a Bit and took the flinger from her. Aren looked proudly at Kerith while she pointed to Rebecca's tent. No one was waiting now. He watched as Drew slowly walked towards the tent, then turned to his sister. "Well done Kerith!" he praised her and ran his fingers lightly through her hair. Kerith beamed at him, then skipped to the baskets, picked up another flinger, and approached a woman. Rebecca stood up and reached for her basket as her latest customer left the tent. She pulled a water flask out and took a sip. She was about to step out of her tent when she noticed a man approaching. For a moment she thought she had seen him before, but couldn't remember. "Crack your flinger on the stone next to the tent and then enter," she called out and went back to her chair. She listened for the cracking noise, nodding when she heard it. The flap opened and an old man stepped inside. He placed the flinger on the table and seated himself before Rebecca could ask him, and introduced himself as Drew Molag. Rebecca nodded, reaching for the flinger. Carefully, Rebecca examined the flinger, her finger tracing the small cracks on the outer shell. She closed her eyes halfway, and was about to raise her head to look into his eyes, to see what his hopes were, when the face of a woman appeared before her. Rebecca gasped, clutching the flinger tightly as the face changed into the face of a girl, then a young woman, and again into a girl. Each face was different, but all had three crossing lines on their forehead. Through the years, and her visions, Rebecca had come to recognize those lines as a sign of death. Then the face changed again. This time it was the face of a man and Rebecca recognized it immediately. She had seen it before! She had seen it when Morgana's baby was born. It belonged to the man sitting in front of her! The face in her vision was surrounded by blood, a faint death sign on the forehead. Rebecca paled. Grateful for the dim light in her tent, which wouldn't betray her shock over the revelation, she steadied herself. What was she going to do? She couldn't tell him the truth. How could she tell someone that they were going to die? And yet, how could she not tell him. Perhaps if she forewarned him it might not come to pass. Rebecca's heart sank like a stone in her chest. She had tried to change the outcome of her visions before, but with no success. Why should this time be any different? The man coughed, bringing her out of her thoughts. "I can see you've been through a great deal of pain," she began, carefully wording her response, "It all seems to come to an end, but it is not very clear. I see you lost sisters and daughters ..." "Don't dwell on the past," interrupted Drew, "I'm more interested in what is going to happen. Will it end? I'm on a quest to end the suffering of my family. Will I be successful?" Rebecca turned the flinger in her hands and moved her fingers over the cracks. A brief shudder rippled through her body as she fought the urge to blurt out what she'd seen. It would do no good. "Your suffering will end soon," was all she could say. "Tell me more about it," demanded Drew, as though he noticed Rebecca's hesitancy. "Go on woman." "There isn't anything to add," replied Rebecca quietly, "That's all I can say." "You're lying!" shouted Drew, "You saw something and you won't tell me what it is. I know you did!" He jumped up knocking the chair down. Rebecca also rose, facing him calmly, although inside she was trembling. "I don't have anything to add," she said. "Please leave." She picked up the flinger and held it for Drew to take. Drew took the flinger and threw it out of the tent. "Tell me what you saw," he demanded one more time. When Rebecca refused to add anything to her prediction he knocked the table over. "What did you see?" he yelled, grabbed her by her shoulders, and shook her. Aren was on his way to bring Rebecca some food when he heard yelling inside her tent. He rushed to the entrance and was hit by a flinger coming from within. It hit him squarely in the chest and for a moment he stood there unsure what to do. Inside the tent the yelling started again. Aren looked around, noticed a young man nearby, and recognized him as Tom Madden, their neighbor's son. "Tom!" Aren called out and gestured the man to come near when he had his attention. "Hurry!" Tom walked towards Aren with long strides. "What ..." Tom began, but was interrupted by yelling from inside the tent. He nodded towards Aren and stepped inside the tent. Aren followed. "Do you need any help, Rebecca?" Aren's eyes swept the tent, and he grew alarmed as he noticed the overturned table and chair. "Hey mister! Leave her be and go. If Rebecca has nothing to add, then there is nothing to add." "What do you know, boy?" Drew retorted angrily and turned his head for a moment to look at Aren without letting go of Rebecca's shoulders. "She's withholding the truth from me, I know it!" Without missing a breath he turned back to Rebecca and in a low voice repeated: "Tell me what you saw! Tell me!" "There is nothing else to say. Let go of me and leave. Now!" Rebecca tried to shake herself from Drew's grip, but without success. "Tom, help me, please." Rebecca had recognized the young man who'd stepped into her tent with Aren. "Let her go!" Tom moved closer and reached for Drew's arm. Drew swung his arm backwards and managed to push Tom backwards, but only momentarily. Angry as he was, he shook Rebecca, and when she didn't answer, he hit her in the face. Rebecca screamed. Tom rushed to her side and pulled Drew away from Rebecca. "Leave her alone!" he yelled at Drew. "Don't touch me!" Drew swung his fist and hit Tom on the chin. Tom only shook his head and rubbed his chin. When Drew set out to punch Tom for the second time, Tom stepped to the side and Drew's fist only reached empty space. The momentum of the intended blow made Drew stumble and fall. He hit his head on the table and was unconscious by the time he hit the ground. Blood was pouring from an open wound on his forehead. Aren stood motionless, staring at the man on the floor, then Tom and Rebecca. No one said a word. "What happened?" Sian broke the silence as she entered the tent, "I heard Rebecca scream." Aren pointed to the man on the floor and Sian bent down to see if he was all right. A large puddle of blood had formed under the man's head. Sian let out a deep breath, kneeling next to Drew. Aren noticed the man was barely breathing. Rebecca joined Sian, bringing her bag. Together the women tried to stop the bleeding. Rebecca opened her bag and pulled out some rags and herbs, while Sian applied them. Quietly, Rebecca told Sian what had happened. Drew moaned softly, then lay silent. "Can I help?" Aren asked softly, looking at the man then Sian. "No." She replied without looking up. "His breathing is shallow and slowing with each passing moment," Rebecca remarked and Sian nodded. Aren shuddered, realizing the man was going to die. He had never seen anyone die before. "Wake up!" Sian yelled and shook Drew by the shoulder. The man didn't respond. Aren watched as Sian moistened her fingers and held them over the man's open mouth. Shaking her head, she placed her fingers on his neck. "I can't feel him breathing, nor do I feel the life pulse within him," Sian whispered. Aren barely made out the words. With a solemn expression on her face Sian stood up. "He's dead," she announced. Tom looked at her in disbelief. "He's what?" "He's dead, Tom," Sian repeated softly. "There is nothing I can do. We need to call the guards." Tom nodded in agreement. "I'll be right back." Aren held out his hand to help Rebecca get up. Her small hand gripped his and she gave him a thankful nod. Her face was pasty white and to Aren she suddenly seemed very small and frail. She tucked a stray strand of graying hair behind her ear with trembling fingers. "I'm sorry, Rebecca," began Sian, but Rebecca shook her head. "Please ... just close up the tent for me ... I won't be telling fortunes any more," she said quietly. "But Rebecca ..." Sian said, "You can't quit because of this, it wasn't your fault." "Yes it was," Rebecca said dully. "I spent all day telling people what they wanted to hear, and the only real fortune I saw, I couldn't tell." With that she picked up her bag, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and walked out of the tent. ======================================================================== Death Has a Pale Face Part 1 by Nicholas Wansbutter Seber, 1017 A cool breeze washed over the line of troops as they made their way along one of the many winding roads of Dargon, moving in ragged formation like some giant caterpillar. Their unpolished helmets and pike-blades shone dully in the red light of the setting sun. At the head of the column rode the company's commander, Lysander of Connall, followed closely by a standard bearer with the vibrant, if somewhat tattered, banner Duchy Dargon. Riding beside the commander was a Stevenic priest named Orto D'Outremer, clad in simple black robes and borne by an old pony. Near the centre of the troop three large wagons trundled along behind ageing horses. Within the confines of one of the carts lay a religious manuscript that the priest Orto was transporting to the High Church in Magnus, along with the duke's annual tribute to King Haralan with twenty-five Dargonian soldiers as escort. At Orto's request, Duke Dargon had allowed the priest and his tome to accompany the small convoy. Morgan Derkqvist paid little mind to the item the soldiers had in their care. He was more concerned with the rumbling in his belly and the blisters on his feet. He was glad of the soft wind as it blew across the croplands to the soldiers' left, however. The day had been hot, and the bells of marching had left him drained and looking forward to setting up camp for the night. The chainmail hauberk, heavy leather boots and gauntlets he wore in addition to the weighty helmet had done much to add to his fatigue. There was still some marching to do before they rested. Being near the front of the column, he could hear Orto D'Outremer conversing with Commander Connall, and he listened out of boredom. "... It's really quite amazing, Lord Connall ... I am certain that the text was written around the time of the Stevene himself," the priest said in a deep, husky voice. "But what is most amazing is that it is written in Beinisonian, which leads me to believe the Stevene also travelled in the lands of our southern neighbours. The scholars in Magnus will verify this, I'm sure, and translate the good words that are written on the book's pages. Would that I could read them myself ..." "Bah!" Morgan spat. "More religious drivel." "I suppose we'll be hearing enough of it this trip," Bayard Marckennin, the man marching next to Morgan, grumbled. "He'll make no convert of me, though." "Straight," Morgan agreed. "Religion is what nobles pretend they have and old men grovel in front of. I'll not follow any such scrud." "Be careful what you say about nobles, Morgan," Bayard said. "There's one not too far away." "Commander Connall?" Morgan shrugged. "I don't mind him much. As for the duke, he pays my wages, and I'll fight for him and enforce his laws ... but not much more." The party stopped to rest for the night only a few leagues further, as the sun was just beginning to disappear behind the thick trees of the forest ahead. The wood in question split the northern half of Baranur from the south. There would be no choice for the troop but to travel through it on their way to Magnus. "Rest well tonight, troops," Commander Connall said. "We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow. I intend for us to move on through the next night that we may navigate the great forest without having to camp in it. Who knows what bandits lurk in its confines, so be vigilant." With that he turned away from the assembled troops and went to brush down his horse. The soldiers broke formation and headed in several directions, some standing around talking, others searching for a suitable place to build a fire. Feeling the call of nature, Morgan moved away from the rest of the soldiers in search of a suitable place where he could squat and lighten his load a little. Only when he was finished with that task did he move to where the soldiers had gathered. Morgan sat down next to his friend Bayard, who had already gotten a fire going and was warming some stew in a pot over the flames. The youngest of the troops, Louen, and a few others were also sitting around the fire. Morgan tugged at his heavy boots. His feet felt like they had been branded with hot irons. The relief was instant as the boots came off and the mild evening air caressed his worn soles. He examined the bottoms of them in the firelight, and was pleased to find that no new blisters had developed during the day's march, and that the old callouses had not fallen off. He wriggled his toes about for a bit, relishing the soothing coolness of the air, then pulled a dry crust of bread from his belt pouch. As he nibbled at it, he noticed the priest Orto approaching. The Stevenic was quite a rotund man and waddled when he walked. Shaggy grey hair hung from his head, and a thin, stubbled beard covered his ruddy cheeks. He blew his bulbous nose on a dirty handkerchief as he drew near, making an enormous trumpeting sound. "Cephas' boot!" The fat priest stumbled over one of the soldiers' pikes laying on the ground, and knocked over one of the men's cups in the process. He ponderously bent over and picked it up, patting the man's shoulder in an act of repentance. "My apologies, son." "Oh, scrud," Bayard said to Morgan. "I think he's coming over here." Indeed, he was. Somewhat out of breath, Orto placed a fleshy hand and much of his weight on Morgan's shoulder and lowered himself to the ground with a sigh. "Thank you, my son. May God reward you for your kindness to an old priest." Morgan just grunted and continued about his business. He hoped that the priest would go away if he saw that he wasn't welcome among the soldiers. Instead, Orto once again placed a hand on Morgan's shoulder and attempted to initiate a conversation. "What is your name, my son?" "Scrazz, old man!" Morgan pushed the priest's arm away. "I'm not your son." "Hmmmm ..." The priest picked up Morgan's waterskin and poured himself a drink in the tin cup he had carried with him. "That is an unfortunate name, but as the Stevene said --" "Save your wind for someone who cares, priest!" Morgan's biting tone succeeded in silencing the priest, out of whose chubby hands Morgan snatched the waterskin. Now he was in a bad mood, and it was all the priest's fault. Why couldn't he just leave Morgan and his friends alone? They were all the same: always preaching their religious wind, trying to tell all of the poor souls about how they should live. It angered Morgan as few other things did. As a soldier, he was trained to take orders and obey them. That was one thing, but to be told how to live outside of the duke's livery was quite another. A man ought to be able to do what he wanted with his life, without a religion controlling him like an overbearing parent. An overbearing parent like his father. Morgan's mouth twisted slightly as he thought of his days growing up under the stern gaze of his father -- one of the strictest and harshest men Morgan had ever known. He had been especially austere in his religion, constantly quoting Stevenic scriptures and condemning anyone who did not live up to the very letter of them. Morgan remembered beatings for even the smallest of infractions, such as when he forgot his prayers before bed after a hard day's work on the farm. Morgan was jostled from his thoughts when a hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him. "Hey Morgan, d'you remember those barmaids back at the Shattered Spear in Dargon?" Leave it to good old Bayard to lighten the mood. "How could I forget?" Morgan laughed. "The wenches must like the uniform or summat, because they were sure willing to oblige us!" "Aye, that they were," Bayard chuckled. "And young Louen here was too codless to give one of 'em a roll, eh?" Morgan ruffled the young boy's hair playfully. "Do you remember the blonde one?" Bayard asked. But before Morgan could reply, the priest Orto spoke up. "The sexual act is a sacred gift of pleasure given to us by God, according to the Third Law, and not to be taken lightly, my friends." "Fark!" Morgan shouted with explosive fury. "Be silent, you old codswallop! Can nothing be fun with your self-righteous Stevene?" "No, Morgan," Louen said. "I think he's right. I think that there's more happiness to be found in marriage than in --" "Be silent, you!" Morgan said. "Straight," Bayard said to Louen. "You're too young for all of this religious scrud. Youth is for having fun and adventure. Go grovelling to Stevene when you're an old man. You know, I think your problem is that you're too stiff. Here, have a swig of this; that'll loosen you up a little." Bayard passed the boy a small flask that he carried in his belt pouch, and bade him drink. Louen took a half-hearted sip and contorted his face in disgust. "It tastes bad." That brought forth a new bout of laughter from Bayard, but Morgan was still fuming. Why wouldn't the bumbling old priest leave them alone, and take his religious prattle with him? Him and his 'the sexual act is sacred' -- was there to be no fun in life? Like Morgan's father, the priest seemed to forbid anything enjoyable in life, all for the sake of being 'good'. No, that wasn't quite fair; this priest seemed patient and gentle compared with the stern reprimands Morgan's father had meted out. Morgan shook his head. Why was he sympathising with this priest? He was still of the same faith, and just the same as his father. What right did the priest have to judge him for enjoying life? What right did anyone have to judge him? A hand on the back of his neck brought him out of his reverie. "What's wrong, Morgan?" The hand belonged to a female soldier named Lara, a different sort of friend to Morgan than Bayard was. "I heard shouting over here." "Ah," Morgan gestured towards the Stevenic priest, who promptly interrupted him. "Well, I must be off, my friends." The priest grunted loudly as he hefted himself up and began to totter away from the fire. "May Stevene's Light shine on all of you." "Oh, the priest," Lara said. "Who cares about him? He's no better than any of us." Morgan was back in the Shattered Spear with his friends, enjoying a tankard of ale and good company. He laughed heartily at one of Bayard's jokes and slapped his friend on the back in good humour. The ministrations of a pretty barmaid were not lost on him despite the merrymaking. Her long blonde hair caressed the side of Morgan's face as she leaned over to place another tankard in front of Bayard. The tight-fitting bodice she wore nicely enhanced her voluptuous figure; it was so low cut that it seemed she might fall out of it and into his lap. The next thing Morgan knew, he was up in one of the inn's rooms, with the barmaid lying beneath him on a straw mattress. His ale-numbed hands laboriously untied the lace bow that held her dress together. Then he was inside of her, revelling in the ecstasy of the moment. But suddenly, it didn't feel good anymore. He was in intense pain, as if his manhood had been wrapped in thorns. He opened his eyes, and instead of a beautiful maiden, a grotesque monster lay before him, laughing in a deep, raspy voice. It had sharp, dagger-like teeth, and a thick purple tongue dripping with thick saliva. Instead of the soft, cream coloured skin of the serving wench, the creature had grey, leathery, scaled skin like that of a snake. Its eyes were completely white and pupil-less, covered in a grey slime that oozed forth like tears. Morgan screamed, but no sound came forth from his mouth. A jaggedly clawed hand shot up and grasped his throat. A warm liquid splashed in Morgan's face. The bitter metallic taste of blood met his lips as it dripped down his face. Morgan looked around the room in panic. He didn't recognise it; it was large and dark, its cold walls and floor made of stone. There was carnage everywhere. His friends, the soldiers from the guard, were strewn about helplessly. A creature like the one before Morgan straddled his friend Bayard. More blood splattered Morgan as the beast tore Bayard's arms off and tossed them aside. Screams of agony perforated the room as more guardsmen were ripped apart. Blood and gore streamed through the air as they died horribly. Lara, the bottom half of her body missing and her skin a deathly blue-white, crawled up to Morgan's bed, leaving a bloody trail behind her. "Hello, Morgan. Want a throw?" Morgan screamed again as the monster beneath him tore open his chest and grabbed his heart with its tongue. Morgan sat bolt upright, a strangled scream on his lips. He glanced about wildly, his heart pounding in his chest. But he was safe. The ashes of the dead fire from the previous evening sat before him. All around it, soldiers wrapped in their blankets slept soundly. Morgan's breathing slowly returned to normal, as he listened to the gentle snores that filled the night. He looked up to the sky to see a nearly full moon with more stars than anyone could ever count. The cool white light cast by Nochturon allowed Morgan to see for some distance. The forest was a black, ominous shape on the horizon. About a furlong to his left, Morgan could make out the two sentries, strolling lazily about the encampment. The wagon sat serenely nearby, its canvas cover almost glowing in the moon's ethereal light. Morgan was calm now, but still disturbed by the dream. He slowly grew restless as he sat on the ground, however, and decided to get up. He stood and put his boots and sword belt on, opting not to don his hauberk until morning. Morgan wandered over to Griff and Jakob who had drawn sentry duty and made smalltalk with them. "Morgan," Griff said. "What are you doing up at this time of night?" "I don't know," Morgan replied. "I just couldn't get comfortable." "Ah," the other one, Jakob, said. "Thirsting for some bandit blood in the forest, eh? I hate to disappoint you, but there aren't any to be found these days. Commander Connall's just worrisome." Griff grunted with mirth at the comment. "Well, we've got our rounds to do, so just don't cause any trouble while you're up, straight?" "Don't worry about me," Morgan said. As the other two guardsmen headed off, Morgan walked towards the forest. He stopped just past Commander Connall's tent, and sat down on an old log that lay on the ground. Only a handful of furlongs away, Morgan could make out the definition of individual trees against the lighter backdrop of the sky. He watched the forest intently. He didn't know why, but he didn't trust it. It was almost as if the trees would uproot themselves and attack the sleeping soldiers behind him. Presently, his thoughts began to wander back towards his childhood days, living under the severe rule of his father. Damn that priest; Morgan had almost forgotten that period of his life. He had tried to stay as far away from Stevenism as he could, to escape that long past time, which was one of the reasons he'd joined the guard. Morgan's mother had died in giving birth to him, so he had been left alone with his father on their farm just outside of Dargon for all of his early life. Work had been hard on the farm, and had never seemed to end. Even when the plowing and seeding was done, Morgan's father would force him to pray and listen to long recitations of Stevenic scripture. If ever he fell asleep or gave less than his full attention to the work, it meant a beating. He remembered one day, during an especially savage disciplining -- Morgan's reward for looking too obviously at one of the local girls -- asking why his father treated him so harshly. The old man had said, "if your hand does evil, it must be hacked off, or an evil foot removed. I am only correcting you for your own good!" His own good. Morgan felt as if he had a mouthful of meat that had gone bad. He decided to direct his thoughts to the man responsible for them, the priest Orto. Same religious rhetoric, yet somehow different, softer ... He sat there pondering until his breech end began to get sore, and he was about to get up and wander the camp when he heard a strange sound coming from the forest. It wasn't very loud -- Morgan had to strain to hear it -- but it was distinct. It was a muffled cracking noise, as if several people were smashing rocks together. The cracks weren't in rhythm however. They came in random groups, sometimes many at once, other times a single snap. The sounds seemed to move about, coming from several places in the forest at once. The blood in Morgan's veins turned to ice when a woman's scream broke the crackling sounds. She was very far away as her cries were quiet, but they were no less disturbing for it. Morgan looked behind him to see if any of the other guards had been awakened by the noise, but all was still in the camp. He looked back towards the forest and was startled to see a dark, man-shaped figure standing in the grass roughly halfway between Morgan and the forest. It did not move. It only stood there, watching Morgan. He could feel its eyes boring into him. He ran back to the safety of the camp as fast as he could. In his panicked state, he stumbled and fell several times in his sprint towards the camp. He nearly ran headlong into Griff and Jakob who were once again swinging around the camp. "Ol's piss, Morgan!" Griff hissed, grabbing Morgan by the arm. "What's gotten into you?" Morgan took several deep breaths to calm himself before whispering, "I saw someone back towards the woods, and --" Jakob looked over towards the woods. "I don't see anything." Morgan wondered whether or not he should mention the sounds. He decided against it. He didn't even know how to describe them, and besides, how crazy would such a tale sound? "Well, let's check it out," Griff said begrudgingly. The three of them trudged over to the log that Morgan had been sitting on. For several long menes they stood there, scanning the horizon intently. Morgan began to wonder if he really had heard and seen what he thought he had. Maybe he had dozed off sitting on the log and dreamed it all? "Come on, there's nothing here," Jakob said. "Shh ..." Griff held up a hand. Morgan jumped and nearly cried aloud as a pair of deer bounded behind a bush and hopped off towards the trees. Jakob burst out laughing. "Morgan, those were deer you saw! A little too excited about meeting bandits in the forest tomorrow, eh?" "Yes, I suppose so," Morgan grunted. "Well, enough of this scrud," Griff said. "Let's get back to our patrol. You get some sleep, for Ol's sake, Morgan. If you're all jumpy like this tomorrow, Lord Connall'll have your balls." The day began with the blasting of a loud tune on the company trumpeter's horn. The harsh music hurt Orto's ears, and he flinched a little when it began. He could hardly imagine waking up to such a racket every day. Fortunately, he had awakened earlier to do his morning prayers, and now waddled about the camp observing the soldiers. Many of them were still wrapped in their blankets, unwilling to emerge from them into the chilly morning. Others pulled on the grimy shirts that they had been wearing for days and would wear for the rest of the trip, no doubt. Unused to travelling, Orto's tired body was demanding more sleep, and his eyes itched as if a bug had flown into them. He rubbed his eyes absent-mindedly as the others bemoaned their summons to wakefulness. He moved towards the group with whom he'd spent a little time the night before. Despite their hostility, Orto felt strangely drawn towards them, especially the one named Morgan. That Morgan, he was the worst one of them all, Orto thought, but something troubled the old priest. The young man was too full of anger for there not to be a strong reason behind it. He hoped that he could perhaps find that reason, and help to ease the pain it caused. The soldier known to Orto as Bayard scratched himself and let loose with a loud fart in the boy Louen's direction. "If that won't get you out of your blanket in the morning, what will?" "Bayard," a female soldier -- Lara, Orto thought her name was -- scolded, "you're disgusting!" "Why thank you, milady." Bayard bowed with an overdone flourish. Orto chuckled at the brief exchange, and moved past the group and in amidst the others. Ponderously, the soldiers all got up and pulled on their chainmail hauberks and cloth tabards, accompanied by much groaning, yawning and stretching. As Orto moved among them, he offered some words of encouragement for the day, or a blessing. Most of the soldiers were receptive to him, which made Orto very happy. He enjoyed people, almost the way one might enjoy a finely rendered illuminated text. He noticed that Morgan had not been with his group of friends when Orto had passed by there, nor could he see the young soldier anywhere in the immediate vicinity. "No matter," Orto said to himself. "I'm sure I'll see him again later." Orto hoped he could someday soothe the anger that burned within that lad, so that Morgan would accept Stevene's Light. Orto could not understand such rejection of the love that God lavished on the people of Makdiar. It all seemed so simple to the priest. God made the world. God loved those that he created. To Orto's mind this surely meant that God was worthy of thanks and praise for these miracles of life and love. Yes, surely, there was something deeper, inside Morgan, that caused his attitude to fester as it did. Orto's thoughts were broken as the dashing young commander of the troop, Lysander of Connall, strutted into view. The young lord carried himself with dignity and pride, his back straight as a lance and his chin high. He wore his brown hair short, with a thin moustache under his angular nose. Unlike his troops, he was clean and freshly shaved. A smile graced his face as he approached Orto. "Good day, father." "And a good day to you, your lordship!" "Come," Lysander offered Orto a waterskin, "join me in a drink this morning." Orto accepted, and poured some of the wine from the skin into the tin cup that hung from his belt. "What has put you in such a radiant mood this day, Lord Connall?" "I'm not quite sure ..." A mischievous smile curled the young lord's lips. "I have a feeling about today. You know, I had a dream last night that we encountered brigands in the forest and I dispatched them as befits such dregs. Perhaps we may find some adventure in the woods this day." Orto nodded his head sadly and looked down at the dirt. He sincerely wished that Lord Connall did not take such pleasure in bloodshed -- even the blood of bandits -- for he was otherwise a decent man. Orto sighed. "Indeed we may, your lordship." "Come now, father." Lysander pounded Orto on the back. "No need to be downcast. Have something to eat; we'll be leaving shortly." Orto bowed and shuffled away from the lord, back to the company of the common soldiers with whom he felt more at home. It was at Lord Connall's sufferance that he was with the troop, so he felt a duty to spend time with the young lord, but at the same time it was the common soldiers whom he enjoyed the most. The majority of them were now ready for the day's travel, fully armoured. Orto saw Bayard spit on a flat stone and move the flat of his dagger in circular motions over it, creating a high pitched sound that was rather unpleasant to the old priest. The soldier grinned and spat on the rock again when Louen commented on the noise. Orto made haste to the pony that carried him on the journey. From a bag hanging from its saddle he pulled a dry piece of raisin-encrusted bread which he downed along with Commander Connall's wine. It was far from the type of meal he was used to, but it was the best he could do on such an expedition. Orto petted his flea-bitten pony before mounting it. "Well, Hubris, we've another long day ahead of us." To the accompaniment of another blast of the trumpeter's horn, the standard bearer took up his faded banner and rode past the milling troops. In his wake, the soldiers fell into formation, leaving an opening for the wagons. The soldiers riding the carts snapped the reins of their horses and moved into position. Orto took his place at the front with Commander Connall, and the company moved onto the road and towards the forest. After about a bell's journey, Orto decided he would prefer to travel among the soldiers instead of up with Commander Connall. Not that he did not enjoy the lord's company, but he had spent almost the entire journey thus far with the Count of Connall's cousin, and felt the urge to spend some time with others as well. "Your lordship," he said. "This has been a rather interesting journey, discussing the text I have brought with me and Stevenism as we have, but I wonder if I might spend some time with the soldiers?" "Well, I see no harm in it," Connall said. "And I suppose I shouldn't be keeping you all to myself -- you are the only cleric with us after all." "Thank you, Lord Connall," Orto said, and promptly dismounted his pony, Hubris. He found Morgan near the front as he had been the day before. "Good day to you, my son!" Orto said, but the guardsman did not reply. "It is a glorious day today, is it not?" "I suppose so," the soldier said, though he did not make eye contact with Orto as he scanned the tree line. "Something troubles you my son. What is wrong?" Orto examined Morgan. He was of average height and build, his face tanned by exposure to nature, but otherwise free of any blemish. He had a handsome face; one that Orto judged would attract many a lady, with a neatly clipped beard lining his jaw. Like the other soldiers he was dirty and dusty from the many days' travel. When no answer came to Orto's question, he offered Morgan a piece of the raisin bread his pony carried in its saddlebag. "Here, have some of this." The soldier took it, but did not thank Orto. He merely continued to watch his surroundings, almost as if he expected something to emerge from them. There was more to today's behaviour than religion-hating sentiment, the priest thought. Orto slowed his pace, letting the column pass him until he fell in step with a pretty guardswoman whom he recognised as one of Morgan's friends. "Forgive me, my child, but I cannot remember your name." "Lara." The woman did not look at Orto as he spoke, but merely shifted the weight of her mace as it rested on her shoulder. "Ah yes, of course," Orto said. "Now I remember. That is a fair name. Do you hail from Dargon?" "No, I'm from Fennell." "Ah, Fennell. It is a fine city. I remember the monastery there especially. It is a holy place." "I wouldn't know," Lara said. "Oh my dear child," Orto laid a compassionate hand on her shoulder. "Have you never experienced the presence of God?" "I'll thank you not to place your self-righteous judgements on me, priest!" She violently tore Orto's hand from her shoulder and looked at him with fiery eyes. "That's why I left Fennell. They're always saying 'Stevene this' and 'Stevene that'. Always forgiving me for my 'lecherous ways'! Well maybe I don't want to be forgiven! Maybe I'm happy the way I am!" Orto stopped in dismay and sighed. "By Cephas, I am sorry my child. I did not mean --" but it was clear she would have none of his apologies. "What have I done? Would that I were a smarter man, Stevene, that I could teach your light better. But alas, a slip of my ever-wagging tongue and I have hurt rather than healed." He watched Lara as she continued down the road with the rest of the company. Orto hit himself on the head. "You dunderheaded fool!" Disheartened, Orto's pace was slower, and he gradually moved towards the back of the column as it passed him. He had never been the most intelligent of men; he knew this, and was accepting of it, as God did not make everyone to be identical. Still, at times like this he felt a pang of envy towards his fellow priests that were great orators. He knew of one monk from Fennell, who though he spoke with a lisp, could hold in thrall an audience of hundreds, and speak of the Stevene with perfect clarity. Orto was not lacking in faith, but he could never quite articulate it exactly the way he wanted to. It was like the words were in his mind, but were jumbled on the way to his mouth. Sometimes, the results were very bad, as they had just been with Lara. He had not meant to sound judgmental, for he did not judge her, but to be sympathetic. Oh, Cephas, the world was never an easy place. By midday they were well into the forest. Earlier, Commander Connall had dispatched two soldiers as scouts half a league ahead of the company, travelling in the trees, in hopes that they would spot any brigands lying in wait, and report back to the commander before his troops blundered into a trap. After another bell's travel in the forest, the company stopped to rest and eat. While Hubris grazed on some grass off the side of the road, Orto moved amongst the troops once again, swaying as he did so. He put a hand to his growling stomach. "Be silent, you!" he admonished his belly, as if it were a being unto itself. "You could afford to shrink a little." He caught sight of Morgan and his friends sitting in the shade of a tree, and waddled over to them. "Hello again, my friends!" "Hello, father," Louen said. Orto patted the boy's dirty blonde hair in appreciation. "You are a good lad. May God protect and keep you." "Come to forgive me for my earlier behaviour, priest?" Lara asked, a sarcastic bite in her tone. "No, my child," Orto said. "It is I who needs forgiveness. I do not judge you, and I am sorry that my words came across that way. Please accept this as a small token of my contriteness." He handed her some dried fruit that he had bought from a merchant in Dargon. He knew such a treat to be a delicacy among soldiers living off of hard rations. "Th-thank you." The girl's eyes widened in surprise, and the hard lines that had creased her face a mene ago disappeared. There was now a softness about her that warmed Orto. Using the tree for support, Orto carefully lowered himself to the ground. He let out a deep breath as his rump hit the ground. It was refreshing to be seated after much of a day's travel despite the fact that Orto had a rather irritated bottom from all of the riding. He was more accustomed to a sedentary life in his church in Dargon, where he walked but a few leagues in an entire sennight. He felt certain he had already travelled as far on this trip to Magnus as he had in his entire time as a priest. "I suppose all of you are used to this travel," Orto said. "But it's a mite harder on my old bones." "I'm not *that* used to it!" Bayard said, pointing to a huge blister that covered much of the heel of his foot. Orto grunted in agreement, but said no more. After a few menes, the soldiers began to converse among themselves, and Orto watched them. They were all young, healthy men and women: a condition that Orto could barely remember. Louen was a slight young lad, who seemed to charm those around him with his superstition and naivete. Bayard was not huge either, and when other soldiers mocked him as being too wiry for a proper soldier, he'd always puff up his chest and say being small made for easier marching. He'd often back this up by saying he'd live longer in a fight since he was a smaller target. Lara, whom Orto was reasonably certain shared a bed with Morgan from time to time, was indeed a fine, well-muscled woman. She had a large scar that went from her hairline across her forehead and down her right cheek. Orto remembered her telling the story of the scar with great zeal a few nights before. While on patrol in one of the rougher sections of Dargon city, three drunkards had accosted her, thinking to have their way with her. She had dispatched all three of them, with only the one scar of her own to show for it. In Orto's younger years, such a creature would have caused Orto to curse his religious values to remain chaste 'til marriage. Now such lecherous thoughts seemed mildly humorous to the old man. Above all, Orto wished to befriend these people. He sensed they were as good souls as could be found, despite their vehement resentment of Orto's faith. After all, Stevene wasn't the only path to God, but a good one, Orto reckoned. He only prayed that it would not be too late before these young soldiers found their way ... Once the company resumed its journey after the late afternoon break, darkness descended quickly, and a thin fog rolled in. Morgan cursed; remembering the previous night's encounter, whether real or a dream, he fervently desired as much visibility as he could have. The fog was not one unbroken mass, but wispy, like long tendrils of some ethereal plant that wrapped themselves about the trunks of trees and the soldiers' ankles. It swirled about as a gentle breeze made its way through the trees, cooling the air all the more now that the sun was gone. The mist clung near to the ground, allowing the moon to light the way as the wagons and their escort trundled along the forest path. Morgan felt as if a small creature were scurrying about in his stomach. The soldiers around him likewise fidgeted and glanced around anxiously. Bayard was uncharacteristically quiet, making no jokes as he usually did, and Morgan could see Louen was shaking as if chilled under his hauberk. Morgan himself gripped his sword tightly with fingers slick with sweat, and he could feel a cool dampness on his forehead. His heart nearly exploded within his chest when the loud cracks of several rocks banging together sounded not far to the troop's left. "Ol's piss!" Griff exclaimed. "What the fark was that?" Morgan frantically clutched the hilt of his sword with slippery fingers. He had told no one about the sounds in the forest the previous night, but he wished he had now. More crackling emanated from the right of the path now. Murmurs emanated from the soldiers, to the accompaniment of the metal on metal music of swords clashing. "Look there!" Jakob pointed into the trees. Morgan caught a glimpse of a dark shape disappearing behind a large tree. He searched the woods feverishly, and saw other faint objects moving about in the mist, deep within the forest. "Calm yourselves!" Commander Connall said, wheeling his horse about and moving alongside the contingent of troops in front of the wagons. "There is nothing out there! The scouts will let us know if they --" The young lord was interrupted by an impossibly loud, pain-stricken scream from ahead. "Cephas' boot!" Morgan could tell that his commander wanted nothing better than to charge headlong towards the screams, as Connall drew his sword and his horse danced. "My lord!" The priest, Orto, clutched at Commander Connall's tunic. "We must be careful. There may be much more afoot here than we think!" Lord Connall nodded in agreement, his jaw firmly set. More screams shattered the ghostly night, which had become a nightmare. "I must remain here. Morgan! Take three men and find the scouts!" "Your lordship?" Morgan felt chilled to his very core with fear. An impossibly long cry echoed among the trees. "Get moving!" Lord Connall shouted. Morgan felt a hand on his shoulder, and heard Lara's voice, shaky with fear. "I'm with you Morgan." "Straight." Morgan steeled himself, and drew his sword. "Jakob and Konrad, you're with me, too." Leading the way, Morgan crashed through the bushes towards the tormented cries up ahead. Who had been sent as scouts? He couldn't remember, but more screams told him where they were. Whoever it was that had been sent, they were dying slowly. Morgan's fear slowly gave way to anger. Whoever was doing this would pay. The screams stopped with a sickening gurgling sound just as Morgan and the others burst through the foliage into a small clearing. In it, two soldiers in Dargonian livery hung from pikes driven into the ground, a pool of blood quickly gathering beneath them. Both of their heads were missing. In the pale moonlight, it somehow didn't seem quite real. Morgan wished it wasn't. But where were their attackers? "Oh, fark ..." Lara gagged and nearly vomited as she beheld the grisly sight. Morgan looked about the clearing desperately, searching for any sign of their assailants. Had they been scared off by the arrival of Morgan and his friends? He tried to quiet his breathing, and listen for any sign of them. He could hear nothing -- not even an owl or a cricket. Suddenly a cold gust of wind rushed through the clearing, bringing with it a deep sound like that of bellows in a smithy. The bushes behind Konrad exploded as a dark figure mounted on a massive horse emerged from the forest. Morgan was frozen at the sight of the horrific creature, silhouetted against the moon, with huge horns protruding from its head and flowing robes flapping about it. The creature drove a lance clean through Konrad's torso and lifted him, screaming and flailing, off the ground. "Konrad!" Lara swung at the creature with her mace, and though she connected mightily, the brute appeared not to notice. Suddenly, more of the beasts were in the clearing, riding about the beleaguered soldiers with dizzying speed. Morgan barely blocked a blow with his shield, and nearly fell to the ground. Another mighty blow came crashing down from above. He lashed out with his sword in all directions, unable to focus on his attackers as they swirled around him. He hacked the air many times before he was knocked to the ground by a glancing blow to his back. His hauberk had saved him, but as he rolled away from his attackers he knew he wouldn't live long if he didn't escape. He tried to get up but was knocked down again by a giant horse hoof that struck him in the chest. He lay on his back, winded, and saw one of the creatures' faces for the first time. Amidst the flowing black cloak that covered its body was a white skull with great horns protruding from it. Not the skull of a human -- more like that of some large lizard. Within the deep eye sockets only a frightening darkness lay. Morgan scrambled away from the beast, which after a brief pause, turned and headed back to the centre of the clearing. Morgan followed it with his eyes and saw, to his horror, Lara pinned to the ground by several large stakes. She was screaming, and tears streamed down her cheeks. "Morgan!" he thought he heard her cry. "Morgan please help me!" Morgan couldn't even think. His mind was frozen with terror. All he knew was that he had to get away, to run! He got his feet under him and continued to run. His heart pounded within his chest like a hammer on an anvil. He didn't look back as he tore through the bushes, but knew Lara was dead when her screams suddenly stopped with a sickening crack. ========================================================================