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 19 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 7 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 9/23/06 Volume 19, Number 7 Circulation: 639 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb A Cure for Hiccoughs Trey Holliday Yuli 10, 1018 Tough Healing Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, Melrin 5, 1018 Liam Donahue, and Jim Owens The Great Houses War 2 Nicholas Wansbutter Seber 897-Deber 899 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc., a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondence to or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site at ftp://ftp.dargonzine.org/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 19-7, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright September, 2006 by The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Liam Donahue . DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs- NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Sometimes I have the opportunity to help current or former Dargon writers grow their writing careers outside the structure of DargonZine and the Dargon Project. It's always a pleasure to give back to the people who have put so much of their time and energy into making DargonZine a great zine and the Dargon Project such a successful community of writers. So I'd like to share with you some great news from two former contributors that you might enjoy hearing about. Carlo Samson joined DargonZine way back in 1985, in the very early days of FSFnet. At first he just contributed stories, but over the years he became more involved in running the group. When the zine went online he did the website artwork, and he provided our story illustrations for many years. In fact, Carlo graciously offered to produce the illustrations we have in this issue, so you'll see more of his artwork as you read this month's stories. Mark Murray came to us in 1995 and immediately became one of our most prolific contributors. In addition to writing, Mark instituted our first new writer mentoring program and assisted Carlo researching and developing Dargon's maps. Between the two of them, they published fifty stories in FSFnet and DargonZine before they each left the group to pursue other interests. Both Mark and Carlo felt constrained by the limitations placed upon them by the low-magic shared world of Dargon, and wanted to do something that required fewer compromises. The years passed, and they stayed in contact with one another, talking about their respective writing and artistic projects. Eventually, their discussions turned in the direction of starting their own electronic magazine, and the first issue of their new zine -- Arcane Twilight -- appeared in February. Since then, they've also put out a second and third issue, and they're looking for both interested readers as well as potential contributors. I sat down and had a brief exchange with them, and thought you might find the discussion interesting. DargonZine: I suppose the first question a reader might have is how Arcane Twilight differs from DargonZine. Carlo: Arcane Twilight prints more than just fantasy -- we're also interested in science fiction, horror, even subgenres like steampunk. We primarily want standalone stories, but also have a shared-world setting called Hyzathra that others can write about. Mark: DargonZine has a niche in the low-magic fantasy genre. So, instead of reinventing the wheel, Arcane Twilight was started with everything else in mind. If you're going to write low-magic fantasy, DargonZine is the best place. But if you want to write horror or sci-fi or high fantasy, then Arcane Twilight prints those stories. Mark: The one thing that I think makes Arcane Twilight stand out over other zines is that we're looking to publish animation vids, flash, comics, art, and words. Rather than trying to equal the printed world, we're attempting to utilize the tech to go beyond that. So, Arcane Twilight is opening the door to allow readers to not only read, but also to view and hear. DargonZine: What has been the most fun part of running your own zine? Carlo: It's probably the aspect of having creative control over everything. Mark: I think the most fun part is that there are very few boundaries. We can publish animation vids, comic formats, art, flash, audio, and words. Plus, the genre range is horror, sci-fi, and fantasy. It's like having a ton of play dough and a super wild imagination. DargonZine: And what's been your biggest challenge? Carlo: Right now, it's getting submissions! The issues thus far have contained our own material, but we'd like stories from other folks as well. Authors will be paid $5.00 if their story is accepted. It's not much, but one has to start somewhere, eh? Mark: It's weird, but you'd think that the immediate plan for an e-zine would be to get out there and get advertised somehow. But I'd have to agree with Carlo: the short-term need is to attract authors. DargonZine: And what are you most proud of about Arcane Twilight so far? Carlo: I really like the webcomic I'm doing called "Magic, Maiden and Mist". I started it without any idea of how it's going to end, which is unlike how I usually do things. Mark: I'm proud that it has lasted this long! DargonZine: It sounds like you guys are having fun with Arcane Twilight, and everyone here definitely wishes you all the success in the world. One last question about your experience with DargonZine: how would you describe DargonZine to a new writer thinking about joining? Carlo: It's a great place for the beginning writer to practice their writing skills. It has a ready-made setting, a built-in audience, and a group of supportive fellow authors who provide valuable feedback. Mark: Wow. A tremendous opportunity. A rich writing environment that will sharpen and hone anyone's writing skills while at the same time giving a writer the challenge of writing in a collaborative project. I attribute the biggest leaps in my writing to DargonZine. It has improved my writing tremendously. So if you'd like to see some ambitious work by two former Dargon writers who slipped their leashes, go check out Arcane Twilight, and give them lots of feedback on what you'd like to see more of. And if you feel inspired to contribute something to it, by getting in at the ground level you might well have a major impact on its future direction. Keep up the good work, guys! Meanwhile, this month's issue of DargonZine features a trio of interesting stories. We begin with "A Cure for Hiccoughs", a delightful first story from Trey Holliday, our first new writer to appear in DargonZine in three years. Trey's been notably patient while his story was delayed until the big Black Idol story arc was finished, but we're very pleased to finally be able to introduce you to him. Our second story is the first three-way collaboration we've ever printed. "Tough Healing" is the result of an optional writing exercise that Jim Owens led during our 2004 Mt. Hood Writers' Summit. It, too, is another story that has sat on the shelf for a few months while we churned through the immense volume of material produced by the Black Idol series. And we end this issue with Nick Wansbutter's second installment of his new Great Houses War storyline, which takes place about 200 years before DargonZine's current time frame. The plot definitely thickens in this episode, and we look forward to bringing you more Great Houses War stories in our coming issues. ======================================================================== A Cure for Hiccoughs by Trey Holliday Yuli 10, 1018 There were many things that Rayce Barring did not like. He hated the rain for all of the warm summer days he could have spent playing with his friends on the city streets. He absolutely despised how all of his favorite toys ended up either lost or broken. So, when other people talked about things they hated, Rayce found it very easy to relate. But there were other things, too. Even worse than how tired he felt all the time when he had gotten sick, and even more horrible than when Dakin Goms had stolen one of his toys, he hated his hiccoughs. He had known hiccoughs to come and go, especially when he had gotten really thirsty and drank water too fast. He knew other people who occasionally had brief fights with hiccoughs for other reasons, too. His hiccoughs were different, though. For a whole fortnight, Rayce had been having problems with hiccoughs constantly. They plagued him when he was eating, woke him when he was sleeping, and when they were at their worst, made it impossible for him to speak without a loud hiccough interrupting nearly every sentence. The hiccoughs would slow at times, but never really go away, much to the alarm of his parents. The hiccoughs persisted so badly that Rayce found that he could hate things so much more than he'd thought. The summer rains were simply an annoyance, the food he didn't like were something he could drudge through, and losing anything only meant that he would make a game out of finding it. He not only hated his hiccoughs, but despised them with such a vengeance that he wished the hiccoughs were something he could push into the river and watch them drown. For the last few days, he had even stopped talking. He couldn't stand to hear a hiccough work its way into a sentence. The loud "hic" would echo in his ears as he could feel himself flush with embarrassment. All of the kids his age made fun of him constantly, prodding him to talk so that they could hear his hiccough and laugh at him some more. He could hardly bear any more of his hiccoughs, but his parents didn't have enough coin to pay healers. His parents absolutely forbade him to work, saying that maybe next year, after his tenth summer, they would help him find a way to earn his own coin. They had never said that he couldn't ask other people for help, though. So he waited for a very fine day when he could set out and find his cure, even if he had to do it himself. When that day finally came, Rayce set out on his journey. He had asked everybody he could find, and he knew that he could go to healers. Since he was by himself and had no coin, he would find them himself. By the second bell of day, the city was already bustling with beggars and merchants, crowding the streets so badly that it was difficult for Rayce to even see the shops through the adults who were pushing past him. He felt like a fish trying to swim up a swift stream. Many times he called out for help, and received no more attention than the annoyed looks of passersby. Wandering around aimlessly, he finally bumped unexpectedly into a town guardsman. The guardsman looked around with surprise, and took a moment before he finally lowered his eyes to Rayce. "Ey, what have we here?" The guard's sword clinked against a nearby wall as he turned, and the sound gave Rayce a fright. Rayce had prepared for this moment, but he just hadn't anticipated the difficulty he was having navigating the city streets. Suddenly, he was looking directly back at the guard, trying to find the words he had rehearsed. "Excuse me, sir, I need to find a healer," was the phrase he had practiced. Those words, however, had difficulty escaping the lump that had risen in Rayce's throat. As an alternative, he merely said, "H-- (hic) ... healer!" The guard smiled warmly. "Having a problem talking? You should go to the abbey. They should fix you up nicely. Do you know where it is?" After silently accepting directions from the guard, Rayce went on his way. He was fighting the crowds once again, with an odd feeling that he was walking in the opposite direction of everybody else on the street. After searching for several menes, Rayce found the abbey. Dargon Abbey was a stone building nestled among the many temples, which stood tall against the shops which were squeezed in between the temples wherever they could fit. He approached the gate in front of the building cautiously, in case the monks weren't friendly. Peering around the corner of the stone wall, Rayce was surprised to hear somebody clear his throat. Rayce turned around carefully, to see a tall man with a crooked smile leaning on a cane behind him, wearing the white gowns which marked him as a monk. "Can we help you young sir?" the man asked. For just a moment, Rayce forgot why he had come. After a moment, the realization hit him, and he said nervously, "I ... I have (hic) ... hiccoughs." The man looked confused for a moment. "Hiccoughs?" Rayce nodded, still a bit shocked that he hadn't noticed the monk approach from behind him. "I see. My name is Lev, one of the healers here. What's your name?" "Rayce." "Rayce, let's just try something." Rayce nodded. Lev selected a small pouch from his pocket, and when he removed his hand, it was coated in a green salve, which he rubbed on Rayce's throat. It immediately began to feel warm. "Well?" Lev looked at Rayce expectantly. "Did it work?" "I don't-- (hic)! I guess not." Rayce looked down and kicked at the dirt. Lev smiled. "Not to worry, young sir. I suppose God did not mean for your journey to end with me. Pray, and you will find what you seek." Rayce swam back into the sea of people crowding the streets, thinking that there were more healers in the city. He'd try to find help at the next place he found. After walking for a little while, he managed to stop a woman who was hurrying down the road. "Pardon me, miss, but I need to find a healer," was the phrase Rayce had practiced, but what came out was "Par-- (hic) ... need to find a healer." The woman frowned for a moment, looking at Rayce questioningly. "Have you been to Dargon Abbey?" Rayce nodded. "Oh. Then have you tried Rebecca?" Rayce shook his head with a wide smile. The woman smiled back at him. "She's just around the corner. She has a yellow door; you shouldn't miss it." "Thank -- (hic) you," Rayce said. "It's no problem dear. Take care now!" Rayce nodded and happily made his way through the crowds to the corner. He felt like skipping, thinking that he was most certainly going to find a cure for his horrible hiccoughs. It didn't take long for Rayce to find Rebecca's shop. Walking bravely to the doorway, he found not one, but two women. The younger of the two was looking through a book, and the other, older woman was dusting a cabinet full of bottles. The younger woman noticed Rayce standing in the doorway. She smiled at him and beckoned him inside. "Hello there, young man! I'm Lilike." Rayce couldn't help but smile at Lilike. "Hello, I'm Rayce," is what he wanted to say, but with his excitement, all that would come out was "H-- (hic) ... Rayce." Lilike giggled. "Well, hello Rayce. Can I help you?" Rayce hiccoughed again and swallowed hard. He pointed at his throat. Lilike frowned at him with a questioning look. He pointed at his throat again and hiccoughed extra loud. "Oh, goodness. You have the hiccoughs!" Rayce nodded violently. "Well, we'll just have to see about that. Um ... Rebecca?" Lilike looked over at the older woman, who was just then filling a bottle with a green liquid. Rebecca didn't turn to look, but simply asked "Yes?" "Do we have anything for hiccoughs?" Rebecca furrowed her brow. "Hiccoughs," she said, as if she hadn't noticed the conversation Lilike had already had with Rayce. Rebecca looked at the ceiling in thought, and then turned towards Lilike. "Ah, yes, hiccoughs. Witch hazel and sage should do the trick. Let him smell the embers." Lilike smiled at Rayce. "See, we'll take care of those." "Oh," Rebecca said, "it only works sometimes." Rayce felt his hopes dim. "Well, we'll try it anyways," said Lilike. "Just sit right here." Rayce sat down as Lilike grabbed a bundle from the cabinet, removed a small handful of twigs, and then dripped some strange looking liquid over them. Lilike tied the twigs together with some string, and then lit the end of it with a candle. After letting it burn for a moment, Lilike blew it out and walked over to Rayce. "Here, hold this and take a deep breath." Rayce accepted the small bunch of smoking twigs. The smell reminded him of the woods. Following instructions, Rayce inhaled the smoke deeply. Suddenly, he began to cough hard. Lilike patted his back. "That's all right. Just try again." Rayce tried again, and didn't cough this time, but he could feel the smoke pass through his throat. He smiled as he could feel his throat open up a little bit. Lilike smiled. "All better?" Rayce nodded. "Yes. Yes! Oh, thank -- (hic)!" He gasped at the last bit, and clamped his hands over his mouth. "Oh goodness!" Lilike rubbed Rayce's back. "I'm sorry it didn't work." Rayce handed the twigs back to Lilike. "Rebecca? Do you think Jak might have something?" "He might, but I doubt that it would be free," said Rebecca. Lilike looked at Rayce. "If I give you a note, will you promise to take it right over to Jak?" Rayce nodded. Lilike smiled at him. She scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to Rayce. "Jak is on the north side of town. It's a little way to walk, I guess, but he might be able to help you." Rayce nodded again, and listened carefully as Lilike gave him directions to get to Jak's place. Rayce was surprised to find that the sun had worked its way high into the sky. He hadn't thought he had been out that long. His parents would be worried. As he walked along the street, he hoped Jak would be able to help him with his horrible hiccoughs. He walked for what seemed to be a very long time, until he reached the northern part of the city, following Lilike's instructions as best he could. Rayce found Jak lingering in a doorway leading to a stairwell. Just like Lilike had told him, Jak's shop was not in the best area of town. Jak himself did not look that reputable. Rayce guessed that Jak could be one of those men his parents told him to stay away from. But Lilike had told Rayce that Jak was a healer. If Rayce wanted a cure for his hiccoughs, he would have to explore the possibility that even a man that looked dangerous might be able to help him. As Rayce paused to consider all of this, Jak noticed him standing there. After waiting for a moment, Jak waved Rayce over. Rayce walked silently up to Jak with Lilike's note held in front of him. Jak looked down at him curiously and then read the note. "Free?" Jak held the note at an arm's length. "I'm supposed to do this for free? Rayce had no idea how to respond. Many of his friends had ways to make money, but his parents wanted him to wait until he was older. If Jak wanted to be paid for this, Rayce had no way to. Jak looked Rayce over. "Boy, you mention two words of this to anybody, and I will take my payment through your skin. Do you understand?" Too afraid to say anything, Rayce nodded. Jak gestured up the stairwell. "Then come upstairs. Let's be quick about this so I don't lose a paying customer." As Rayce walked into the little room and found a chair to sit in, Jak walked past him and around a corner where Rayce couldn't see what he was doing. "You just stay in there," Jak said. Rayce heard the clink of glass bottles as Jak worked. "I'll have you done in just a moment." It seemed like half a bell must have passed before Jak emerged, holding a clay cup towards Rayce. "There you go. Drink it all at once, or it won't work." Rayce looked down at the dull-green looking liquid and back at Jak. Jak laughed. "If you think it looks bad, wait until you taste it." Rayce didn't find Jak's comment to be very encouraging. After taking a few breaths to prepare himself, Rayce held the cup up to his lips and turned it up. He couldn't have expected anything this horrible. To begin with, it was disgustingly bitter, worse than any vegetable his parents had ever tried to feed him. His throat burned more with each swallow, but the thought of being rid of the hiccoughs kept him going. When finally he had finished it to the last drop, he put the cup down, breathing heavily. Jak looked at him expectantly. "Well?" Rayce took a breath. "I think it might have -- (hic)!" Jak said some angry words that Rayce hadn't ever heard before. "Well, if that didn't work, then there's not much hope for you, is there? Just go home, have a drink of water, and the hiccoughs will go away on their own. You can't expect much more for nothing, you know." Rayce didn't want to contradict Jak. He'd already waited far too long, had drank numerous cups of water, and the hiccoughs still remained. Dejectedly, he walked back down the stairway and turned back down the lane to go back to his house. His hiccoughs had won. As Rayce got closer to the Street of Travellers, his defeat was starting to eat his hopes away. He was more frustrated than he had ever been before. As he walked, he kicked a stone lying on the ground as hard as he could. He looked up suddenly as he heard someone say, "Ouch!" Standing there was a man carrying a heavy sack over one arm. His other arm seemed to be missing. His eyes, though, were looking right at Rayce. "I'm so sorry, sir, please -- (hic)!" Rayce felt his face get hot as he closed his eyes, embarrassed first by the fact that he had hiccoughed, and then because he couldn't even manage to completely apologize. "Hiccoughs, eh?" The man had a bit more sympathy in his eye as he looked at Rayce. "Say, would you help me with this bag?" Rayce nodded. It was the least he could do after kicking a stone at the man. He took the bag by both hands and slung it over his shoulder. The bag felt really wet and heavy, and smelled worse than both Jak's elixir and Lilike's smoke. "Thank you. I'm Alsandair, by the way. What's your name?" "R-- (hic) Rayce." Rayce looked at the ground. Not only had he hurt Alsandair, but now he was really starting to feel like he'd never be rid of his hiccoughs. "Well, Rayce, help carry my bag up this hill, and I'll see what I can do about your hiccoughs." Rayce looked up. He had tried so hard today, and so many people had tried to help him, but it just felt like his hiccoughs were now permanent. It couldn't hurt, though. Besides, Alsandair only had one arm, and losing an arm must be much more difficult than having the hiccoughs. Rayce followed Alsandair up the hill to a small house. By the time he had reached the house, he felt exhausted. The bag landed heavily on the floor as Rayce let it go. Alsandair turned around and looked at Rayce. "Well, I suppose you can rest for a moment, but I really need for you to put that bag in my cellar where the fish will stay cool. Once you come back up, I can see about helping with your hiccoughs." Alsandair pointed at a door to Rayce's right. Rayce nodded and picked the bag up again, opened the door, and carried the heavy bag down the stairwell into Alsandair's cellar, which was quite cool. By the time he had made it back up, Rayce was struggling to catch his breath. Alsandair looked at Rayce. "I suppose that was exhausting. Here, I poured you a cup of water." Rayce nodded his thanks at Alsandair as he took the water and drank it. He realized he was very thirsty after carrying the fish up the hill to Alsandair's house, down into his cellar, and walking back up again. Before he knew it, he had finished every drop of water. Alsandair handed him another cup. "There's plenty here. By all means, drink up. I need your help with one other thing, and then I'll take care of your hiccoughs, straight?" Rayce nodded. He had a feeling that Alsandair didn't really have a cure for his hiccoughs, but just needed the help since he only had one arm. After finishing the water, he waited for Alsandair to tell him what his last task was to be. He stared at the opposite wall, where a locket was hanging by a nail. Alsandair walked back into the room and looked at Rayce, and then at the locket. "You like that? It belonged to a friend of mine, a long time ago." Rayce nodded his appreciation. "Now, if you could, bring in one of the logs from outside. I'll need it to cook some meat tomorrow." Rayce nodded, and went back out the front door. He hefted one of the heavy logs that were lying beside the house, and carried it back inside. Rayce felt his cheeks get hot from the strain. He carefully put the log on the hearth, panting heavily. He sat there, catching his breath again, until Alsandair finally sat down. "Thank you, Rayce. Now, let's see about those hiccoughs. I used to be a healer. Did I tell you that?" Rayce shook his head. Alsandair hadn't mentioned it, but it gave Rayce some hope. This man might be able to do what all the others hadn't. "Oh, I was, but I don't do it often any more. I've helped many people, but it's getting harder every day living with just the one arm. A little hard work, though, is sometimes the best healing." Alsandair seemed lost in his own memory. "Oh, I was going to help you with your hiccoughs, wasn't I?" Rayce nodded, looking up at Alsandair expectantly. "Straight. I just need you to hiccough for me, so I can hear it." Rayce breathed with his mouth open. He couldn't force the hiccoughs to come, but they usually did when he gave them enough time. But almost a mene passed, and still Rayce hadn't hiccoughed. "Try again. Just hiccough for me." Rayce remembered that the worst time he had was when he tried to speak. "I'm trying." Rayce sat there, breathing with his mouth open. Once again, he found himself looking at the pretty locket hanging from the wall. "Whose locket was that?" Alsandair followed Rayce's eyes to the locket. "A friend of mine named Liosliath. He served in the war with me." Rayce looked at Alsandair. "You were in the war?" "It was how I lost my arm." "And Liosliath, did he die in the war?" "No, he died about a year ago. He helped me become closer to my father, though." Rayce noticed that a tear rolled down Alsandair's cheek. "I'll always remember him. It's why I keep his locket here." Rayce regarded Alsandair. He had been in a war and had lost his arm. He was most certainly the bravest man Rayce had ever met. Rayce had always thought that bravery meant not having to cry, but here Alsandair was, crying. Alsandair patted Rayce on his knee. "It's getting late, Rayce. You should run on home now, before it gets dark." "But what about my hiccoughs?" Alsandair looked at Rayce questioningly. "What about them? I haven't heard you hiccough since we got here." With all of the work he had been doing, Rayce hadn't noticed that he hadn't hiccoughed once while he was carrying the sack of fish or putting another log on the fire. Alsandair hadn't tried using a salve, made him breathe in acrid smoke, or made him drink vile medicine, but his hiccoughs were gone. Alsandair smiled. "I told you, I used to be a healer. Sometimes a little work can go a long way." "Oh, thank you, sir!" Alsandair shook his head as he escorted Rayce to the door. "You can call me Alsandair, but you'll have to call me that next time you come by. Off with you now!" Rayce waved his thanks once again as he ran down the street towards his house. His legs didn't feel tired any more, and he was smiling and laughing cheerily all the way home, making sure to say hello to as many people as he could, just happy to hear his voice without a trace of hiccoughs. ======================================================================== Tough Healing by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, Liam Donahue, and Jim Owens Melrin 5, 1018 Lilike walked toward the gates of Dargon Keep late on the last day of the mid-year festival of Melrin. She watched wistfully as well-dressed couples wandered happily away from the keep; she would have loved to have attended the Melrin Ball as they had, but as the mere apprentice of Rebecca the healer, she wasn't one of those who was privileged enough to receive an invitation. Cavendish the scribe, whose house she was watching for the sennight, had given her permission to use his, but she had nothing fancy enough to wear and she knew she would have been out of place. She would not have even come to the gates, except that at the last mene she had been asked to perform a task. Lilike turned away from the tall doors at the front of the keep and went around to the servants' entrance on the south side. People were going in and out of that small door with intent looks on their faces and she had no trouble slipping through without comment. She made her way between the passing servers, falling in behind one who carried two buckets of water on a yoke. She followed him through the twisting passageways and up a winding staircase into the ballroom. In the ballroom, the festive decorations hung over the banquet tables, which were still groaning with untouched food. The stage at one end of the hall was empty of all but chairs, and Lilike wondered what the musicians had played, and how elegant the dancers had looked moving to it. The Melrin festivities were always lavish, even in the poorest sections of town where she had grown up, and the Melrin Ball on the last day of the holiday was always the most spectacular, but the nobles celebrated in a fashion that Lilike couldn't even imagine. She scanned the room and found her goal. "Oh, there you are, Cereid!" Lilike called as she approached her friend. The young Olean priest was looking uncomfortable as he stood there in his robes, and Lilike knew why: he had a rash somewhere beneath them. Despite her occupation as a healer, he had refused to show her the rash, even while asking that she make a salve for it. She knew it was because of his growing affection for her; it made him very self-conscious whenever they were together. She had spent all day concocting the healing balm and had come to deliver it. "Do you have it?" he asked anxiously. "Lovely to see you, too," Lilike said sarcastically, enjoying the way it made Cereid squirm. Unable to keep a straight face, she grinned. "Here it is. But I had to borrow this pot from Cavendish, so you can't keep it. You'll have to put the salve on here." Cereid began to stammer nervously, shaking his head, and then Lilike saw his eyes widen. He pointed over her shoulder and said, "Over there." She turned and saw a window alcove with a curtain bunched up to one side. Cereid strode over to it and reached for the curtain. As Lilike followed, he said, "Please keep an eye out while I apply this." She nodded as he pulled the curtain closed. Lilike turned her back to the curtain and stood there, trying to look inconspicuous as servers passed back and forth across the hall, cleaning up. In her boredom, her imagination turned to Cereid's hands applying salve to his backside, where she assumed the rash was. The image was pleasant, and she savored it. A smile burst onto her face when she realized that she had started to imagine his hands on her backside instead. She was interrupted from this thought when someone next to her said, "Well, Tasia, once again a fruitless debate has cost us celebration time." The clearly heard response, "Sorry, Courtney, but you can be so stubborn about your convictions!" made Lilike turn her head to find two priests of the Creators pantheon -- she thought they were of the highest, or euilamon, rank -- standing right next to her. She let out a little squeak of surprise, and while both women directed their gazes at her she frantically tried to think up an excuse as to why she was standing there. Her heart started hammering as the plain one reached toward her with a frown on her face. Lilike breathed a sigh of relief when the woman's fingers grasped at something behind her. She turned her head and glimpsed the raveled thread dangling from a section of subtle embroidery on the curtain. The euilamon pulled on that thread and the entire curtain tumbled to the ground. The two euilamon calmly said, "Oh my," as Lilike turned around to make sure that Cereid had not been hurt by the falling curtain rod. She echoed the "Oh my," as she saw him standing there with his robe tucked under his armpits, clay pot in one hand, his other hand halted in mid-application of the salve, not to his backside, but to his front. Her eyes met his red-faced gaze. She remembered her daydream of a moment earlier, and blushed. Cereid gave voice to something inarticulate and anguished. He dropped his robe and ran out of the alcove, passing the pot to Lilike in passing. She watched for a moment, and then chased after him. As she raced away, she heard one of the euilamon say, "I told you so, Courtney! Olean priests are not all eunuchs!" Lilike rounded the back of the stage and found Cereid leaning against the wall, his robe back in its proper position, his face returning to its normal color. She stopped a pace away, wondering what to say to make him feel better. Knowing how shy he was, she decided to take the blame. She took the last few steps and said, "I'm sorry about that, Cereid. That woman pulled a thread and knocked down the curtain before I even knew they were there. I'm so embarrassed --" Cereid looked at her with a scowl and said, "You're embarrassed?" Cereid interrupted, looking at her with a scowl. "I'm the one that got exposed!" He lowered his gaze and said, contritely, "But that wasn't really your fault, was it?" He grimaced for a moment, then continued, "Who were those two, anyway?" "Two Creators priests by their dress. Euilamon, I think." "You're kidding!" Cereid said. "By Ol's huge nose, could this possibly get worse? If they take this story back to my superiors, who knows what will happen?!" He winced yet again. "We could find them and explain," suggested Lilike. "By the way, how is the rash?" Lilike asked. "No, no, we should just avoid them, not complicate matters." Cereid gasped in pain and shifted his feet farther apart, then continued, "The rash is ... Well, it hurts more, actually." He pulled his robe out and away from his middle. "Really?" Lilike asked, concern filling her. She mentally reviewed the ingredients and the mixing process, and found no mistakes. "The salve should have worked immediately. You're sure it was just an ordinary rash, straight? How did you get it, anyway?" "Well ... ah ... I don't think that's really important," Cereid said, grimacing again. "Ol's big feet, that hurts!" Lilike wracked her brain for something to help her friend. "You weren't in this much pain before, Cereid, so the salve must have made it worse. Go wash it off." Cereid hesitated, then nodded and dashed off. Lilike watched him go, still worried about why her salve had burned him. She knew she should have insisted on seeing the rash. What did Cereid know, after all, about such things? Instead, she had let his modesty and her own feelings for him sway her judgment into accepting what he had asked. "Excuse me, my dear, but could I offer you some advice?" Lilike whirled around and found one of the euilamon from the curtain disaster standing next to her. Her mouth dropped open in shock and all she could manage to say was, "Ah ..." "Good, good. Let me introduce myself," the plain woman said. "I'm Tasia, the Euilamon of Randiriel, the god of lovers. As such, your plight touched my heart. When I saw you and that nice young man in such an odd, and awkward, position, I knew that I could bring happiness to your lives by giving you instruction from Randiriel." Lilike's mouth remained open. Tasia's monologue was fast-moving and forceful, and the euilamon barely looked at her as she spoke. Before Lilike could try to interrupt the woman, Tasia continued. "Young people these days have the most shocking ideas about how lovers should behave. I'm sure there was a good reason that you thought that having your man apply grease to himself in public while you didn't watch was stimulating, and perhaps it was. But Randiriel teaches that lovers of any age should experience one another's body directly and not be shy about each other. She also states that both partners should be equal, that pleasure is not one or the other's responsibility but should be shared by both, given and received equally by each of you. "Now, let me recite from Randiriel's Manual of Ritual Pleasure. First you --" "Please, stop!" said Lilike in horror. If there was anything she didn't need at that moment, it was a lecture on sex from a total stranger. "You have the wrong idea. Cereid and I are not lovers; we were not engaging in some strange kind of foreplay!" "There's no need to be embarrassed, my dear," Tasia said. "Randiriel passes no judgments, so neither do I. This incident will not become gossip in our temple, despite what you may have heard about us. I could tell that there are feelings between the two of you, and if you insist on expressing them in that manner, it is all the same under Randiriel's eyes. But she has lessons to impart, and I know that you two could benefit from them if you only gave her teachings a chance. "As I was saying, the Manual of Ritual Pleasure's first rule involves --" Lilike resisted the urge to stick her fingers in her ears, scrunch her eyes closed, and hum loudly; she wasn't a child any longer. She changed tactics instead, saying, "Thank you, Euilamon Tasia, for showing me the error of our ways. I'll tell my ... lover ... of your advice. I'm sure it will improve relations between us. And if we have any more questions about the mechanics of ... pleasure ... I'm sure that we will come to your temple first. "Now I need to go find him to give him the good news. Many, many thanks! I'm so glad that you crossed our path. Farewell, and happy Melrin's End!" She darted away before the nosy priest could utter another word, glancing back once to see the woman walking away with a satisfied smile on her face. Lilike thought that it was nice that someone had gotten pleasure out of the last several menes. Lilike slipped out of the ballroom and into the servants' corridors. Cereid had come this way, and she was sure she knew where he had gone. The only place certain to have water available was the kitchens. As she walked, she realized that her embarrassment was as much for the euilamon's assumptions as her own fantasies about those assumptions coming true, fantasies that had gained fodder from the accident. A moment later she turned a corner and found herself face to face with the other euilamon. "I'm glad I found one of you," the prim young woman said. "I followed your client back here, but got lost. If I --" "Client?" Lilike shouted, outraged. "And which Creator's god looks after prostitutes, then? I told your friend that Cereid and I are not lovers, even if she didn't believe me. How dare either one of you assume anything from just a glance?" The euilamon smiled placatingly. "Tasia can be presumptive, but no more than yourself I think. I am Courtney, Euilamon of Araminia, who numbers healing among her attributes. I recognized the scent of that salve the young acolyte was applying to himself, and I recognize you as the apprentice of Rebecca, who is known as a fine healer. Since the young man handed you the pot very carefully despite his haste to depart, I thought that you were his healer." Lilike felt her face heating up again. She felt like kneeling and begging forgiveness from the woman. Instead she said, "I apologize for my outburst, Euilamon Courtney, but this evening has not been one of my best." Lilike stared helplessly at the woman for a long moment, at a loss for words. "And Cereid, the acolyte, is not my patient; he's a friend who had a need I could fulfill." Courtney frowned and said, "I don't think you were fulfilling it particularly well. Why were you letting him apply the salve himself? Have you even inspected his rash?" "N-no," Lilike replied, ashamed to be suddenly stammering, "but he's my friend, and I could tell how embarrassed he was." The euilamon arched an eyebrow. "He must not be that good a friend, if you care so little for his health. Either that, or you are not that good a healer." Lilike bristled at these disparaging remarks against both her ability and her friendship. She had already lashed out at the euilamon once, though, and suspected that a second outburst might not be forgiven. Instead, she looked at her own feet and murmured, "I'm not sure I understand what you mean." Courtney laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. When Lilike looked up, the older woman met her eyes and said, "You did not give your friend the full benefit of your abilities." Lilike's mind cleared as the words registered, and she saw respect in the woman's eyes. "So, I shouldn't let my feelings for someone interfere with the proper treatment?" "You are blessed with the understanding of Araminia," Courtney said, beaming. "Your highest calling is to heal. If that means treating someone badly because they will not follow your instructions, then you must harden yourself to take those steps." "Even if it means embarrassing him?" "Which is worse, my child, a little fresh air on his loins, or prescribing the wrong medicine for the problem?" Lilike looked at Courtney's serene face and felt almost as if Araminia herself was speaking to her through the young woman. She remembered Rebecca's lessons on matching cures to ailments and realized why her teacher had taken so much time to drill them into her. She also realized what would happen if someone put her salve on an injury that wasn't the right kind of rash. "Thank you, Euilamon Courtney, for sharing your wisdom with me. I will never forget what I have learned. Now I must find Cereid and do what I should have done at first to make sure my friend is healed." She bowed awkwardly to the priestess and pressed on to the kitchens. Lilike entered the cavernous kitchens of the keep. The center of activity was the large washtubs where the help were cleaning plates, trays, pots, pans, and serving utensils. She looked around and quickly spotted Cereid in the corner by the pantry door, with a pail, a rag, and a large wet spot on the front of his robe. She walked over to him and asked, "Do you feel better now, Cereid?" The acolyte glanced up and then quickly back down. "Yes", he said. "I had to draw the water directly from the well, and it was very cold, but it made me feel much better." "Good," she said sharply, taking his hand. She drew him into the pantry, and from there into the well room to the side. "Now get that hem back up to your chest so I can finally see what we're dealing with here." "But, Lilike --" "No excuses or evasions, Cereid. You asked me to give you healing salve, and it didn't work. It should have, so there must be some reason for that. I can't find out what that reason is without seeing the rash itself. So, lift your robe." Cereid turned his head, crimson streaking over his cheekbones, but his hands didn't move. Lilike said more gently, "Come on, do it. After all, I've already seen it." Cereid's eyes squeezed tightly shut as his hands reached for the hem of his robe and slowly lifted it all the way to his chest. Lilike hunkered down in front of her wounded friend. She couldn't help smiling as she took a good look at what she had only glimpsed earlier in the ballroom. Judging by the size of the serpent's forked tongue the water had been cold indeed. Then she pressed those thoughts aside as Euilamon Courtney's words came back to her, calling on the professional in her to assert itself. At first the light of the single lamp revealed only the obvious shapes. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness she saw the redness in the creases of his crotch and down the insides of his thighs. She looked closer. The skin was roughened. Carefully pressing the organs aside, she gingerly traced the outline of the redness. Cereid flinched, and she swore. "Cereid, you dolt! That's no rash, it's a burn! Tell me truth, how did you get this?" "Well," Cereid said, then paused. Finally, he continued, "Do you recall yesterday morning when I was helping you with your potions? Well, between the flux elixir and the sleep easer, whatever that one was, I spilled one of the ingredients on my lap as I was passing it to you. It was such a stupid move that I didn't want to tell you about it, not to mention that I wasted half of the phial. It wasn't so bad then, but it got worse when I got back to the temple. I couldn't go to our healer, since I was supposed to be mucking out the stalls while I was with you. Early this morning I decided to ask you to cure my rash, but I guess that wasn't the right thing to do, was it?" Lilike was only half-listening to Cereid's story even though she was glad to get it out of him. The burn wasn't serious, but it had blisters here and there, some of which were broken. It was no wonder her salve had burned him. She felt a small flare of irritation at him for concealing his actions. She knew she had to apply the proper cure and quickly, as those kinds of blisters could become infected quite easily. Lilike had learned about burns from Rebecca. She knew that it would take her a day or more to gather the proper ingredients -- bark and herbs -- to make a tincture to speed the healing of the burns, but she didn't have that long. Anger at her friend and worry for his injuries wavered in her mind as she stared at the burn. Suddenly she remembered the servant who had come to Rebecca to replace her employer's kitchen stock of burn-sop. Rebecca had explained that large kitchens usually kept the tincture prepared and ready should a pot boy or clumsy server have an accident around the fireplace or stoves. Of course, Dargon Keep probably had a magical healer within its walls, but would that worthy be bothered by every scald or blister? Standing, Lilike moved back into the kitchen and quickly examined the hot areas. She found no wax-sealed jugs or covered dishes there. Then she glanced at the pantry door and stepped back inside, where she found what she was searching for, marked just as Rebecca had marked the one for her client. Lilike grabbed the jug, a jar of honey, and some clean rags. Returning to Cereid, she saw that he was still standing with his robe held high, a pitiful and vulnerable look on his face. Her heart melted then. Friend or not, here was someone suffering because of her mistake. Tears of shame welled in her eyes, and she had to bite her lip as she knelt in front of Cereid. She wetted down one rag from the jug and began gently blotting the burns in front of her. She took care with the blisters, but she made sure to be thorough. Next she slathered honey all over the same areas, and plastered the rest of the rags as best as she could on top of the wounds. As she stood and pulled the hem of his robe down for him, she marveled at how Cereid had transformed from a love interest into a patient as she had administered her cure. She returned the borrowed ingredients, and then asked, "Do you feel better now?" Cereid was finally smiling again, his red cheeks gone. "Even better than after the cold water. That was wonderful, Lilike." "Thank you, Cereid." Lilike closed her eyes and let her feelings for him back into her heart. She bowed her head. "I feel like I don't really deserve your thanks." She looked up, taking his gaze. "I should have insisted on seeing the burn." "Oh, no, I couldn't --" Cereid started, but Lilike placed her hands firmly on his chest and he stopped. "You have to realize that even though I'm still an apprentice, I know more about healing than you," she continued softly. "If you had let me see your injury from the start, or better yet not hidden your clumsiness from me, I could have helped you immediately." Cereid looked abashed, and said, "Straight. I'll be honest with you next time." "Good." Lilike lowered her hands and stepped away from him, noticing his warmth and aroma only as she left it. She looked away, towards the door, grateful that they had not been interrupted. "We've both learned something today." She began to leave, and then stopped with a bright smile on her face. She looked over her shoulder and said, "And perhaps the next time I ask you to lift your robe it will mean something entirely different." With Cereid's astonished look in her memory she continued on her way out of the keep. ======================================================================== The Great Houses War Part 2: The Noose and the Falcon by Nicholas Wansbutter 2 Seber, 897 - 3 Deber, 899 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-6 King Caeron surveyed the meadows to the southwest from his vantage point on a tall hill. Fremlow City was just beyond the horizon, he knew, but the army of Duke Valeran Northfield was all that he saw. All the blue Northfield banners bore black falcons, however, indicating that the duke himself was not present. If he had been, there would have been a white falcon to mark his position. Caeron's own heraldry flew on a large banner just behind him, held aloft by one of his squires. "If we can achieve a decisive victory here, we may be able to win this war ere it begins in earnest," Caeron said, looking over at Sir Zephrym Vladon, who sat astride his horse to Caeron's right. "We can only pray, my lord," Zephrym replied. The first blood of the so-called Great Houses War had been spilt when a Northfield army launched a surprise attack and took Fremlow City a month earlier. Duke Valeran Northfield, husband of Caeron's rival claimant to the throne, Aendasia Blortnikson, had thus dashed Caeron's last hopes of a diplomatic resolution to the disputed succession. Aendasia believed that she was the rightful ruler of Baranur, as King Stefan II had illegally named her his heir out of spite towards Caeron's conversion to Stevenism. Caeron, however, was the rightful Tallirhan heir, being Stefan's grandson, while Aendasia was only a niece, and Caeron had been crowned ruler of Baranur earlier in the year. After receiving word of Fremlow's fall, Caeron had abandoned his original plan of defending his crown by invading Equiville, and had made haste into the Duchy of Welspeare, hoping to engage the Northfielders in open field. If they could be defeated, the other insurrectionist houses would be likelier to capitulate, as Aendasia was also Duchess of Northfield. This likelihood was further enhanced by the fact that earlier in the day, Caeron had received a herald from his cousin Hadrus, king-consort to the queen of Lederia, pledging his support of Caeron's kingship, meaning more enemies for the insurrectionists. Caeron had received reports that the treasonous Duchess of Arvalia was leading troops south to Port Sevlyn. Fortunately, the Skywall Mountains would slow more rebel troops from Monrodya long enough for Caeron to win a few quick victories and negate the numerical advantage the insurrectionists would have. "The enemy does not seem ready for us," Caeron said. Indeed, the Northfield troops below appeared to be in disarray, scrambling to move from a marching formation into battle lines. "We attack swiftly." "We won't be able to use our archers," Zephrym said. "They aren't in position yet." "We'll have to make do without, this time," Caeron replied. "We can't afford any delay. Lady Milverri, if you please." "Your majesty." The High Mage drew her horse up beside the king's. "What would you ask of me?" "Can you use your magic to order Commander Jorym and his Comarrian mercenaries forward?" Caeron asked. Having never been in a battle before, he was unsure what the mage's abilities were. "They are a good league to the north and it will take time to send runners ..." "I can, your majesty," Milverri Rhihosh said. "But I must warn you, my powers are not unlimited. Even the High Mage of Baranur can cast but a handful of spells before she is spent." "Others with your skill are present on the battlefield, are they not?" "They are. I will send your message, majesty." Caeron watched in fascination as Milverri Rhihosh began to move her hands in the air, in motions like those of some long-forgotten dance. She chanted in an unfamiliar language. Caeron looked north towards the Comarrian position, but saw nothing untoward. He saw only the branches of a few trees move in the breeze, and a dark-coloured bird fly out from a berry bush. He wasn't sure what he expected out of the mage, but after a few moments of apparent inaction, he looked to summon one of his runners after all. It seemed that magic really was just a children's tale. Just as one of the squires pulled up astride his steed, Caeron heard the High Mage let out a cry. He looked back to see her slumped in her saddle, her tight pink skin shining with perspiration. Her eyes were closed and she swayed to one side. Before she could fall from the horse, one of her fellow mages reached out a steadying hand. "We are fortunate that the enemy army has no mages of its own," Milverri said. "Otherwise they might have countered my spell. As it is, this was among my least powerful magics, yet I am still tired." Caeron suppressed a laugh at that. As far as he could tell the mage hadn't done anything. Then he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and looking to the north, he could see an armoured warrior on horseback, holding the Comarrian's colours aloft, charging from the low ground in which the mercenaries had been waiting. Quickly behind him came a mass of horses and men. For a brief moment Caeron was stunned, but he quickly gathered himself and looked back to Milverri Rhihosh. "I see now that I must be very scrupulous in calling on your powers, Lady Rhihosh," Caeron said. He turned to Zephrym. "Order the advance. The Comarrians should be able to break the enemy's north flank, but we will need to be there to make good the assault." "Very good, my lord," Zephrym said. Caeron took his helm surmounted by a gold crown from one of his squires with shaking hands. He moved his horse closer to Zephrym so that he could speak to his captain in secret. "How are you so calm, Zephrym?" The old knight smiled, creases forming at the corners of his eyes. "I am just as scared as you, my king," he said, "but I have many years of experience in hiding it. You are doing a fine job." Caeron nodded, though he was not certain he believed Zephrym could be as scared as he was. He had trained for many years for war, but this would be his first real battle. Despite the coat of plates and chain mail suit he wore, he knew from history that kings could die in war as surely as any other man could. But why should he worry? He looked up at his banner, held by a faithful squire. Emblazoned atop the traditional Tallirhan family heraldry, he'd had a noose added in honour of his devotion to the Stevene's Light. If God wanted him to be king, surely God would not end his reign so soon. And yet, Dara had been beside herself with fear when Caeron had left Crown Castle sennights ago. He looked to his left, where the Duchess of Kiliaen was commanding the vanguard. She waved to show she was ready. Other barons and their household knights, men-at-arms, and peasant soldiers stood at the ready. He hefted the heavy helm onto his head. Though it bore eye slits that he could easily see through, he had waited until the last moment, as all warriors did, because it weighed nearly thirty pounds. He raised his lance in the air and swung it towards the enemy army. As one, Caeron's household knights and the supporting infantry moved forward, down the hill towards the meadow. Ailwyn Meadow, Caeron thought it was called. With his helm on, he could not see to the sides, but he knew that the rest of the army was moving forward as well. His horse was anxious to spring forward, but he kept it reined in at a trot so as not to outpace the infantry. While only halfway down the hill, he heard the high-pitched war cries of the Comarr free-lances ring throughout the valley as they tore into the surprised Northfield troops. The attack worked better than Caeron had hoped and the enemy troops began to break and run. "Charge!" Caeron cried. He was now close enough to allow his horse to break into a gallop. They reached the enemy soldiers with impossible speed, it seemed. One of the enemy soldiers screamed as Caeron's lance impaled him. As the king stared at the soldier writhing on the ground, a horrible thought came to his mind: that was one of his subjects! It was one thing to fight a foreign invader in the defence of Baranur, but to be killing his own people? He felt bile rising up in his throat, but quickly swallowed it as he instinctively blocked an axe being swung at his shield. Then the world exploded in the cacophony of battle: swords clanged against one another, men and women screamed. Another soldier was able to strike Caeron on the side of his helmet with a billhook. The impact made Caeron's ears ring for a moment and his head throb in sudden pain. The pain turned to anger and he lashed out at the attacker with his shield, breaking the man's arms at the elbows. Caeron's horse reared up on its haunches and lashed out with its front hoofs. Caeron pulled his sword from its scabbard and hacked down at the foot-borne enemy around him. "Where is the enemy cavalry?" he wondered. Soon the entire enemy army was in full retreat. "Death to usurpers of the throne!" Caeron shouted. His blood was up now; he wanted to destroy these traitors. Who was the Duke of Northfield to defy Caeron's rightful rule? Caeron and his troops chased the enemy down, slaughtering them as they ran. Caeron rode down a peasant, wearing what must have been the same clothes he wore every day as he tended his fields. They were his people, Caeron reminded himself. He reined in his horse and found himself in a small village just beyond Ailwyn Meadow. He pulled off his heavy helm and sucked in a deep breath of air. Had he held his breath during the fighting? He couldn't remember breathing, but looking at the sun's position in the sky, it was over a bell since the attack had begun, so he must have. He roared for his bugler, who was fortunately close to hand. "Halt the charge, by Cephas' boot!" he shouted. The trumpeter did as he was told, and soon the pursuit of the fleeing Northfield troops was halted. Then the tune for the army to reorganise on the king's banner was sounded. The rear ranks of foot soldiers were in fact just catching up with Caeron and the faster cavalry, and were filling the village quickly. Caeron realised he was parched and reached for his wineskin. To his left, he heard a woman scream. His head snapped in that direction to see a man wearing the livery of the loyal baron of Bindrmon forcing a peasant woman to the ground. When the soldier started to pull down his pants, Caeron realised what he was doing. Loyalist or no, the Stevene's Third Law was clear on what punishment a rapist deserved. "Animal!" Caeron did not even warn the man off; he did not deserve it. Instead, with one swift stroke of his sword he beheaded the Bindrmon soldier and watched the body fall to the ground. The peasant woman pulled her skirt down so that it covered her legs and crawled backwards until she rested against what was presumably her house. Several other men and women from the royal army were now standing around, staring at the king. Caeron wondered whether he had done the right thing. Perhaps he had allowed the violence of the day to affect him too much. No, he simply couldn't accept such actions and he had to correct them as quickly and harshly as possible. If a rapist were brought before him in the courts for justice, he would have ordered the man be hanged in a moment. Because the culprit in this case was a soldier in the heat of battle made little difference as far as Caeron could see. "I will not tolerate such behaviour!" he shouted. "You are fighting to free these people, not to do them harm. And if any of you tries to protest of the 'heat of battle', I swear by the Stevene's sacred pizzle I'll castrate you myself!" "My lord, are you all right?" Caeron heard Sir Zephrym Vladon's voice to the rear. "What is happening here?" "Apparently I need to instruct our soldiers on how to behave," Caeron said through a constricted throat. This was not the way wars were meant to be fought. How could soldiers fighting for a just cause do such a thing? "Your majesty!" A squire bearing the Duchess of Kiliaen's quartered red and yellow livery charged into view astride a lathered horse. "More Northfielders, to the south! I was barely able to escape to bring news, but their cavalry will be here in moments!" "Cephas' boot!" Caeron cursed. The enemy must have been right on the boy's heels, for he could feel and hear the thunder of horse's hoofs. He looked about frantically; he had with him most of his household knights and a couple score foot soldiers, but only God knew where the rest of his army was. "Find the Lady Milverri Rhihosh, boy! Tell her to find me!" He pulled on his great helm and led his troops out of the village. He could now see enemy knights bearing down on him. Caeron spurred his horse. Since when the king was a little boy, Zephrym had taught him that attack was always better than defence. He slammed into the oncoming wave of enemy cavalry and was nearly knocked off his horse as a lance punctured his shield. Caeron tossed the now useless shield to the ground and gripped his sword in both hands. His left shoulder hurt from the impact, but the lance had not penetrated his coat of plates. For the next bell he fought desperately as the enemy's superior numbers began to tell. Eventually, Caeron found himself unhorsed and fending off two mounted opponents. One of them came too close and the king was able to slam his blade into the man's side where the armour was weakest. As the enemy knight groaned and slid from his horse, the other one smashed his spiked mace into Caeron's back. Dazed, the king toppled to the ground. Unable to get any air into his lungs, he tore the great helm off his head. The knight swung again with his mace. Caeron parried the attack and impaled the man on his sword. Still trying to catch his breath, Caeron scrabbled up against a nearby tree as his latest victim flailed about on the ground, screaming. He looked to the south and could see more enemy soldiers closing in. Duchess Kiliaen must have been destroyed or withdrawn, he thought. How could he be losing this battle? "Majesty, I am here," a soft whisper said in Caeron's ear. "Lady Milverri!" Caeron gasped, shocked at the sudden appearance of the mage and finally able to take a breath. "You must work your magic, turn the tide of this battle back in our favour so I can rally the army and --" "I have not the power to win this battle for you, majesty," the High Mage said. "I doubt even the Beinisonian sorcerers wield such power. I can perhaps delay the enemy long enough to allow you to escape." "Escape? I will not!" "There will be other battles, my lord," Zephrym said, approaching from Caeron's left. Even with men and women dying mere strides away, he sounded as calm as if he were enjoying fine wine in Crown Castle. "Very well, do what you can, High Mage." Caeron filled the title with scorn, hoping Milverri's pride might make her bring forth powerful enough magic to win the day, as he suspected she could. The High Mage gestured and a couple of other mages linked arms with her. Together they began chanting unfamiliar words and the ground began to shake. With a loud groan, a large piece of the earth in front of the approaching enemy reinforcements opened and a pit consumed several of those in the front rank. Others turned and fled as their horses spooked. The three mages toppled to the ground. "Cephas' boot!" Caeron stared down at the mages, who had rivulets of blood creeping out of their ears and noses. "Are they dead?" "I do not know, majesty," Zephrym said, "but we must make good our escape ere the Northfielders realise they are not badly hurt and finish us!" With reluctance, Caeron ordered that the retreat be sounded. 5 Seber, 897 "I can't decide whether that battle was a victory or a defeat," Duchess Quinnat said. Caeron stared down at the map spread out over the table in his pavilion in the camp Caeron's army had set up in the foothills northwest of Beeikar. The map, held down at the corners by two goblets, a dagger, and a rock, showed the southwest portion of Baranur. Around him the lords and ladies of the King's Army stood, a few of them bearing fresh wounds, as it was only three days since the battle at Ailwyn Meadow. "Probably a bit of both," Caeron said, looking up. "We wiped out large portions of the Northfield army in the initial charge, but after that they were nearly able to encircle me, and we lost significant portions of our own force." "My mercenaries are still fit to fight, milord," Greg Jorym said in his thick Comarrian brogue. "And our archers escaped the battle nearly untouched," Zephrym said. "We may not have gained the resounding victory we'd hoped for, but Duke Northfield *has* halted his advance into Welspeare." "Yes, only to pull back to assist Duchess Arval's campaign in Quinnat," Caeron said. "Let us hope that the insurrectionists' choice to ignore Dargon and concentrate their forces in the south will benefit us in some way. For now it means we're outnumbered." Caeron traced a route on the map as he spoke. "We'll rest another day or two here, then move north as well. If we can draw Northfield into a battle on open field, we can deal him the defeat hoped for at Ailwyn Meadow. That done, the insurrectionists will be much the weaker. Our downfall at Ailwyn was that we pressed our advantage too hard and left ourselves open to counterattack. With a little more caution and some better terrain, I am convinced we can defeat them easily." The lords and ladies all nodded in agreement and Caeron left the tent. Some ways down the hill from his pavilion, another large tent had been set up by the physicians and clerics that moved with the army's baggage train. The king entered and was struck by the smell of rot and filth, masked by not quite enough incense. The wounded lay spread about on the grass of the hill. A few tables had been set up; at one of them he could see several monks trying to hold down a man as a physician sawed through the soldier's wounded leg. Caeron caught sight of the tall form of Cyruz of Vidin moving about the wounded, stopping to speak or pray with any that called out to him. Caeron waved to the priest whom the king considered a holy man; Cyruz had actually met Cephas Stevene himself many years ago. Caeron knelt beside a soldier who tried to stand at sight of his king. "Rest easy," Caeron said, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. The wounded soldier was many years Caeron's senior, with greying hair and a scruffy beard. "I'm sorry, your majesty," the man said, lowering his eyes. "You've nothing to apologise for," Caeron said. "I thank you for your loyal service to your king. I pray God will give you a quick recovery." Caeron wandered about the tent, exchanging words with soldiers as he passed, trying to give them what encouragement he could and thanking them for their loyalty. He eventually made his way to a separate tent just outside the one where the wounded were gathered. A young novice mage standing outside it opened the flap and allowed Caeron into the dark interior. High Mage Milverri Rhihosh lay on a straw bed within. They exchanged pleasantries, but as soon as Caeron was seated on a trunk beside her pallet, the mage got right to the point. "I think perhaps my warnings against a Stevenic coronation have proved correct, majesty," she said through chapped lips. The mage gave in to a long bout of coughing, after which the handkerchief she took from her mouth bore blood stains. "Why then do you support my kingship," Caeron asked, "and use your magic at personal expense to aid me?" "Because I know that with a Beinisonian empress on Baranur's throne, Baranurian mages would be no more. The Beinisonian college would overtake us. That ... and I respect you. I think despite some failings, you may be a great king." Caeron raised an eyebrow. With the possible exception of Zephrym, no one dared such candour with the King of Baranur. He looked down at Milverri. Her eyes were surrounded by dark shadows and she was pale. "Will you recover?" "In time," she replied. "The spell I cast at Ailwyn Meadow was not my most powerful. But when Empress Aendasia comes with Beinisonian sorcerers in her army, it will be even more difficult. More likely, even, the magic will be in her favour. The Beinisonians have powerful mages." Caeron nodded. Things were not going well. Messengers had notified him earlier that Port Sevlyn was under siege. How could this be happening? He was the anointed king of Baranur; he should be winning. Perhaps Milverri was right. Perhaps he had made a mistake. "Your majesty!" A breathless squire burst into the tent and bowed hastily. "What news?" Caeron asked, feeling ice form in the pit of his stomach. "I-I bear evil news, I am afraid, your majesty," the boy stammered. "Beinisonian troops have laid siege to Pyridain City!" Caeron shook his head and looked down at the map so that his lords would not see the dejection on his face. For Aendasia to be at Pyridain City with Beinisonian troops so soon was evil news indeed. He was losing the war already. 27 Yule, 898 Seven months later, King Caeron sat astride his horse, surveying what would soon be yet another battlefield. The insurrectionist forces besieging Port Sevlyn had formed into battle lines about half a league away. The lands here were plains, green grass with only the occasional copse of trees adorning the countryside. For an attacker with superior numbers, it was good land. Caeron could see the halved blue and yellow heraldry of Arvalia and the solid blue of Northfield troops. Yet again, Caeron could see, his nemesis Valeran Northfield had eluded him. It was nigh on two years now that the king had been attempting to draw him into battle but to no avail. Sharks' Cove had fallen to these same forces earlier in the spring, threatening to choke off the Laraka River. The river was an important link in the supply chain that fed Caeron's armies and those subjects that remained loyal. With a victory here, he could split his army, sending a portion to retake Sharks' Cove and reopen the supply route. "You heard the news this morning, your majesty," Zephrym said, atop his own horse to Caeron's right. "Westbrook --" "Yes, being invaded from three sides by a second Beinisonian army, and combined forces from Bivar, Redcrosse, and Othuldane," Caeron nodded grimly. "I fear that we may not be able to include the Westbrooks among our allies much longer ... and Pyridain is all but lost." A sennight after he had received the message of Pyridain City's fate, Caeron's stomach still turned. When the citadel that defended the city and held Duke Sebastian Pyridain finally fell, Aendasia had issued a most barbaric order. The city had been razed to the ground. Caeron could almost hear the screams and the crackling flames of the city as her army raped and pillaged their way through the streets. Caeron felt suddenly very tired. Save for the winter respite, he had been at war almost continually since being crowned by his half-brother Cyrridain the Stevenic Master Priest in Vibril of 897. He'd killed more of his subjects with his own hands than he cared to count, to say nothing of the deaths his orders had brought. Looking across the field at the army before him, ready to take his crown from Caeron's very head if they could, he knew he had no choice. Caeron's battle commanders looked at him expectantly. He cast one more glance at the enemy army, then addressed his lords. "I think we can agree that morale is our biggest weakness. Therefore we need to strike quickly and keep their archers away from our infantry. On the other hand, we have discipline on our side; the King's Army has seen more war than most. Jorym, I want your Comarrians to draw the Arvalian cavalry out; after months in a siege, they'll be spoiling for a fight." Caeron outlined a plan for the rest of the commanders in the battle, having the bulk of his cavalry move up the centre of the field, supported by the infantry. The Northfield bows were of some concern, but Caeron had more bowmen and if his plan with the Comarrians worked, he would be able to take the enemy cavalry down piecemeal, paving the way for a massed assault with his own knights as had won him several battles before. Caeron moved out in front of his army to give them his customary speech. He knew that his army was as weary of battle as he was, but trusted them to do their duty once again. "Brave soldiers, I have called upon you time and again to serve your king, and you have done so admirably. Once more, we face the forces of those who would have a Beinisonian rule our realm, a Beinisonian who ordered the sacking of Pyridain City and the massacre of all its inhabitants. Women, children, the elderly: none were spared by the ravages of those barbarians! This is the fate that awaits all Baranur if we do not rise to do our duty. March now, into battle once again! Avenge your fellows! Defend your families! Protect Baranur!" With the soldiers properly stirred, Caeron returned to his position in the centre, at the lead of his household knights, and ordered the advance. He kept the bulk of his forces moving at a walk towards the enemy while Greg Jorym and his men moved out ahead. The sell-sword executed his manoeuvre perfectly, and the anxious enemy knights fell for the ploy as Caeron had counted on. Soon the enemy knights were within range of the king's archers, who loosed volley after volley, blackening the sky. The Arvalian charge died out, and soon their knights were fleeing. By this time, arrows from the enemy bowmen were reaching Caeron's troops. He donned his great helm and prepared to order his own troops forward. To his rear, an arrow made its way between the armoured plates of one of his household knights and the man fell from his horse screaming. To the right, the horse next to Zephrym's was struck and crashed to the ground. "Steady," Caeron shouted to his men. A premature charge would be disastrous. With his helm on, he couldn't see what was going on with the rest of the battlefield, but trusted his lords to follow the plan. Finally, they were close enough and he ordered the attack. "Charge!" As one, the armoured knights surged forward, leaving the infantry behind. The deep green grass parted before Caeron as he stood in the stirrups, urging his destrier ahead. The distance closed, then he was in amidst the enemy soldiers. They broke almost immediately, and Caeron ordered for the charge to be halted. Unlike at Ailwyn Meadows, his knights stopped and regrouped. Caeron guided them on a tight left wheel and charged into the next unit of enemy. Soon, the insurrectionists were fleeing in all directions and Caeron stood with his knights not far from Port Sevlyn. He pulled the chainmail coif and padded arming cap off his head and attempted to wipe some of the sweat from his face. He could feel beneath his heavy armour that he was drenched in sweat, but for the moment the elation of victory kept exhaustion at bay. One of the knights offered him a wineskin and he drank deeply. "Your majesty," Duchess Quinnat hailed him as she pulled up on her horse. "A worthy victory; it's a shame we aren't able to deal with more of the insurrectionists in this manner, but they just have too many armies scattered about!" "They do," Caeron agreed, "which is why we can't waste any time savouring this victory. We can rest here for the night, but on the morrow I want you to start your forces moving down the Laraka to Sharks' Cove, while I take the remainder of the army back into Magnus." 1 Deber, 899 "This new year does not bring with it good tidings, love," Caeron said, holding his wife close to him. They were alone in the royal bedchamber of Crown Castle: the only place where he could openly show the doubt he was feeling. Nearly six months had passed since the victory at Port Sevlyn and he was now back in Magnus. "You are the rightful king; you will triumph in the end," Dara replied. "I am not so sure anymore. Most of the loyal houses have fallen. The enemy is nearly at the walls of Magnus, my capital." He kissed his wife's hair, and breathed the sweet scent of jasmine that adorned it. "Perhaps I was not meant to be king." "Don't even think that," Dara said. "Baranur must be ruled by a Tallirhan." "It was proud of me to ignore Duke Dargon and allow Cyrridain to crown me." "Shush," Dara said. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Caeron on the lips. The kiss was followed by several more and soon clothing was being discarded. As Dara pulled him down onto the royal bed, Caeron said, "I love you. I ever will." They made love tenderly. Caeron felt that this might be his last night with Dara. He placed kisses on every part of her, memorising every curve, the softness of her white skin. He gazed into her dark eyes, wishing he could hide inside their protective seclusion. The next morning, news reached him that armies from Northfield and Monrodya were approaching the city, and would be at Magnus' mighty walls by midday. Aendasia's Beinisonian army was known to be close to the south as well. Few commanders would be willing to wage a winter campaign like this, Caeron knew, but he imagined that the insurrectionists could smell victory and thought they could end the war soon. Perhaps they were right. Caeron knew that he had to make a stand at Magnus. He would not hide behind its walls and hope he could outlast the insurrectionists. It was time for him to discover whether he was truly intended to be king or not. He would take his army outside the city walls and confront the traitors as sovereign. He would not allow his family to take the same risk, however. While preparations for the battle were being made, he took Zephrym aside. "Zephrym, you have been ever loyal to me," he said. "You taught me as a boy how to use a sword and ride a horse. As I grew to manhood, you have protected my household. I count you among my best friends, which is why I ask of you this most important task." "I will do whatever you ask, my lord," Zephrym said. "You must leave Magnus immediately, and take my family to safety. Dargon is probably the safest place, since the southern marches are all but lost to us." Zephrym's eyes widened. It was the most emotion Caeron had seen from him in twenty-five years. "My lord, I can't do that; I have to fight by your side. I can't allow you to fight this battle without me." Caeron put his hands on the older knight's shoulders. "If I should fall, Dara must be queen. You are the only one I can trust to guide her safely away from here." Tears were welling up in Zephrym's large, grey eyes. His lower lip began to tremble and he bit down hard on it. He shook his head slowly. "My lord, I ... I won't leave you. I've never --" "Zephrym, the best service you can do me is to protect Dara and Brad. They are more precious to me than any crown could ever be. If you are truly my friend, you will do this for me." Zephrym squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head. Caeron stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the big knight and squeezed him as hard as he could. Zephrym in turn hugged Caeron. "I will protect the queen, my lord." 3 Deber, 899 The following morning, a frosty wind screeched across the open plains surrounding Magnus as King Caeron surveyed the battlefield. He had positioned himself on the south-western edge of the city so that he could confront the Duke of Northfield himself. To the north, Baron Baldwin Narragan commanded the contingent from Quinnat and Kiliaen. To the east, a huge mob of citizens of Magnus were commanded by their own mayor, Contreela Sevind. The people of Magnus were for the most part armed only with butcher knives, billhooks, pitchforks, and other non-military weapons. Caeron expected them to break and flee into the city without much prodding, but he appreciated their loyalty and conviction in standing out on the frigid field with him. He examined the forces arrayed against him. Row upon row of foot soldiers dressed in the blue of Northfield stood across the smooth white plain, their helmets and lance tips glinting brightly in the mid-morning sun. There were also large numbers of cavalry, each adorned in their own unique heraldry. His breath escaped in an icy mist as he called to his trumpeters. "Sound the advance." The snow crunched under his horse's hoofs as it lurched forward. The snow was deep, coming up to the knees of the foot soldiers wrapped in blankets and furs against the cold. Their progress was slow, but so was the enemy's. Caeron could see that they, too, were moving towards his position. Thunder rumbled in the sky. Caeron looked back to where the Baranurian mages were standing in a circle around the High Mage on a small hill to his rear. Arrows blackened the sky as archers from both sides loosed volley after volley upon their enemy. Several arrows fell amongst the knights riding with Caeron. An arrow found its way just below the helmet of a knight beside him, and she fell from her horse and thrashed in the snow. Caeron squeezed his horse's flanks a little and quickened the pace. He could make out features on the enemy's faces before he decided his troops were close enough that he could risk a charge without tiring half way to the enemy and bogging down. It was now time to discover the worth of his kingship. "Charge!" he screamed. "For Baranur! For the Stevene!" Loyally, his troops' voices rose in a war cry and they surged forward. Duke Northfield, only a few strides to the left of Caeron's position, gave a similar order and his army began to run through the deep snow. It seemed to take bells for the two forces to collide, but when they did the same familiar sounds of battle rang out. Enemy and friend alike swirled around Caeron. His household knights were with Zephrym, but he still fought alongside several of his barons and their own knights. They acquitted themselves well, but as the battle wore on, they were forced back towards the castle gates. At one point in the battle, Caeron was able to break free of the melee and survey the situation. As he suspected, a charge by knights from Equiville had broken the Magnus peasants and they were fleeing. What he had not expected was to see the banner of Greg Jorym flapping in the distance as he and his Comarrian mercenaries fled the field. Caeron's jaw dropped. How could Jorym's troops have broken so easily? They were his most elite cavalry, as they were all hardened free-lances. He clamped his jaw shut and narrowed his eyes. "That worthless cur!" he shouted. Jorym must have decided that this was a lost cause and fled to save his own neck. Such was the danger of allying oneself with a person whose loyalty was purchased with gold and silver. Perhaps Aendasia had offered him a better sum of money, even? With the Comarrians out of the fight, the situation looked grim indeed. Caeron ordered his troops to withdraw back to the hill where High Mage Milverri Rhihosh and her mages were gathered. "You should retreat behind the safety of the walls, your majesty," Milverri said. "This battle is lost." "It is too late for that," Caeron said. "The gatehouses have all been sealed. I will make my stand here and prove my worth as king!" Milverri nodded. Caeron dismounted his horse and waded into battle, shoulder to shoulder with barons, knights, and foot soldiers. Blood sprayed onto the pristine snow and seemed to shine like fire. A knight wearing heraldry Caeron did not know thrust with his sword. The blow sundered links of chain mail and Caeron's ribs burst into waves of pain. He could see his own blood splatter onto the snow. His entire left side went suddenly numb and he nearly toppled over. He parried the knight's next attack, then slashed across his enemy's throat, silencing him. Caeron backed off a little as he felt the warmth of blood soaking the padded gambeson beneath his armour. Suddenly, two of the mages burst into flames and flailed about screaming. "Stevene!" Caeron cried, looking back at the two human forms, engulfed in sickly green flames that licked at them like the tongue of a flanduil. "The Beinisonian Empress has arrived with her sorcerers!" Milverri cried. For the first time ever, Caeron could sense fear in the High Mage's voice. "Their High Mage Mon-Orthanier is with them!" More of the mages dropped to the ground, these without a sound. Milverri seemed to be fighting an invisible opponent, as she thrashed about in the snow, eyes wide with terror. Caeron swallowed hard and looked towards the fighting only a few paces away. Few loyal troops remained. A fortress of dead bodies surrounded him. Caeron realised that his reign was at an end. There was no escape, but he would die with glory and make Dara proud of him, and perhaps earn a place with the Stevene in the afterlife. He had been a proud fool to be crowned by his half-brother, Cyrridain. He understood that now. God had shown him his error, but had given him a way to yet save the kingdom. "Dara!" he screamed and charged into the approaching knights with renewed vigour. He hacked at them with strength not his own, cleaving through one knight's helm and splattering his fellows with bits of brain and bone. Caeron staggered to his knees as a blow sailed over his head. He then disembowelled the attacker. The enemy soldiers hesitated and drew back a little. Caeron regained his feet and was assailed by an ear shattering scream. He nearly fell over again, so powerful was the noise. He looked back to see Milverri hovering a few hands off the ground, her mouth open impossibly wide, her eyes squeezed shut. The wailing intensified and several of the Northfield troops dropped their weapons and clutched at their ears. A pink mist began to form around the High Mage, then it solidified into the form of a woman and soared up into the sky. The High Mage's body dropped lifelessly to the ground. "This parting gift I give to you, King Caeron." He could hear Milverri's voice as if she were whispering in his ear. "I will destroy the Beinisonian sorcerers so that your wife may have a chance to rule. Long live Queen Dara." Far off to the south, Caeron heard a roar like a thousand landslides all at once. A bright lance of pink light flashed in the south, then a wave of howling wind and tormented voices swept over the battlefield. He looked back at the Northfielders who were now staring to the south with wide eyes. Several of them turned and ran. The pain in his side returned, and he fell to a knee. One of his lords -- he wasn't sure who -- suggested surrender as an option; perhaps Caeron could later be ransomed? The king shook his head. No, Aendasia would not ever ransom him; he would languish in a Beinisonian dungeon until he rotted. A pair of enemy knights regained their courage and charged in. Caeron was able to deflect their blows weakly. Using the momentum from a block he hamstrung one of his opponents. Then a blow from behind knocked his helm off. He watched as it fell to the snow in front of him. The snow had been packed hard and was now a mix of brown and red rather than the pristine white it had been before. Caeron spat some of his own blood out onto the ground. With the last of his strength, he lifted his sword and slammed it down on his helm, breaking the crown in half. He would not give Aendasia the satisfaction of wearing it. A booted foot hit him on the shoulder and he sprawled onto his back. His entire body was awash in pain and he could not move. He only stared up at the armoured form standing above him. The knight's surcoat bore a white falcon on a blue background. He faced Duke Northfield at last. The man removed his helmet to reveal a handsome face. Copper locks stuck out from the chain coif he wore. "You've lost, Caeron," Valeran Northfield sneered. "The crown you stole will soon be on the head of its rightful owner." "One cannot steal something that already belongs to him," Caeron said. His vision was beginning to dim and he felt incredibly tired. He had to finish what he was saying before he let death pull him into its peaceful embrace. He coughed up more blood before he could continue. "The crown belongs to house Tallirhan. I was too proud to deserve it, but I have atoned, and Dara will wear it now. House Tallirhan will rule Baranur ..." ========================================================================