DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 20 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 2 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 4/28/07 Volume 20, Number 2 Circulation: 624 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb The Sea Hag's Daughter Jim Owens Seber 27, 1018 The Great Houses War 6 Nicholas Wansbutter Yuli 23-Ober 30 901 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc., a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondence to or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site at ftp://ftp.dargonzine.org/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 20-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright April, 2007 by The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Liam Donahue . DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs- NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb It's always easier to write an editorial when there's interesting news to share. But sometimes there's such a wealth of news that it's a challenge to keep the editorial from taking up more space than the stories. Fortunately for you, this month's issue is already packed with great fiction, so I'll have to be brief, even though there's a lot of news to share. The first item is that we recently returned from this year's DargonZine Writers' Summit, which took place in exciting Las Vegas, Nevada at the end of March. As always, the nine people who attended split our time between working sessions, sightseeing, and eating, with very little time left over for sleep. Our expeditions included touring the immense Hoover Dam, crawling around the massive canyons of the Valley of Fire, and hiking up and around Mount Charleston, where there was still snow on the ground despite the 80-degree weather in town. Food included Ethiopian and a Japanese teppanyaki "performance", as well as Vegas' signature native cuisine: the casino buffet. We did visit the Strip and enjoyed the downs and ups at the gaming tables, but no one got married while we were there. In the working sessions we explored where story ideas come from, and what it means to be an aspiring writer. We also spent a lot of time writing and coordinating a series of stories that will show many of Dargon's key people and locations. If you're new to DargonZine, these stories should help you get an overview of the city and the characters who live there. Look for them to start appearing in DargonZine issues around the end of the year. The Summit is always a great experience. We accomplished a lot and came away energized, and got to spend time with great people and see the sights in another cool location, all thanks to Dafydd's diligent planning and gracious hosting. As usual, we've selected several photos and added a write-up that will help you get to know us a little better and get a feeling for what this year's Summit was like. You can find those at http://www.dargonzine.org/summit07.shtml In other news, we've made a couple noteworthy improvements to our web site recently. We have completely rewritten our Online Glossary's search page, which should now be easier to use and produce better results. There are additional search enhancements planned, but we decided to publish what we've done with it so far, rather than hold it back until all the little tweaks are done. The Glossary page can be found at http://www.dargonzine.org/glossary.shtml In addition, Carlo's been busy updating our set of maps to reflect all the changes we've made in the past few years. Be sure to use DargonZine's map page as a reference when trying to figure out what's where, whether you need a street-level view of Dargon or a description of all the neighboring kingdoms on the continent of Cherisk. They can all be found at http://www.dargonzine.org/maproom.shtml So that's a little bit of what's been up with DargonZine. Now let me take a moment to introduce the two stories that appear in this issue. First, Jim Owens, one of DargonZine's founders, returns to print with a short story called "The Sea Hag's Daughter". Then, as has been our practice for the past few months, we round out the issue with the newest installment of Nick Wansbutter's "Great Houses War" serial, which will continue for several more issues. I hope you enjoy them, and thanks for your continued interest in the fiction we offer. ======================================================================== The Sea Hag's Daughter by Jim Owens Seber 27, 1018 Atop a piling, the figure sat motionless in the darkness and stared at the ship docked nearby. Anyone who looked in the direction of the piling from the ship would have seen at most an inky blot. They would have missed the blue skin, the iridescent scales, the eyes aglow with reflected light. They would also not have seen the fish clutched in taloned hands, or the look of anguish on the wet face. Danae could smell the fish's blood running down her cold hands and across her scaled thighs. She wanted very badly to raise that fish to her thin lips and rip it apart with her pointed teeth. She could all but taste the metallic tang of its flesh on her tongue. In her mind, however, words of warning chanted angrily, telling her not to, warning her that it would be the last thing she ever did. So she sat, and watched, and waited. Blen Sailmaker lifted the brush up off Danae's smooth, brown skin and set it back in the inkpot, steadying the small vial against the sway of the waves. "That'll do it, I think." Danae stood up, craning her neck around to view the spot on her hip where her shipmate had been working. She turned her torso to better catch the thin, autumn sunlight that was streaming in the porthole of the Friendly Lion. The lines he had drawn on her hip still glistened wetly, but she could see that they were well placed. "Straight, that'll do it." She set a Drin down on the table before him in payment. "Don't drink it too fast." "Do you have anything else?" he asked, eyeing the coin with a slight frown. "Sometimes I have trouble spending Shapkan." "Hernorala could spend it," Danae replied offhandedly as she reached for her shirt. She had stripped down to her maiden cloth so that Blen could wield his brush. She watched as his face lit up at the sound of his sweetheart's name. "That she could," he said, taking the coin and flipping it into the air. "Spending my coin is the one thing she is very good at." "Just the one thing, Blen?" Danae asked, stepping into her breeches. She tested the ink on the last of the repaired lines before pulling her pants up. It was still just a bit tacky, so she left the canvas trousers set low. The rest of the drawing was dry. She admired the cleanly drawn images of fish scales that adorned her dusky flanks. "If one thing is all she's good for then why do you seem to spend your every waking moment with her when we dock in Dargon?" "Oh," Blen replied quickly, not seeming to catch the tease in her voice, "she's good for lots of things." He stood, pushing the cork back into the ink bottle as he did. "Her cooking's the best in Dargon! How else do you think Sandmond can keep that inn of his open? And she can sew too, not like a sailor, but fine, lacy stuff, seamstress-like. And --" "Straight, straight," Danae interrupted. "I was just teasing you, not asking for a manifest." "Why don't you get that drawing tattooed on?" Blen asked as he put the ink and brushes away. "This is the third time this trip I've redrawn that for you. And those black lines don't show well against your dark skin. I know a woman in the Old Town who can tattoo in white. She could put it on so it wouldn't ever wear off." "No thanks," Danae replied. "I like it just the way it is. Thanks for the thought, though. I don't trust Kodo, and Kitley's hand shakes too much." "You can always ask the captain." Danae hesitated, then replied softly, almost to herself. "You're right. I don't know why I don't. He just ..." Her voice trailed off. "He likes you," Blen replied. "He does. You'll see." Danae nodded, then returned to the earlier topic. "Why don't you just marry her?" He frowned. "No, this is no life for her. She likes her job. She likes the land." She rolled her eyes. "That sounds like an excuse to me." "No, no ..." he said, eyes downcast, voice dropping. "Well, why don't *you* ...?" Danae left the question unfinished. She knew the answer. Just then Kodo's voice bellowed out from the bow. "All hands!" Silently the two left the cabin and returned to work. Docking at the port of Dargon went uneventfully, as did the task of relieving the Friendly Lion of the cargo she had hauled up from Armand. Captain Tennent soon distributed the pay to his crew and released to the streets all but Kodo, who was to take first watch. The captain then headed up the pier, stopping on a nearby dock to trade news with the captain of another merchant vessel. Pay in hand, Blen was gone in a instant, bee-lining up Commercial Street for the Street of Travellers and Sandmond's Inn, where he would meet with his sweetheart. Kitley followed, albeit more slowly. His aged feet were taking him up the street towards the burned out piers where rumor had it a new bathhouse was being built, along the lines of the ones in Port Andestn. Those baths were fed by ancient aquaducts with water from natural hot springs leagues away, and were known for their healing qualities. Danae doubted the new baths would be quite as impressive, but also was curious and wanted to investigate. She resolved to follow Kitley, curious about these baths, wondering if they were like the ones she remembered from her own home, far to the south. Her pace was measured and even, nonetheless. It was an unusually warm day for Seber, and the air was still and filled with the smells of the city. She wandered slowly along the road, observing stevedores laboring, street vendors peddling, merchants dickering. About her swirled a pageant of dress and dialect and diction. Her own dark skin drew little notice, unlike deeper into the city where her unusual appearance might be the occasion for unwelcome attention. Danae found herself standing at the corner of Commercial Street and the Street of Travellers. She considered going up the road to Sandmond's Inn for a drink, but decided against it, and kept walking. Somehow the idea of meeting Blen and his girl seemed somewhat odd. Even after a year and a half on the Lion, Danae still felt like an outsider. The ship had docked at Sharks' Cove for repairs after a pirate assault had damaged her rigging and killed one of the crew. Blen had met Danae on the street, and she had signed on, eager to leave that blighted city. Life onboard was not as hard as life on the street. Her work consisted of cleaning and mending and whatever else needed to be done. She got along with all the crew well enough, and with Blen best of all, but she wasn't completely comfortable around any of them. Danae continued to walk the length of Commercial Street. At the end she found a small crowd that had gathered. Danae worked her way close enough to see what was happening. It turned out to be the site where the new baths were being built. Warehouses had once stood there on a long pier, but had burned down. The wreckage left over from that fire was now gone, and the frame of the new building was going up. At the far end a huge fireplace was being erected. A steady stream of workers were hauling stones for the furnace down from the shore in carts, and then carrying them up ladders to the masons. It didn't look like harder work than Danae had just done in unloading the ship, but it was probably much less interesting. Danae noticed several women in the stream of workers hauling stone. One in particular stood out due to her young age. Her pale skin was coated with dirt and mud, leaving it almost the color of Danae's. Seeing this girl at work on a construction site reminded Danae of being a young woman in a strange city for the first time, doing odd jobs for food. It had been exhilarating and terrifying in equal measures for Danae, who had just left her home. Life and death had seemed much closer together back then. This girl was younger than Danae had been, though, and better fed. She would no doubt be going home at sunset. This job was probably a way for the girl to earn her family some extra coin, and was perhaps even a diversion from a less exciting apprenticeship. Danae had not returned home, and indeed had left that small city for another further up the coast, which she in turn left for another one. Danae had not had a home in a long time. She watched the workers with their stones for several menes before turning back toward the city. The coin Captain Tennent had distributed to the crew was generous, but the prices in Dargon always seemed designed to most quickly part a sailor from her wages. Danae was careful to visit the shrine of Cirrangill before the marketplace, knowing that she would tend to spend more money than she wanted to if she kept it on her person. She paid the customary price for a length of rope from a widow at the door, then tied it to an old fish net draped over the idol inside. Cirrangill was not who she had worshiped as a child, but she had left her southern gods when she left her home. Her duty done, Danae turned her feet and attention to the nearby market. Captain Tennent provided basic provisions for his crew, but a diet of biscuit and pulse was always better when mixed with some salt and spice. Danae quickly found both, along with thread and fine needles, honey and balm. She bought a small mirror, to replace one lost at sea, and paused at a stall selling rugs. "What is this?" she asked the keeper, fingering a mat with a fanciful image embroidered on it. "Three Royals, not a Penny less," came the swift reply from a sharp-eyed woman seated on a three-legged stool. "I meant the image," Danae replied. "What is it?" "That's a ship being pulled under by the great sea hag. Surely a sailor like yourself should know that." The woman eyed Danae critically. "I've never seen one," Danae replied. "Of course," she hastily added, "no one who does lives, straight?" She turned away to hide a smile. "True that is," the woman replied. "Now then, that's a very fine piece, there, suitable for the finest company. I used real gold thread in the tentacles of that one, I did." Danae peered at the rug closely, then backed away. "Too dear for my purse," she explained, and went on her way. Danae's purse was much lighter by the time she found herself once again at the corner of the Street of Travellers. By then it was dark, and she didn't hesitate to set her feet straight toward Sandmond's Inn. There was a small knot of sailors and other evening drinkers clustered in the yellow light at the door. She recognized one or two from previous visits to Dargon, and she gave a very familiar whack to a somewhat familiar rump as she went in, propelled by a burst of rowdy laughter. There was an empty place on the end of the long table, near the kitchen door, and she took it. She glanced into the kitchen as she did, but, as she expected, neither Hernorala nor Blen were visible. They were no doubt off on a quiet rendezvous. Danae obtained a flagon of ale and settled in for dinner. The barmaid brought a bowl of fish soup, and Danae cooled it with a splash of her drink. She slipped her hand under the waistband of her trousers and touched the painted fish scales on her hip. She closed her eyes and muttered something under her breath. She then lifted the bowl to her lips and drained it. The next time the barmaid passed by, Danae requested stew. When that arrived, Danae again cooled it with her ale and ate it hastily. She drained her flagon and ordered another, with more soup. It went down just as fast. Once done, she again touched the lines and uttered a phrase. She ordered still more stew, but this she ate hot. Next came buttered bread and root paste, followed by sweetmeat pie and wine. The server offered fruit pie, a slightly incredulous expression on her face, but Danae held up her hand. "That'll do." "That'll do." Those had been the first words Danae had ever heard from Captain Tennent's mouth. She had been standing in the cabin of the Friendly Lion, where Blen had led her after first meeting her on the docks at Sharks' Cove. Those words weren't what she had been expecting, or hoping for. He had treated her kindly enough, and that had sustained her in the months of hard work that followed, but she still felt that hollow spot in her soul. She knew why, and in her mind she dismissed it, but every time she looked at him, she saw her father for an instant. Tennent had treated her fairly, and the crew welcomed her presence. She was different enough from Frog, their former crewmate, that she didn't feel like a replacement. Danae was becoming used to the crew, too. The last storm they had met at sea had strained their bonds, though. She still remembered the shock of the cold water when she had dived overboard to rescue Tennent when a wave took him. In her mind she could still hear his screams from when she had found him, so far from the ship. She tried to push that thought from her mind, but she couldn't. He had fought her all the way back to the ship, not knowing what had seized him. None of the others had known she had gone for him -- she had made sure of that. She had wanted to tell them, but she could not, and that secret now lay between them. "Another one, sailor?" Danae looked up at the barmaid. She was a different one, young and skinny. Danae studied her face for a moment. There was a gauntness to it, as if the days had not been kind of late. There was a peculiar hunger in the woman's eyes. The barmaid met Danae's eyes, and swallowed hard. After a moment's hesitation, the barmaid awkwardly touched her neckline, exposing a finger-breadth's more bosom. Danae smiled grimly at the misunderstanding. "Ale," she replied huskily. "One more before I go." The barmaid smiled with relief and left. Danae shook her head at the wave of memories that came to her, grateful that they were not as steeped in misery as that poor girl's must be. Danae had found a home on the Friendly Lion before the deeper hunger had set in. It was not just a hunger for food, either, although her stomach's painful calls had beckoned all too often enough. Danae looked around her. She was surprised to see that the tavern was much emptier than when she had come in. She wondered why, then realized how much time had passed. Had she missed her watch? No, she consoled herself, hers was the early watch, many bells away. Captain Tennent would be taking this next watch. No, she had just been lost in thought, that was all. The long table was empty save for a couple of men at the far end. The barmaid reappeared with a mug and a smile. Danae quietly rewarded her with double coin and a sympathetic nod, which elicited a happier smile. Danae stared out into the emptying room as she drank. "Blen." Danae's attention peaked at the sound of her fellow sailor's name. She looked around. There was no one nearby, but the kitchen door was nearby and stood open. "And you think they will?" This voice was different than the first, and came from inside the kitchen. "Wouldn't you?" This was the first voice again, a man's. "Away at sea for months, and then here you are at night with your lover?" "You don't know that they're lovers," countered the second voice, a woman's voice. "Oh, come on, don't be such a virgin! They'll be at it 'til dawn! Ever since he left, Hernorala's had nothing but his name on her lips. It's driving me nuts!" Danae stirred herself up and stood, wobbling only a bit. She suspected the ale was watered after a certain bell, when the sailors were too drunk to notice. She took a step toward the kitchen door, intending to enter the conversation. "So, what did you do to her?" Danae froze. This was the second voice. "I didn't *do* anything *to* her," countered the first voice, a bit petulantly. "It's not like that." "You said you were going to get rid of her." "I did not! I just said she would be leaving soon!" "And then you would be head cook." "Look, I'm not trying to hurt her, or him. She wants him to stay here with her, and I bet he does too, but you know these sailors. They got the wanderlust, and just can't keep their feet dry. I'm just giving her an excuse to go with him, that's all." "So what did you do?" Danae pressed herself against the wall beside the kitchen. She looked out at the rest of the room, but the eyes that saw her were dulled with drink and indifference. She quieted her breath to hear better. "Well, your virginal Hernorala came back from the market with a tiny, little, pink bottle today." There was a small, delighted gasp. "Maidenkeep?" "Or something like it. And you saw what she changed into before she left. There was so much lace in this kitchen you'd've thought we were the Lucky Lady!" "Ol's balls!" "Blen's balls, more like it." "So what did you *do*?" "I swapped it." "What? You swapped what?" "The Maidenkeep, or whatever it was that was in her little, pink vial. I dumped it out and poured in some of this." There was a pause and another happy breath. "Nightfruit brandy! And a great bottle of it! What are you doing with this much love potion?" "Sandmond keeps this bottle behind the meat cabinet," the first voice explained. "I expect he sells it to the occasional barmaid who wants to earn a bit of extra coin." "Sandmond wouldn't do --" "Or, whatever, I don't care. All I care is that when they drink this, they'll be climbing the beanpole until dawn, and she'll be as knocked up as a thirteen-year old bride after Melrin." "Oh, Sandmond won't have that. You know how he likes us to have a figure." There was a pause. "But by the time she's showing he'll be long gone. What's she going to do until he gets back?" "What do you mean?" "Well, how's she going to get by without the work?" There was a bit of heat in this question. "What, that's not my problem, now is it?" "What do you mean, not your problem? This whole thing is your doing!" Danae didn't wait to hear any more. She headed for the door. She burst out into the night and started running up the street towards the docks. It wasn't until she got to the corner of the Street of Travellers that she stopped, realizing that she wasn't sure where to go. She had thought to warn the amorous couple, but they wouldn't be at the ship. They most likely were back at Hernorala's place. She turned around, and bounced right off Captain Tennent. "What's your hurry, sailor?" he boomed at her. "I saw you running up here and I thought you might have the guard after you." "No sir. Have you seen Blen?" "Yes, just a few menes ago. He was in a rush too, him and that woman of his." "Where were they headed?" Tennent pointed up the docks. "Is there some sort of trouble?" His expression grew a bit stern, and for a moment he was Danae's father again. "No sir," she hastily replied. "I just need to tell him something important." "Go quickly then," he replied, his expression softening. "You might still catch him. He was looking for a boat to rent." "A boat ..." she said, then ran off up the street. Danae considered her words as she ran. Why hadn't she told Captain Tennent? Surely he could help. She slowed to go back, but the image of her father appeared in her mind, stern and unforgiving. Captain Tennent was not like that, she knew, but she just couldn't make herself go back. She ran on, scanning the gloom at the water's edge for a familiar face. She ran the entire length of Commercial Street and ended up back at the ruins of the old burnt docks. The skeletal frame of the new baths stood out pale in the gloom. She stood there, helpless. She had not seen either of the two in the many faces she had passed on the street. She stamped her feet impatiently as she caught her breath. She remembered the conversation she had shared with Blen. She could imagine him, feeling trapped between a woman he wanted and a life he loved. She wanted to go back and punch that cook in the face, whoever he was, but then she remembered her last conversation with her father and calmed down. Danae froze as a tinkling of laughter came to her ears. It was a man and a woman, laughing together. She again stilled her breath, and it came again, along with a few faint words, unintelligible. The voice she recognized, though: Blen. She spun about, looking into the dark. The sounds came again, from offshore. She cast her gaze seaward. The area near the docks was punctuated with the tiny lights from ships at anchor. The glassy sea reflected the lights like dancing fireflies. Drawing closer was one ship that was quite well illuminated, a passenger barge. It glowed with many lanterns hidden behind oilskin screens. Many figures moved on its deck: it was hosting a party of some sort. Again came the voices, low and indistinct, but not from the barge. She turned and followed a nearby line of charred pilings with her gaze. There, about five chains offshore, between her and the barge, a small light glimmered. Danae walked to the edge of the water. Here the seawall was gone, and the shore sloped gently into the water. There were no people or boats at this end of the docks. The construction workers had left, taking the onlookers with them. There were no boats here to borrow. Danae stared out at that tiny light for just a moment, then began to strip. She pulled off her sailor's garb, tossing each item over a nearby piling stump. Once bare, she paused a moment, closed her eyes, touched the lines Blen had painted on her skin that morning, and muttered a short phrase. Then she ran out into the water. The shock of the cold brought back the startled look of Tennent's face as she had grabbed him in the storm and waves, and then she disappeared beneath the waterline. It had been her grandmother, her father's mother, who had taught her the spell and had first drawn the lines on her body. Her father had been livid when he had seen them, the overlapping black lines that formed the fish scales on her skin. Danae had been standing on the pier with her grandmother, shivering naked in the evening air, when her father stormed down the beach and confronted his mother. Danae had stood there, shaking and crying, as the two argued. She had thought that her father would be pleased that his mother had chosen her to receive this family secret. After the passing of Danae's mother, Danae had gravitated toward her grandmother, learning many things from her, and this had pleased her father. But he had not been happy that day. The argument had ended when Danae's grandmother turned and pushed Danae off the edge of the pier. Danae had screamed as she fell, and the cold water filled her open mouth when she hit. In that instant she had learned the truth. It was that truth that filled Danae's awareness as she swam out into the sea. That truth was always most obvious near the surface. No matter how rough or cold the water, when the enchantment held her, the air seemed more harsh. The water was more soothing, more friendly, more like home. Beneath the surface her limbs seemed more free, as if the water supported them better than the land ever could. And she was fast. Danae held her head above the water just long enough to get her bearings, then struck out in the direction of the light. With powerful, easy strokes she slipped through the water. To her eyes the sea was actually better lit than the world above, the water glowing with a deep emerald hue. She could hear for leagues, and the tastes of the ocean were like a long tale told by a master storyteller. The pilings slipped past in rapid succession. As she drew near her goal the light from the sole lantern flooded the water, opening up galleries of wonders. Danae almost turned away, to head seaward, to head home. Her mammal mind still ruled, however. She turned and slipped upward into the night. The fire that had demolished the old warehouses had spared just one corner of the old pier, and it was too far out to be demolished. Above her a triangle of slats blotted out the dim glow from the night clouds. Beside the last piling was a small boat, and a rope ladder that led upward. Danae squeezed her eyes hard to clear the blurriness from them; it was so much easier to see underwater. She coughed out a mouthful of water, then another. She listened. From above came small, happy sounds. She called Blen's name. The sounds stopped. "Hello?" came the tentative reply after a moment. Danae ducked back down under the water, diving deep before turning back toward the surface. She pushed hard against the water, gathering as much speed as possible, and leaped upward in a fountain of water. She cleared the edge of the platform with ease, drawing herself forward with her hands. Drawing her legs under her, she settled down onto her haunches, taking in the scene. There were old nets heaped up against a piling, with canvas atop that. Light from a lamp revealed Blen reclining on the canvas. His shirt was open, and his canvas pants were rolled up under his head like a pillow. His legs were covered instead with Hernorala, who was resting her head on his thigh. Both gave a started yell, and then clutched each other. "Stop," Danae said. She tried to focus her eyes on them, but her eyes turned instead to the darkness, toward the sea. She could feel the heat radiating off their bodies. How odd, that a body would be warm like the sun, and not cool like the water. "W-what!? W-who are you?" Blen stammered. "What ... what are you doing here?" Danae squeezed her eyes hard and shook her head, letting her hair whip about. She heard Blen and Hernorala protest as cold water hit them both, but Danae needed to clear her mind. The spell was strong because it had to be, but Danae now needed to speak as a human, not swim as a fish. She opened her eyes again. Hernorala was now hidden behind Blen, who was shielding her. "It's alright ... it ... me," Danae said. "Danae. I came ... warn you." "Danae?" There was shock and wonder in Blen's voice. Danae watched his eyes as they darted back and forth, up and down, covering her entire body. She saw recognition and awareness bloom in his expression. "Hernorala, it's Danae, from the ship." He sat up. "Warn us? Why?" Danae again closed her eyes for a moment. She shivered once, the spell waning a bit. By the time she opened her eyes Hernorala had retrieved her skirt and was using it to cover Blen's midsection. "That ..." Danae pointed at the pink bottle of potion. "Pink ... don't use ... Hern ... Hernorala," Danae said. "Someone ... switched." Words were difficult, as if her throat was not meant for speaking. "Switched ... switched the bottle?" Hernorala replied. "What do you mean?" "The cook. He wants your job." Danae swallowed hard to clear her throat. "He saw ... your pink bottle. He dumped it, refilled it. Nightfruit." "Why would Jase do that?" Hernorala asked. A detached part of Danae's mind filed the cook's name away for future reference. "He wants you pregnant." Danae returned their blank stare for a long moment, forcing herself to continue caring about these two warm-blooded land dwellers. "He thinks if you ... are pregnant ... you will lose your job." Hernorala and Blen looked at each other for a long moment, then Hernorala rested her head on Blen's hip. Blen turned toward Danae, a slight smile on his face. "He's too late," Blen said. "We got married tonight. We came out here to celebrate." Danae blinked. Her shivering stopped, and a slow smile graced her blue lips. "I love Blen," Hernorala said, "and I already have Captain Tennent's permission to join the crew. I'll be coming with you. Jase can have my job." "And as for the pink potion," Blen added, looking down at his wife, "I think we can work around that." Hernorala smiled broadly and kissed his hip. "Good." Danae found herself staring out to sea again. Suddenly the urge to swim hit her like a mallet. She turned toward the edge of the ramshackle shelter and leaned forward. "Thank you, Danae!" Blen's words caught her before she could dive over. She turned back to the entwined couple. "Thank you for warning us. I'm glad you can be happy with us." Danae stared at the two, but they were just two land animals now, hot and strange. She turned back to the water. Below her, she caught sight of her own reflection in the dancing water. Dusky blue skin and wide, slitted eyes stared back at her. Her hair was matted and green, and the slope of her shoulders and breasts were plated with iridescent scales. She looked just like her grandmother had looked, the last time Danae, or anyone else, had ever seen her. Now Danae leaned over and slipped back into the water. Danae turned and swam away from the pilings. Her initial task complete, she now felt a different urge: hunger. Danae knew that the spell only lasted so long; the soup and the stew she had fed it would keep her alive only for a while in the frigid sea. The spell had to be fed, and what it was fed determined what future the spell bearer would live. Flesh or fowl, root or leaf, all these foods were fine, so long as they grew above the waterline. But fish or seaweed were a different matter. A memory flashed across her consciousness: her grandmother bobbing in the waves, green hair flowing across her bare shoulders. She'd had a distant look on her face and a fish clenched between her teeth. Danae had known even then what her grandmother was feeling, having felt that same urge herself. Now that same hunger seized her again. Over and over she repeated in her mind the warnings her father had given her of not eating fish while under the spell, but the words seemed more and more strange, mere sounds without true meaning. Her fish mind didn't care. She was free now, free to swim and taste the world. Ahead the water was lit again, and she was there in a thought, circling around the strange, slow thing. She bumped it and scratched it. Dimly her mammalian mind told her it must be the passenger barge, coming in to dock. Cold curiosity seized her, and she surfaced to take a look. The lights burned her great eyes, and the water called again, but curiosity held her aloft for a long moment. The revelers onboard stood stunned, drinks in hand, and stared back. The one woman dropped her glass and pointed. "Nisheg!" She screamed. "It's the nisheg!" The call was taken up in an instant by the others, but Danae didn't care. She dropped back into the water and swam off. Danae didn't remember catching the fish. She remembered heading for shore, and she remembered leaping easily from the water to the top of the piling. It was only then that she noticed the fish in her hands. It was still wriggling, impaled on the talons that her fingernails had become. It was otherwise intact, but only part of her mind cared about that now. She was going to eat it. She looked across the water at the ship docked not a chain away. It was the Friendly Lion. Captain Tennent stood on the deck, staring in her general direction. He must have heard the splash she had made, but he could not see her in the darkness. Danae didn't want him to see her, even though she had come to bid him goodbye. Her father had yelled and screamed when she had left her village as a girl of fifteen. Standing on the deck of the monthly trading ship as it pulled away from dock, she had watched as he helplessly shouted and cursed at her. His curses turned to pleading as the distance grew, and then to wailing, and then faded away completely. The last words Danae could make out were the ancient chant of warning against eating fish. Then he was gone. Now Danae was leaving again, but there was no one to call for her, no one to warn her. All that lingered were deep, cold thoughts that didn't want to be warned, that just wanted to eat and go, but still she sat and watched. "It was inevitable," Danae's mind told her. "The women of your family always leave. Your mother left you when she died, your grandmother left for a life in the ocean, and you left your father behind. You have no choice, really; it's in your blood. You always leave." But there was still a part of her that didn't want to leave, not really. She hadn't wanted Blen to leave; that was why she had gone out to warn them. Now he wouldn't be leaving, but he would bring in another person to the crew. What would she be then? Did the Friendly Lion really need two junior crew? It was probably best if she left. The sea would welcome her home. With a fluid motion Danae dropped off the piling and into the water. She slipped over to the side of the Friendly Lion, touching her hull and tasting the flavor of her wood in the water. Danae could also smell the blood from the fish still in her hand. Slowly she drifted to the surface, her head breaking the waterline just beside the anchor rope. There she floated, lost between two worlds. She wanted to swim away; she wanted to go back onboard and continue her life. She wanted the sea; she wanted warmth and dry clothes. She wanted an end. A movement caught her eye. From the darkness a rat swam into sight. It was coming from shore, and was heading for the nearby anchor rope. As Danae watched, the rat reached the rope and hauled itself out of the water, climbing upward. It hesitated at the old ratcatcher, sniffing about for a hole in the oft-mended device. It wants in, but it doesn't want to get caught, Danae thought, just like me. She then slipped back under the water, leaving behind only a ripple. The rat looked down briefly, then continued to search for a way in. Suddenly, below it, the water erupted. There was a squeak, and the rat was gone. After a moment Captain Tennent looked over the railing. All he saw was a dead fish floating on the water. Dawn found Captain Tennent mending sails just outside the cabin door. The docks were quietly busy, and the sky slate grey. He turned when the cabin door opened. In the dimness of the small cabin stood Danae. She paused there a moment, shielding her eyes with her hand, then she looked down at her body. The morning light revealed dusky brown skin from chest to feet. Here and there were traces of black lines. Once continuous, they were now only fragments. "Welcome back," Tennent said simply. Danae stared at him a moment. "Captain." "I fetched your clothes for you. They're under my bunk." "Thank you." "Blen came by to ask about you. I told him you came back early last night." He tugged the needle through the canvas. "I ..." Danae ran her hand through her short hair, plucking out seaweed. "Thank you." Tennent looped the needle back through the sailcloth. "You hear such crazy things on the docks these days. There's a rumor going around that a bunch of drunks from the Old City saw the sea hag's daughter last night down by the new baths. Said she came right up to their barge and nearly swamped it. Crazy, huh?" "Yes, sir. Crazy." "Of course those landlubbers called it a nisheg, but what do you expect, eh?" "Sir?" "Never mind. I also wanted to mention that Hernorala will be joining the crew as cook. You'll be in the rigging now." His voice softened a bit. "If you don't mind." "Not at all." Her voice was still rough, and she could taste salt on her lips. "Thank you for your efforts last night. Blen explained what you did." Danae tried to stifle a yawn, then surrendered to it. It felt good, felt animal. "He would have done it for me." "As would we all." She smiled. "Thank you, sir." He nodded. "Good. That'll do." Danae stood a moment longer, tracing the faded, broken lines on her thighs. She took a deep breath. "Captain?" "Yes?" "Would you mind doing me a favor?" ======================================================================== The Great Houses War Part 6: Master of the North by Nicholas Wansbutter Yuli 23 - Ober 30, 901 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-6 Part 5 of this story was printed in DargonZine 20-1 Duke Valeran Northfield was thoroughly soaked with rain water by the time he reached the sheltered confines of his pavilion. Despite the downpour, he had wanted to ensure that the sentries were posted and his army's encampment safe. He had been satisfied with the results of his inspection, and thought that, with any luck, the enemy did not know that he was here. If things stayed that way until dawn, he calculated that he could launch a devastating surprise attack and win an important city for his wife Aendasia's cause to rescue the crown from the usurper Dara, her late cousin Caeron's wife. It was still quite warm, as the rain had only begun while the army was setting up camp. He did not mind a summer soaking too much after a long, hot, dusty day of marching. He threw his drenched cloak aside and stood over the map laid out on a table in one corner. After the disaster the previous summer at Dargon Keep, where Emmeline Arval had withdrawn her army and Duke Asbridge had been soundly defeated by Duke Sumner Dargon in the ensuing confusion, things had looked troublesome for those loyal to the as yet uncrowned but true Queen of Baranur. Duchess Arval now campaigned on the side of the pretender queen, Dara, and had completely removed loyalist forces from the northern marches, which was why Valeran now had to move north away from Magnus. Valeran had been enraged at the insult of insurrection that had been hurled at his beautiful wife Aendasia. Before marrying him, she had been wife to the Beinisonian Emperor Alejandro VII, and still bore the name Blortnikson. Partly because of this, and partly because Caeron Tallirhan was a clever bastard, several of the Great Houses had rejected Aendasia as their queen, despite the fact that King Stefan II had named her his sole heir. Instead, the dead king's grandson, Caeron, had taken power. Even when he was killed at Magnus, nigh on three years ago, his wife, Dara, would not relinquish power. The common peasants derided their true queen, Aendasia, when she conquered their towns. But in the spring of 901, thanks to Emmeline Arval's treachery, Valeran had left his wife, who was now besieging Magnus once again, to put paid to Queen Dara's last strongholds in the northern marches. In the past months, he had liberated what little remained traitorous of Quinnat and most of Arvalia. He had but one task left before he turned his eyes to the final prize in his campaign. "So, you plan to assault Armand at first light, milord?" The soft, dulcet tones of Lady Charissa Ethros broke his line of thought. Valeran turned to address his vassal who must have just entered the tent. "Indeed, I do. Ever since I received word that troops from Lederia, under Caeron's uncle Hadrus, had moved into Othuldane this spring, I've known that we must end this war as quickly as possible, ere the tide that has carried us since Magnus is turned against us." Charissa Ethros merely nodded and moved further into the tent, letting the flap close behind her. She removed her cloak, tossed it onto a nearby chest, and ran her fingers through her long, silky hair that was a charming auburn only a few shades darker than Valeran's own copper locks. Valeran's heartbeat quickened as his vassal looked at him with her large, blue eyes. By Shilsara, she was a fantastically beautiful woman, even more so than Aendasia ... but of course, Valeran had been away from the marriage bed for some months now, and it seemed to take less and less with every passing sennight to make his blood run like molten metal through his veins. The corner of Lady Ethros' perfect mouth crept up into a smile, or was it a smirk? She cast a quick glance back at the tent flap, but said no more. Images flashed through Valeran's mind of grasping her in a passionate embrace, tumbling to the floor and -- No, as tempting as the image was, Valeran knew his wife was not a woman to be trifled with. He bit his lip. Aendasia would cut his cod off with her own knife, no doubt. Then she'd boil him in one of those dreadful cauldrons she'd brought from Beinison, one of the same cauldrons Sir Arnulf Bankroft had perished in after he had surrendered Narragan Keep to Aendasia. On top of it all he'd spend more years in Gil-Pa'en being feasted upon by Prince Rise'er than any woman was worth. Valeran cleared his throat, which was now dry, and reached for cups and a pitcher of wine that had been set up on another of the chests by one of his squires. "Charissa, can I offer you a drink?" "Of course, your grace." She took a few graceful steps forward and reached for the brimming cup that Valeran poured. The Duke of Northfield took a deep drink from his own cup. He cursed having to leave Aendasia for so long. When they were together, they could set their bed sheets afire with their passion, but when apart for months, he felt like a man starving to death while sitting in the centre of a banquet. "Well, I'd best start to sum, er, things up to show the lords what I ..." Valeran could feel the tension in the tent as if it were a palpable thing, and could take it no more. He let his voice trail off. Ol's blood, he sounded like a stammering youth. For Shilsara's sake! He had bedded his first maiden when he was but fifteen, nearly twenty years earlier. He'd known many women in his time, but thanks to the forced abstinence, an overbearing wife, and a distance of many leagues, he was reduced to this. Mercifully, a small group of his barons and knights barged their way into the tent much sooner than he had expected. He cast a dark look at the lady Ethros. Had her plan been to seduce him, so that he could be caught red-handed by his barons? Had Aendasia perhaps ordered the dazzling young noble to test his resolve? "Right." Anarr, one of Valeran's most seasoned battle-captains, wasted no time on pleasantries. "What is your plan, your grace?" By now most of the lords, ladies, and knights that had accompanied his army north were assembled. Using a stick, Valeran traced a rough map of Armand on the ground. "As you all know, Armand sits on the delta of the Grenweir River, which is what makes it such a busy and profitable port of trade. This also makes it a well-defended place, as it has tributaries of the river protecting it on all sides. There are four main gates, all of them stone, plus two motte-and-bailey keeps behind timber palisades; one defends the ocean approach, the other the land approach." "A formidable undertaking," Sir Lucien Enion said. "But with the element of surprise, we have a definite advantage," Anarr said, nodding his head. "Port Sevlyn was better defended, and we took that, albeit with the help of magic. Would that we still had some sorcerers with us. But at least the traitors don't have any, either." Yes, the loss of Isidoro Mon-Orthanier, Beinison's most powerful sorcerer, was a blow. He had disappeared after casting a cataclysmic spell that had helped to make a breach in the walls of Quinnat Keep and started a fire that set much of Port Sevlyn ablaze. Even so, Valeran felt that Anarr overstated the loss. In the overall view of things, magic played a marginal role in battles. Far more important were things such as morale, manpower, and bread. "Take it we shall," Valeran said, daring any of those assembled to contradict him. "I intend to make Baron Narragan pay for his treachery, for defying his own liege-lady and joining with the traitors. What better way to repay him than to take his baronial seat?" Valeran especially wanted to punish the recalcitrant baron because Aendasia had not allowed Valeran to attack Hawksbridge and attempt to capture Duchess Arval. She had said she still counted the duchess among her allies, as she did not wage open war upon Aendasia's forces. Withdrawing her armies from the war seemed treasonous enough, Valeran thought, but perhaps the outcry over the boiling of Bankroft and the hanging of his garrison had forced Aendasia into a more merciful mindset. Valeran was convinced, however, that the only way to make Baranur finally swear fealty to their true queen was to crush all of his wife's opponents with as much brutality as possible. "And what of the people of Armand?" Charissa Ethros said, arching a perfect eyebrow at Valeran. "Malicious wanton!" he thought. Even so, he couldn't help a cursory glance up and down her lithe body. He grit his teeth and warned himself not to even begin down that path. "The citizens of Armand," he sighed, "are almost as loyal to Dara as the stubborn rabble of Magnus are." Anarr and Lucien Enion nodded grimly, as did the others. "Why on 'diar are people so loyal to a pretender?" a young knight, Adele Bastonne, blurted out. "Dara, and her husband Caeron before her, have always enjoyed the support of the towns, even ere they were crowned," Anarr said. "I'd say it's mostly because they think she favours trade; Caeron was generous in granting them charters, and Dara has continued to court the guilds without shame." "Mostly at the behest of Duke Dargon, I'd warrant," Enion added. "Word has it that he's been making the real decisions in her court." Anarr shrugged. "I have heard the opposite said as well, that it was Dara who masterminded the defection of Arval and the sally from Dargon Keep that sent Duke Asbridge running with his tail between his legs. Regardless, Armand has prospered since their lord, Baldwin Narragan, switched sides. Thanks to his timing, the city has been spared much of the destruction of the southern marches. Armand has seen little war." "Moreover," Valeran said. "They've always been generous with boons to the cities. If I remember correctly, when the hospital of Holy John of Pyridain burned down in '94, Caeron and Dara paid to have it rebuilt with their own money. Not long after Caeron's so-called 'coronation', they founded that Cephas' Mercy Leper Colony, not far outside Magnus' walls. Ha! Caeron certainly didn't lose an opportunity to proselytise while he was at it, did he?" "Mayhap the people of Baranur are more easily won over by kindness than by butchery?" Charissa asked. Again, Valeran looked at the seductive noble darkly. "Empress Aendasia has been more than generous to those who are loyal. Betrayal does not deserve any mercy. The empress doesn't confuse religion with politics and you'd do well to remember that." "So, will we give Sir Thomas Pyenson, the castellan of Armand, even the chance to surrender?" Anarr asked, tactfully changing the subject. Valeran looked at his old ally appreciatively, "I think not. The hills surrounding Armand will allow us to get quite close to the city ere we are noticed. With a little luck, and some guidance from Nehru, we can storm across the bridges and take the city before the defenders have time to organise. Warning Pyenson by offering our terms will only keep the city in traitorous hands longer." Yuli 24, 901 When morning came, the rain had stopped, though the ground was still soft and moist from the previous evening's deluge. Astride his destrier, which pawed the ground impatiently, Valeran gave the final orders to his battle captains and household knights. Today's battle would be won through speed and cunning, rather than bravery, so he declined to give to his soldiers the usual rousing speeches that reviled the enemy and predicted victory. The army was arrayed in an unconventional manner, with all of the cavalry at the fore and the infantry behind them, all in a narrow formation that looked better suited to marching than fighting, but it would provide him with the speed he needed. His scouts had confirmed that Armand showed no signs that anyone was aware of the Duke of Northfield's presence, nor that of his army. "Straight, lads," Valeran said. "The moment we crest the hill, it will be a full gallop towards the closest gatehouse crossing the Grenweir. Push your steeds as hard as you can; our success depends on the cavalry making it into those gatehouses so we can keep the drawbridges down for the infantry to cross." His knights nodded and mumbled assent; everyone had been ordered to keep as quiet as possible lest their presence be detected. Valeran then looked to Anarr. "Ready, my friend?" "Always, your grace," Anarr said without a trace of fear in his voice. "We move," Valeran said. "Your grace?" One of his squires pulled up alongside the duke on his horse, bearing Valeran's great helm which was surmounted by his ducal crown and the Northfield white falcon crest. "Your helm?" "Put it away, lad," Valeran said. He couldn't be encumbered any more than need be, and on the mad gallop to the gates he'd need all of his vision. With the gods' grace, his chainmail coif would be enough to protect him. He spurred his horse to a trot and moved along the road towards the crest of the hill. As he neared the top, he could see the keep of the motte-and-bailey castle that defended the land approach to Armand. Then he could see the wooden palisade surrounding it, then the gatehouse that was his target. "For Northfield! For the empress!" he shouted, and dug the spurs on his boots deep into his mount's sides, sending the creature forward into a gallop. Valeran stood in the stirrups and guided the horse towards the gatehouse. The thunder of hooves filled his ears as the knights following him joined in the charge. A cool wind washed over Valeran's face at the speed with which the horse charged onwards. His heart began to pound in his chest as he drew nearer and nearer to Armand. Peasants working the fields around the city looked up at the rolling thunder created by hundreds of pounding hooves. A farmer directly ahead of Valeran dropped his hoe and turned to flee towards the city. Others scattered in all directions, trying desperately to escape the charging army. Valeran saw a plump young farming girl fall; she then disappeared below the closely-pressed bodies of horses. Valeran's steed was strong, the best warhorse that one of Baranur's most powerful dukes could procure. He started to pull away from his knights, but he dared not slow his pace any. He was but a hundred strides away from the gatehouse before he heard the clanging of bells over the din of the charging horses. The drawbridge leading into the gatehouse jerked and began to move upwards. Valeran urged his horse onward, with both spurs and words. He shouted a wild battle cry as the beast leapt up over the lip of the partially raised drawbridge. Next, the clatter of iron-shod hooves on wood reached Valeran's ears as his horse and several others charged down into the belly of the gatehouse. Soldiers dressed in the white and blue colours of Baron Narragan lunged at him from both sides. Valeran dispatched the closest with a quick thrust of his sword to the throat. The man fell backwards gurgling, a splash of bright red blood making macabre artwork on the stone wall. Another soldier grabbed for the reins of Valeran's horse, only to have his skull caved in by the flailing hooves of the frantic destrier. He looked about him and counted that only about a dozen of his knights had made it into the gatehouse. Expecting that Armand's gatehouse was designed in the same fashion as most, he ordered a contingent of his men to one of the gate mechanisms while he found his way towards the other. He had to duck as his horse carried him down a side corridor. The soldiers manning the drawbridge were still turning the cogwheel that raised the bridge. Valeran slashed, breaking the arms of one soldier below the elbows, then cracked the other one's pate with the backswing. The man-at-arms who'd had his arms wrecked thrashed about on the ground, screaming. "Traitors deserve no better," Valeran thought. He hopped off his horse and released the winch that sent the drawbridge thundering to the ground again. Shouts and the clamour of booted feet charging down the corridor reached his ears. A few enemy must have made it past his knights. His horse whinnied and lashed out with its hind hooves to the accompaniment of screams of a different timbre. Valeran swung about to face his opponents. He removed his shield from the horse's saddle and moved in. His mount continued to kick backwards with something approaching panic as it was cornered. Two more of the Narragan soldiers were knocked down by the blows, leaving only one, whom Valeran knocked unconscious with a whack from his shield. He could hear the clatter of hooves and the shouts of more of his own troops as they entered the gatehouse. Then the grinding of the drawbridge on the other side of the gatehouse being lowered reached his ears. He guided his horse backwards down the hallway, then remounted in the main part of the small keep. He cheered his knights on as they rushed past him into the city. Anarr pulled up next to him. "Excellent work, your grace!" "Mayhap we don't need magic after all!" Valeran shouted back. "Ensure those battering rams get through here quickly; I want the wooden palisade of the first keep breached ere we lose the surprise." Before long, the duke's battering ram was rumbling along the drawbridge and into the city. Valeran had taken up a position at the top of the gatehouse that he'd captured. From that vantage point, he could see one of his knights chasing down a group of three Narragan men-at-arms. They fled between the buildings that had grown beyond the protection of the bailey that defended the city. One of Valeran's own men-at-arms kicked in the door of a shop and charged inside, while others lit torches and hurled them at the palisade and onto thatch roofs. Next to one plaster and timber house, a skilled Northfield archer dressed in blue livery took aim and loosed his arrow, dropping a defending bowman on the wooden palisade. His place was taken by another Narragan archer who fired a crossbow bolt back at the attackers. Flames erupted on the wooden palisade that protected the keep not far away as flaming arrows struck it. Once the battering ram made it to the gate, Valeran knew that the motte-and-bailey castle would not stand for long. He returned to the ground floor, where a squire was holding his horse. Mounting it, he charged across the bridge and rejoined the fray. The battering ram smashed through the palisade gates and his troops surged into the bailey. The rest of the battle from that point forwards was a confusion of blood, flames, and screams. The defenders of the stone keep had sold their lives dearly, and Valeran and his men had had to fight from room to room before the enemy finally succumbed. At one point he remembered seeing Anarr cradling the wounded Lucien Enion in his arms. He wasn't sure where or when he saw that, but he did remember thinking about how Anarr and Enion were good friends who had grown up together, serving Valeran's father before him. He recalled the horrid stench of burning flesh as the defenders of the second keep dumped boiling oil on his troops, mere paces away from where Anarr fought with a knight wearing a tabard with a white field parted per tierce with a blue bar. The final memory he kept from that long day of battle was that of Adele Bastonne standing atop the last gatehouse to fall, bearing aloft the banner of Aendasia. "Now all that lies between Aendasia -- and me, for that matter -- and the crown, is Dargon," Valeran said, placing a foot on a piece of rubble and casting his gaze over Armand's harbour, now under his command. "Bah," Anarr spat, then thrust his sword into the ground. "What does it matter, in the end? It's all death and destruction anyway." Valeran was surprised to hear such a thing from his old comrade. "Come now, Anarr, what kind of talk is that?" Anarr looked up at him. "We've left bodies strewn across Baranur; the stench of stiffening corpses has thickened the air for five years now. It will continue for who knows how long ... I grow weary of it all." The Duke of Northfield had never seen such behaviour from his vassal. Perhaps the war was getting long; Valeran knew he hated having to live as a celibate for eight months out of every year while being on campaign. "All the more reason to end it quickly." "Perhaps if we still had magic --" "Ah, you're not still on about that, are you, Anarr?" "Fark!" Anarr stood and pulled his sword violently from the ground. "Are we going to put this town to the torch, or shall we coddle this particular band of traitors instead?" "Anarr," Valeran put a hand on the battle captain's shoulder. "I have never seen you thus before. Has the loss of Lucien wounded you that deeply?" Anarr would not meet Valeran's eyes. "Even a good shield will crack after many blows of a heavy mace." "That may be true, but I know you are made of stronger metal than that. Think you that I've made no sacrifices in this war? And I will make more still ere this war ends, but Aendasia *will* wear the crown, as is her right." Anarr merely grunted in response, and it was close to a mene before he spoke again. "Well, are we going to put this town to the torch, or no?" Valeran cast a long glance over the tiled roofs of wealthy merchants who had grown fat from the war; the gilt temples and churches; the crates of goods and casks of fine Lederian red wine and Sarna's Blood from Beinison piled high at the harbour. Yes, this city had prospered from Baron Narragan's treachery. He clenched his fists in remembrance of the citizens of Magnus, safe behind their walls, cursing Aendasia for a queenie and a Beinisonian whore. He had little doubt the people of Armand would have done the same if walls like those around Magnus shielded them. Even so, they were only civilians. Most of them were just following their lord. And what fate might meet Valeran in Gil-Pa'en if he gave the order that was politically most expedient? "I don't know, Anarr. Personally, I'm opposed to killing any civilians, and yet we can't let rebellion go unpunished." "Don't make Caeron's mistake of being led around by the soft-hearted sympathies of religion," Anarr said. "Politics and religion don't mix. Caeron learned that the hard way at Magnus." "You're right," Valeran said. In a war, one had to do what would lead to victory, even if it wasn't always right. "Raze it to the ground." "I'll do it," Anarr said. "My knights and I will stay behind while you move the rest of the army out. Mightn't hurt to set them to a bit of plundering first. That is, after all, the reason a lot of them follow you into battle." Valeran was about to rebuke Anarr and the grizzled warrior's newfound cynicism, but knew that he was likely correct. "So be it. Then on to Dargon." Over the next two months, Valeran's army moved northeast through the foothills dividing Narragan and Dargon, then into the lands of the last of his enemies. Endeirion fell quickly to him. He razed the town and scattered its inhabitants. When word reached him that Connall Dargon was near Winthrop with an army, he veered off his course that would have led through the Barony of Fennell and headed towards the Darst Range. He was unable to draw Connall into a pitched battle, however, despite chasing him for a fortnight. Tired of the enemy's constant withdrawals, Valeran laid a short siege on Winthrop Keep. This ended when Dyann Winthrop surrendered after realising that Connall Dargon was not willing to engage the Northfield forces and no other army could give him aid. Baron Talador moved north from his lands with a modest force that he offered to Valeran. The Duke of Northfield did not particularly trust the man, but accepted the fresh troops willingly, for it gave him more than a large enough force to move on the city of Dargon itself. The east bank of the Coldwell River fell easily enough, as it was not fortified, but even the Old City seemed within his grasp within a sennight. Perhaps even Dargon Keep would fall soon, he thought. Ober 30, 901 Indeed, the old part of the city of Dargon, the only portion of the place that was fortified, save the keep, fell quickly to Valeran Northfield's forces as he had expected. He now stood atop the battlements of those very fortifications, looking up at Dargon Keep, his battle commanders gathered behind him. "How long will the second seige of Dargon Keep last, I wonder?" The soft tones of Charissa Ethros' voice tickled Valeran's ears. "Were we to storm the keep tomorrow morning, it would not be soon enough," Valeran said darkly. He wanted the war and the killing over with. He felt a pain deep in his stomach over what he'd done to Armand and Endeirion. It was the right decision for bringing Aendasia the crown, he was convinced, but he didn't feel justified. "It is no small obstacle, to be sure," Anarr said. "Each of the three main towers could withstand any assault our army could muster." Valeran sighed, too quietly for his battle captain to hear, or so he hoped. It would not do to show any lack of resolve. He turned his back to the imposing castle and faced the assembled lords, ladies, and knights. As ever, Charissa Ethros was at the forefront. Even in her chainmail gambeson, he could make out the delicious curve of her hips and long shapely legs. Swallowing, Valeran cast his glance over the others assembled and returned his mind to the matter at hand. "Nevertheless, this keep shall fall. We shall starve them out, for they have nowhere to go. Connall Dargon does not yet have the forces to lift this seige, and the Lady Dara is quickly running out of supporters. Indeed, this is her last stronghold; she has nowhere to flee to." "But as you say," Charissa said, "Connall Dargon does not *yet* have a large enough force. He is likely calling out every last vassal House Tallirhan has to call upon to lift this seige." "That is of little concern," Valeran said, "for Baron Bastonne is, as we speak, gathering my vassals and will be here before the next Melrin festival, I trust. No doubt the empress will send a contingent of her Beinisonians north with him, as we have the viper trapped in its nest now." "So, all that is left of this war is waiting, then?" Dame Adele Bastonne said. "The southern marches, save Magnus, are ours. All of Dargon, save Dargon Keep itself and a few scattered baronies, is ours. Baroness Fennell is trapped in her barony, unable to join with Connall Dargon. Yes, it is but a matter of waiting." Valeran purposely did not mention the Lederian forces that had moved into Othuldane and now Redcrosse. On the twentieth of Ober, he had received word that those forces had crossed the Winink River into Redcrosse. As such, he and Aendasia could count on little support from Monrodya or any of the other northern duchies allied with the royalist cause. On the other hand, it would take a long time for King Hadrus to fight his way west to Dargon, certainly much longer than it would take Baron Bastonne to arrive. His eyes fell upon Charissa Ethros; she was smiling at him. Perhaps it was a knowing smile; she knew about the Lederians, as well. Or perhaps she knew how she could bewitch men, Valeran not least of them. "Your grace, look!" Valeran looked to the knight who had spoken and followed the man's outstretched arm back to Dargon Keep. A man-at-arms was waving a white flag from one of the battlements, signalling that someone from within the keep wished to come out to negotiate. Perhaps Dara had finally realised that it was pointless to fight any longer and she sought to surrender? "Anarr, take some of your knights and escort whichever worthy comes to speak with us to my headquarters." For the first time in five years, since before the war started, Valeran Northfield was face-to-face with Sumner Dargon, Duke of Dargon. He was as Valeran remembered him: quite unremarkable. He was of about average height, with brown hair giving way to grey, and a placid face. It seemed ironic that the most influential lord in the usurper's court would be so average. "My good Lord Sumner," Valeran did not rise from his seat behind the desk in the commandeered merchant's home. "I would greet you as a friend, save that you have betrayed your queen." "I have not betrayed House Tallirhan, the rightful rulers of this land," Dargon replied. That reply made Valeran's blood boil, but he maintained an outwardly calm mask. "Come now, the last rightful Tallirhan ruler, King Stefan II, explicitly made Aendasia his heir." "We both know that no vassal is required to obey an unjust order. King Stefan, may God assoil him, was half-made ere he died, and vindictive towards his grandson and his heirs because they were -- are -- Stevenics." Valeran chuckled. "'May God assoil him' -- you are starting to sound like a Stevenic, yourself! Could it be you have apostatised yourself from the Olean faith as Caeron did?" "I am true to Ol and the whole pantheon," Dargon countered, "and I find it highly ironic that I am defending my faith to a man who has burned and pillaged his way through Narragan and Dargon." "Come now, Sumner," Valeran replied. "I keep my faith and my politics separate, which is why I am on the side near victory. You can save the high-and-mighty attitude; Oleanism has no place in running a country." Despite his outward bombast, Valeran felt that his adversary had scored a hit there and it irked him all the more. Valeran remembered the crackle of the flames over Armand and the scream of women as they fled his troops. Was he any better than Rise'er the butcher king who now ruled over the Olean underworld? He took several deep breaths before continuing; he would not let Sumner Dargon get the better of him in this exchange. Dargon, only a second generation duke, compared to Valeran who was the forty-third duke of Northfield. This traitor who lectured him on morals! "Enough." Valeran waved a dismissive hand. "What is it you're here for, Lord Dargon? To finally surrender to the rightful queen and end this bloody war?" Dargon pulled a face of mock surprise. "Why, my lord Northfield, I had not expected you to give in so easily. But if you wish to surrender to the rightful ruler, Queen Dara, then --" "Don't play games with me, Sumner!" Valeran suddenly exploded. He grit his teeth and clutched the arms of his chair. When he had seen that his enemy's most trusted advisor had come to negotiate, he'd had hopes that he might see his wife by year's end. How he longed for her! But Duke Dargon's insults did not bode well. "It is Lady Dara's surrender to *me* that we are here to discuss!" "Is it?" "If not, then what have you come here for?" Duke Dargon cleared his throat. "I have been ordered by Queen Dara to offer you a last chance to swear fealty to her. She has ordered that if you repudiate allegiance to the Duchess of Northfield, she will overlook your past transgressions and --" "Now you really are joking, Dargon!" Valeran shot to his feet. "Has Dara gone completely mad, or have you?" "It is not madness," Duke Dargon replied. "We will win this war, eventually. The queen is being most ... benevolent ... and offering you this final chance." "Let us be realistic, Dargon," Valeran said. "We both know that you are on the brink of defeat. You are in no position to offer *me* terms of surrender. Surely you can do better than that." "We have both seen many campaigns," Dargon said, his tone becoming more deferential. "Certainly we can reach some compromise." "I can hardly think of anything I would accept short of your surrender." "Let Queen Dara leave Dargon Keep peacefully, and allow her safe conduct to the lands held by King Hadrus of Lederia, and I will surrender Dargon Keep to you." Duke Dargon had a pained look on his face as he spoke the words, such that Valeran believed he spoke truth this time. "What manner of fool do you take me for?" he said, filling his voice with venom. "The war is this close to being won. Why should I allow Dara to escape my grasp?" "What harm can it do you?" "Allow her to prance about pretending she's queen a while longer? Perhaps give her a chance to find some more allies? No, as unlikely as I think there is any chance of that, I will not allow her to leave." "Then I suppose we have nothing more to discuss," Duke Dargon said. "Wait!" Valeran shouted. "You said something of compromise. I will not allow Dara to roam free, but what if I were to promise that she would not be harmed upon surrendering the crown, and could live under house arrest in Crown Castle?" He wondered whether Aendasia would honour such a deal. He didn't have the authority to make such an offer, but he was willing to take the risk if it meant getting home this year. He'd had enough of campaigning, enough of being away from the marriage bed, especially with that wanton Charissa Ethros lurking about like a hunting cat. Thinking of her made his hands tremble as he clutched the table. No, Aendasia certainly would not accept that! He'd spend the rest of his days as a eunuch, or worse. "No, she is the true queen; she cannot surrender the crown," Duke Dargon said simply, then strode out of the room before Valeran could say any more. "Ol's balls!" he cursed. Dargon had gotten the better of him; he had gotten under Valeran's skin. Worst of all, Valeran had shown to his enemy his weakness: that he wanted the war over. Dargon's resolve had seemed like that of a stone. Valeran *would* have to starve Dara out of that keep. Part of him wanted to vent his fury by ordering an assault on the castle walls, but he remembered the result when his wife Aendasia had done just that at Magnus. "Damn them!" "I take it the negotiations did not go as you had planned, your grace?" The seductive female voice was sweet to his ears as a good goblet of claret was to the tongue. He didn't need to look up to know that the lithe form of Charissa Ethros was gliding towards him through the doorway. The scent of fresh jasmine reached his nostrils and he could feel his chest tighten. She slid onto the table, sitting on it, stretching one long leg luxuriously along the far edge of it. She had changed from her chainmail and tabard into a silky-soft green dress. Her auburn hair hung down to rest on the table. Now Valeran did raise his eyes to look at her. Her large, blue eyes locked with his. His mouth and throat were suddenly very dry. Ol's balls, why did she have to come here now? He swallowed with effort and asked, "What do you desire of me, Lady Ethros?" She leaned in a little closer and whispered, "All of you, your grace." By Shilsara! He felt flames leap into his loins. A battle raged within him. Part of him wanted desperately to bed the beautiful and wholly desirable woman before him. The other part of him had a sense of what would be the end result should he give into the first part. On the other hand, what did it matter? He'd set his army loose to commit what amounted to brigandage all across the northern marches. Perhaps what mattered was that it would be just as politically unwise as morally to have anything to do with Charissa Ethros. "I am a married man, as you well know, my lady. Married to your queen and empress!" She did not say anything for a few moments; instead the smile, the smirk he had seen before on her, crept onto those perfect lips. "Ah well, perhaps you are right. Mayhap it would be better for you to wait another six months before you make use of your manhood again." "Shilsara's Bed!" Valeran cursed. "What is wrong with you? What do you want? You could have any man in the camp!" "I suppose that, milord, is the problem." She moved off the table, but arched her back as she did so in such a way that the shape of her wonderfully firm buttocks was made quite apparent through the dress she wore. Valeran could take no more; he no longer cared about consequences! He'd been seduced by this woman long enough, fought the urge despite being away from Aendasia nigh on eight months. He had done his duty; he owed Aendasia no more. It was her fault anyway for ordering him to this faraway duchy while she remained in the southern marches. He'd already given up every moral he'd held and ordered the murder of countless innocents for Aendasia's crown. He raced around the table, past Charissa Ethros, and slammed the door shut. She let out a soft gasp, but as he turned to face her he could see from the inviting smile that this was exactly in her plan. He didn't care. May he burn in Gil-Pa'en for a thousand years, he didn't care. When it was all over, and Valeran's ravenous hunger finally sated, he realised what he had done. The warm afterglow of the act receded in an instant and he was left feeling both guilty and terrified. He'd done exactly what he'd been so desperately trying to avoid: he'd mixed religion with politics, allowing his Olean guilt to lead him into this disastrous liaison. ========================================================================