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DargonZine - Volume 3, Number 2
From [email protected] Tue May 12 10:34:56 1992
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E ||Volume 3
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-- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 2 02/02/90 Cir 939 --
------------------------------------------------------------------------
-- Contents --
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gift of War M. Wendy Hennequin Deber 17-18, 1014
Conflict of Interest II John Doucette No 2, '13-De 17, '14
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Gift of War
by M. Wendy Hennequin
(b.c.k.a. HENNEQUI_WEM@CTSTATEU)
The moment the maid admitted Marcellon into the townhouse, he
called her: "Sable! Myrande!"
"She's in the other room, your lordship," the maid, a wench named
Yara, informed him. "I believe she was a wee bit sick, your lordship,
but--"
"I'm all right," said the young Countess of Connall, Myrande
Shipbrook Connall. She stood in the doorway, easy and dignified. Her
grey gown complemented her raven hair, ebony eyes, and dark skin.
Marcellon's mouth twitched with a smile; she was not unnaturally pale,
but he had seen her darker. "Yara, you may go." Myrande crossed the
room and gestured to a chair. "What may I do for you, Lord Marcellon?"
"I've just received a message from the King," the mage revealed,
displaying a bit of parchment with the royal seal on it. "A ship from
Beinison has just arrived in the city."
"Luthias--?" Myrande began, hardly daring to hope.
"No, he's still the Empire, but the King has received a pouch
from him, and apparently the Emperor has sent the King a gift, to be
presented this afternoon to the King by the Imperial Ambassador, Count
Tyago."
Myrande sighed. Marcellon knew the separation from her new
husband was difficult for her. Myrande had known Luthias all her life;
her father was castellan in his father's keep since before Myrande was
born. Life without Luthias and his late brother Roisart was alien to
her. She asked, "A gift?"
"A peace offering, I should think."
"Then...perhaps...the King might allow me to go to him."
"Join Luthias in the Beinison Empire? I think not," Marcellon,
mage and physician, said. "You look pallid, Sable," he continued,
affection in his voice. Myrande, who was staying in her new house in
Magnus while at the War Council, had become like another daughter to
him. His own daughter's husband, Clifton, Duke of Dargon, was staying
at the mage's home during the Council. But Myrande, though unrelated,
bore a striking resemblance in carriage and character to Marcellon's
late wife. Though Myrande knew of Marcellon's power, she, like his
wife, was not afraid of him; once, in the summer, she had stood up to
Marcellon in defence of the mage's daughter. Marcellon took a deep
breath. His daughter, too, had been pale.
"Besides," he continued, "your maid said you were ill. Nausea
again, Myrande?" She nodded. "And your sleepiness...still?" Again, the
Countess nodded. "The King is concerned about you, and so am I. Have
you any idea what is wrong?"
Suddenly, Myrande smiled. "I know what is...wrong, Marcellon, and
I suspect you know as well as I--"
"I do have my suspicions," the High Mage smiled, "as I have told
Sir Edward and the King." Marcellon patted a black leather pouch, in
which he kept his medical supplies. "I can tell you for certain."
She looked at him, mildly amused. "I thought you were a wizard,
not a doctor."
Marcellon smiled. "One can hardly be one without the other, young
lady. The training, especially in the potions, is remarkably similar.
And I have the herbs which can tell for certain whether or not you are
indeed bearing a child."
"Thank you, but I don't need the herbs," Myrande refused
politely. "I've been a midwife for six years, and I already know for
certain."
"When shall the child be born?"
"At the beginning of Yule, I should think," Myrande calculated.
She smiled. "I can't tell you exactly, like Lauren can, but it should
1be close to Luthias' birthday."
"With all luck, he should be home by then," Marcellon agreed. He
smiled. "You seem to have all well in hand. Perhaps you should become
my apprentice." The High Mage rose. "Come, Myrande, we must attend the
King."
"Now?"
"Yes, the King has called immediate court for the presentation of
the gift."
"Despite the storm?" Myrande asked, doubtfully casting a glance
at the falling snow.
"Yes. This is important; besides, most of the nobles are staying
at the palace or near it. My house here isn't that far; nor is yours."
"I know, but I'm unused to anything happening in Deber--
especially when there's snow falling."
"Snow comes early and fiercely to Dargon," Marcellon agreed. "It
isn't like that here in the south. Come along, Countess. The King
awaits."
The Duke of Dargon met Marcellon, his father-in-law, and Myrande,
his cousin's wife, at the King's palace in the city of Magnus. The
great hall was tall, cold, and impersonal; yet the hundred or so
nobles gathered from all the land of Baranur warmed it a little, as
did their cheerful looks. Clifton Dargon smiled at Myrande and bowed
slightly to her, as did her cousin, Warin, Lord of Shipbrook, who was
also in Magnus for the War Council.
"Did the King tell you?" Clifton asked his father-in-law. "After
the meeting with you, Sir Edward, and the rest of the War Council last
night, the King has made the decision not to attack the Beinison
Empire."
"Good thing, too," Myrande acknowledged. "The last thing we need
is a war."
Yes, a good thing, Countess, Marcellon thought, for your husband
would be the first casualty in that conflict. But the mage said, "Your
young hot-headed friends will be disappointed, Baron Shipbrook."
Warin shook his head. "No doubt, your excellency. They think of
war as a toy and they wish to play with it. All they think about is
the glory of the wars we've read about at the University, about being
heroes, about battling for the King."
Perhaps those books should be writ in blood, not ink, Marcellon
thought. "I must attend the King," Marcellon excused himself.
"Clifton, see to the Countess." Clifton smiled at the tone of the
command. He and Myrande had been friends since Myrande was a child
playing with Clifton's cousins, Roisart and Luthias, the latter now
her husband and the Count of Connall. "I shall see you shortly,
Myrande," he said his farewell. "Baron Shipbrook."
Marcellon weaved his way to the vestry behind the throne. The
King, Haralan, was not yet there, and neither was his other chief
advisor, Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of the Armies. Marcellon sat
down softly on a cushioned chair and stared out at the snow.
It fell peacefully, gently, the first snow of the season. As
Marcellon watched, it turned gold, then blood red.
Quickly, Marcellon blinked the vision away. Gold, and red, in the
snow. A chill took him, and he frowned. Another vision. The third
within a week, all three of gold and blood. Odd, very odd. Something
powerful--
"Ah, Marcellon," the King greeted him from behind. The mage rose
smoothly and nodded to the King, then to Edward Sothos, the scarred
man who stood with him. "Help me into this cloak, will you, Edward?"
The King smiled at his chief advisor, the mage, the most powerful
wizard in Baranur. "What think you, Marcellon? Will this gift bring
1peace?"
"I think, your majesty," Marcellon began slowly, then stopped.
"What do you think?"
"I think, your majesty, that there will be war."
"Ah, so I should refuse this gift."
"That would be extremely bad form, Haralan," Edward softly
reminded him. "And it would indeed start the war you wish to avoid."
"There will be no war so long as the Empire does not attack us,"
the King said firmly. "I feel no great need to fight."
"They did try to trick us into warring with Bichu by killing the
late Baron of Connall and his son, and accusing the Duke of Dargon of
treason," Edward mused. "I am not sure we can avoid dealing with that
issue."
"We have only Coranabo's word and the Count Connall's speculation
for the truth of that, Edward," the King admonished the Knight
Commander gently. "We will not fight a war for that." The KIng of
Baranur smiled. "I wonder what this gift shall be."
"Bloody gold," Marcellon muttered.
"What is that?"
"Nothing, your majesty," the High Mage lied. "Let us go."
The King gave a nod to a nearby servant, who in turn gave a
signal to the heralds. The royal trumpets swiftly announced the King's
presence. Haralan stood regally, and started for the door which would
open to the side of the dais. Marcellon followed, a pace behind, to
the King's right. Edward, parallell to the High Mage, was on his left.
When the King stood before the throne, the assembly of nobles
bowed, and the King returned the respect with a nod. "Be seated, my
lords and ladies," the King commanded royally. "A message of peace has
come from the Beinison Empire."
Around the long tables, the nobles sat, muttering amongst
themselves. Marcellon had known the news; Countess Myrande knew, as
did the Duke of Dargon, but this was new information to the rest of
Baranur's noblility. The herald cried out, "His majesty calls forth
the Count of Tyago, Ambassador of his Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of
Beinison."
And the boy came forward. Marcellon couldn't think of Count Tyago
as anything else. He was a thin young man, blond, with blue eyes as
innocent as the sky. His face was decked in happiness as he came
forward with two servants, one who carried a roll of sealed parchment,
another who bore a gold coffer inlaid with jewels.
"You have a message for us, do you not, Count Tyago?" asked the
King, his voice respectful, yet superior, as befitted his station.
"I do, your royal majesty," the boy said. How old could he be?
Marcellon wondered. Seventeen, eighteen perhaps? Younger than Luthias,
certainly. They were both too young to be ambassadors, Marcellon
thought. "His Imperial Majesty has sent me a missive to read to you,
and a gift." The boy held out his hand for the parchement. He broke
the seal ceremoniously and began to read in a loud voice:
"From his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Untar the Second, greetings
unto his Majesty, the King of Baranur, who seeks peace with Us." Count
Tyago paused, took a breath. "Your Count of Connall has presented your
case before us, and We have considered it carefully with Our wisest
counsellors. We have listened to the Count Connall, and how your
Kingdom wishes to avoid war with Our Empire."
Marcellon grimaced. Luthias would never present Baranur's case
from a point of vunerability. Luthias knew too much about war to do
that. Yet, the Empire chose to see it so.
"To end all further uncertainty between Our fair Countries, we
have sent to you this gift, which shall clarify Beinison's intention
toward Baranur forever."
1 Count Tyago bowed, rolled the parchment, and sent the servant
forward to present it to the King. Sir Edward took it, unrolled it,
then nodded to Haralan. The Count's words were accurate. Marcellon
looked over at the paper. Still uneasy, still uneasy, a message of
peace, and he was still uneasy.
"It seem that your sensible Emperor is friendly to us, your
grace," King Haralan said, his voice laced with magnaminity, to the
Count. "Pray, what is the gift you bear us?"
"In truth, your royal majesty, I do not know," the boy confessed.
"But from his Imperial Majesty's letters to me, I suspect that the
Count of Connall deeply impressed him, and he sends this gift partly
in esteem of the Count."
"The young Count Connall has done well," Haralan pronounced. How
a man as young as Haralan could be as pompous as Haralan was
sometimes, Marcellon could not fathom. "Bring us the gift." The
servant started forward. "No..." the King changed his mind, "bring it
to the Countess Connall, as it was her lord and husband who inspired
this gift." He gestured to Myrande, who sat next to the Duke of
Dargon, a mere two seats from Marcellon.
Myrande stood gracefully as the servant approached. She thanked
the servant.
Something was wrong. Marcellon gazed at the coffer between her
two small, dark hands.
Uneasy, uneasy, what was it that made him so uneasy? "It must be
magical, your majesty," Countess Myrande said to the King. "It is so
light."
"It is a possibility, my lady," Count Tyago informed her.
"Mon-Taerleor, the Emperor's wizard, is said to have made for his
Imperial Majesty this gift for your Kingdom."
Marcellon stared at the golden coffer, a cube somewhat bigger
than a man's head, in sharper apprehension. Mon-Taerleor: Marcellon
knew the name and the man, and raised an eyebrow. Alexander
Mon-Taerleor, his old friend: the thought should have comforted him,
but it didn't. Still, despite his ill ease, Marcellon was curious.
What would Mon-Taerleor have done to impress a King, to honor young
Luthias, the Count of Connall?
Mon-Taerleor. Marcellon almost smiled at the memories of his
fellow apprentice, but still, the fear gripped him. Chills of terror
coursed through his suddenly and with force. Something was wrong--so
wrong!
He reached out and touched the King's arm--a bold gesture to be
performed in Court, even by the High Mage. The King, annoyed, scowled
at his advisor. Marcellon shook his head. "Haralan," he hissed, and
the King lost some of his anger to puzzlement; Marcellon almost never
called him by name. "Take it from her. Do not make her open it."
Marcellon gazed over at Myrande with uneasy urgency; she was loosening
the latch.
For a moment, Marcellon saw Haralan wrestling mentally, wondering
if he should reprimand the High Mage. Finally, the King said, "Be
easy, Lord Marcellon. It is a gift of peace."
"Haralan--"
The Countess' scream cleaved the exepectant silence of the Court
and sliced the rest of Marcellon's protest from his tongue. The High
Mage whirled and saw the white-faced Duke of Dargon swat the golden
box from her in a shocked attempt to close the coffer. It flew from
Myrande's hands towards the King.
The box landed on the table before Haralan and his two chief
advisors. The gift bounced onto the table and thudded to a halt in
front of the King. Stunned, then quickly sad, Marcellon stared into
the death-frozen eyes of the Count of Connall.
1 Pale, Clifton instantly whirled Myrande to him, held her head
against his chest. "Don't look," Marcellon heard his son-in-law rasp.
"He wouldn't want you to see this."
Next to the High Mage, the King rose, fury in his movement. "What
means this?" the monarch demanded, gesturing to the severed head of
his ambassador. "You will pay--"
"Your majesty, he's only a boy," Edward Sothos counseled softly.
"A pawn...as was Luthias."
"Remove the Count Tyago," Haralan ordered angrily. "I will call
for him later." Palid and frightened, the boy-count bowed and left
with his attendants and a smattering of royal guards. The King turned
to his High Mage. "I should have listened to you, Marcellon." He
sighed, looked at the Count of Connall's wife. "Remove the Countess."
Shrilly, Myrande's voice rose from the depths of Clifton's arms,
"The Countess does not wish to be removed!"
The Court was buzzing, men were moving, and some came forward
boldly to see the gift. "There will be war!" the Duke of Northfield
cried. "Your royal majesty, you cannot ignore this!"
"No," agreed the King firmly, "we shall not ignore this. The man
who dares treat my ambassador so shall be punished--and promptly."
"War now!" suggested a Baron, and the cry rose up insanely, "War!
War now!"
Again, Myrande's scream split the air of the great hall: "No!"
Startled, the nobles fell into silence. With the strength of shock and
pain and anger, she broke Clifton's strong, frantic grasp and turned
to face the court. She had not been unnaturally pale before, but her
face was a ghastly grey now, and Marcellon feared for her and the
child she carrried. "Do you want that Luthias will have died for
nothing? Do you want your sons, your brothers, your grandsons, to die
for lack of food or from the cold? Do you damned idiots think that you
can fight a war in the winter? The supplies will be blocked, and men
will starve and die of disease and frostbite."
"We can invade Beinison, Countess," the Duke of Northfield told
her in a superior tone. "It is warmer there--"
"Oh, yes, invade the strongest Empire on the continent!" Clifton
spat. "Your majesty," Clifton appealed, turning to the King, "this is
what the Emperor wants, that we will enter into this at a foolish
time, do foolish things--"
"Do you want your kinsman's death to go unavenged?" sneered a
Baron.
"I have more cause than any of you to wish the bastards who
ordered Luthias' death tortured dead!" Myrande screamed at him. "Yet I
do not want a hundred thousand men to die for him because of your
stupidity and impatience!"
"Lady, you offend me!" the Baron cried.
"Accept my pity that the truth offends you," Myrande snapped.
"But if we fight Beinison now, we will have two enemies, the Empire
and the winter."
"I demand satisfaction," the Baron insisted.
"I must agree with the Countess' view." The Knight Commander
spoke calmly and simply, but he glared at the Baron menacingly. "If
you wish satisfaction, you may have it from me at your leisure."
"I too agree with the Countess and with the Duke of Dargon,"
added Marcellon. "We may yet triumph over Beinison, mighty as they
are, but over nature, we are powerless."
The King nodded. "There will now be a true war council, and there
will be war," he announced. "But I will not fight the winter and
Beinison both. We shall wait until the spring--and then, death to them
all!" A cheer rose. Marcellon frowned at the bloody thirst; he saw
Clifton scowl. Myrande looked ill. The King waved at a herald. "Bring
1before us the Count Tyago."
Swiftly, the boy was ushered into the court. With nervous
quickness, the Count bowed. "You will remain here until spring, in
your embassy, under guard" the King announced. "We will not treat the
Emperor's ambassador as shamefully as he treated ours, yet we will
allow no communication with your Emperor until you are returned after
the thaw."
"Perhaps, one?" asked a small voice, and the King turned to see
Myrande.
The King looked at her, his gaze sorrowful and kind. "What do you
wish, Countess?"
Myrande took a deep breath, and stepped forward. "I would wish
that the Count Tyago request of his Emperor that Lu--Count Connall's
body be returned to me, that he may be buried beside his father and
brother."
"I do not know if that would be possible in any case, your
grace," the boy-Count said sadly. "I am suprised they bothered to send
the head. Usually, the Emperor hangs offenders, slitting their
throats, and leaving their bodies to the birds and dogs."
Myrande groaned, put a hand over her mouth and the other over her
belly, and closed her eyes. Marcellon, fearing the worst, moved toward
her, but she held up a staying hand and dry-heaved.
"Count Tyago," said the King omnimously, "you are dismissed." The
boy bowed and left.
Pale and beaten, Myrande came forward. "With your permission,
sire," she whispered, and she reached out for Luthias' head.
"You shouldn't do that, Myrande," Marcellon admonished sternly.
The High Mage gestured his son-in-law and the Countess' cousin Warin
forward, then reached out himself to take the head into his hands. For
a moment, he stared full into that face, which he had seen animated
with life; then, Marcellon placed it gently in the box, closed the
eyes, and shut the coffer.
"Let him be entombed in the royal crypt," declared the King.
Impatiently, Haralan whirled and left the hall. Immediately, the
herald cried, "The Court of his royal majesty the King is dismissed."
An eerie stillness, more silent than winter, reigned over
Marcellon's house as the snow continued to fall that night. Clifton
had stayed with Myrande, whom they had brought to the High Mage's
home; Marcellon mixed a potion.
Luthias' head stared up at him from the bluish liquid...
Marcellon cleared his mind again, continued to mix the potion. It
boiled over an alcohol burner; the fire was bright.
Again, the Count of Connall's visage gazed at him, but something
was wrong with it.
The High Mage grimaced in an effort to concentrate. The vision
cleared. Vision? No, just an image from his memory; it was the head of
the Count of Connall, as he had held it between his hands today.
Something about it haunted him. The poor boy...poor Myrande.
Yes, Myrande--he had to finish this potion. Carefully, he took a
glass rod and stirred it.
Luthias' face was again in the beaker. Somehow, it seemed
incomplete.
This had to stop! Marcellon took the potion from the fire, poured
into a goblet half-full with mulled wine.
Within the wine, he saw again the face of Count Luthias Connall.
Determined, Marcellon took up the wine cup and left the room. No
matter what, he could not let this memory interfere. He had work to
do, magic to plan, a Countess to take care of...
With a soft knock, Marcellon entered Myrande's chambers. Clifton
1sat at the table, writing something. She sat, dressed in only a white
flannel shift, gazing at the floor. Her face was not hard, or wreaked
by pain, nor aflame with fury, but dull, blank. The High Mage frowned.
He did not like this.
"Myrande," he said softly. Myrande looked at him immediately.
"Drink this."
"I don't want it," the Countess insisted, keeping her voice low
in an effort to disguise her pain. Marcellon sensed it in any case,
and the sorrow leaked into her whispered words despite her. "I'm..."
She swallowed and looked away.
"Drink, Myrande," Marcellon insisted. "For the sake of the child
you carry. I feared for you today."
Myrande looked at him, but did not take the goblet. "I'm all
right. I'm not dead yet...but they all are, Father and Mother and
Uncle Fionn and Roisart, and now Luthias...Luthias...God, it nearly
killed me once, when I thought he died at the same time as his
brother...I feel like the world is gone."
Marcellon ached for her, gazed at the cup, and saw Luthias' head
again, as it had stared up at him today when he had replaced it in the
jeweled box.
"My family is gone, all of them," Myrande continued, in a voice
stunned and painful. "I have no one..nothing...no where even to live."
"That is not true," Marcellon stated flatly. "You are always
welcome here in my home, Myrande."
"And in mine," Clifton added, rising from the table. "Warin
wouldn't turn you away, and neither would your mother's kin, the
Taladors. In any event," the Duke of Dargon continued, approaching the
Countess, "you have your own home--several." He handed her a piece of
parchment with his great seal upon it.
"What is this?" she asked.
"As Luthias' child isn't yet born, Connall, its holdings, the
town house in Dargon, and the house here in Magnus revert to me,"
Clifton explained.
"I know," Myrande said dully. "Why else would I not have a home?"
"You have a home," Clifton assured her firmly. "My father granted
that land to Uncle Fionn for him and his children; I grant it to you,
Myrande, for you and yours."
Myrande took a shuddering breath. "My children? What children?
How am I ever going to have children? He's gone," she sobbed.
Determined, she choked it down, but her eyes still held tears.
"Drink this," Marcellon whispered, and this time, she obeyed
blindly. Clifton gestured for the maid, and both men left the room
uncomfortably.
When the door was shut, Marcellon saw that his son-in-law was
more disturbed than when his cousin's head had laid before him. The
High Mage put a hand on the Duke's arm. Clifton choked, "She- -it must
be worse on her than--I've not seen her this close to crying since she
was a baby. She has too much pride to weep in front of anyone; I doubt
even Luthias has ever seen her cry."
Marcellon placed a hand on his son-in-law's shoulder. "Are you
all right, Clifton?"
Luthias' face hid in Clifton's eyes. "I'm all right, Father. But
he was the last of my kinsmen--" The Duke of Dargon stopped, regained
his voice. "They were so young. Uncle Fionn was only forty-five,
younger than you are."
"Early death is no uncommon thing," Marcellon disagreed. "Your
father couldn't have been--"
"That's different. The Red Plague takes everyone. But Roisart
survived it; he was going to be in the university now, learning how to
be Baron. Uncle Fionn and Sir Edward wanted to make Luthias a Knight."
1 "I know, my son, I know," Marcellon soothed. "You should rest."
"No, I think I'd better stay with Sable," Clifton suggested. "She
won't sleep tonight--"
"No, she will," Marcellon assured him. "The potion will make her
sleep. I'll not risk her health, nor the babe's. Trust me, Clifton."
The Duke of Dargon almost smiled. "I do trust you."
"Now go," the High Mage ordered. "You need the rest." Marcellon
jerked his head down the hall. "I had rooms prepared for you."
"I don't know if I can," Clifton confessed. "It's
rather...unnerving to see the man you called your brother...to see him
sent home, piecemeal, in a box."
"If you need it, I shall make you a potion, too," Marcellon joked
lightly. "Now, go to sleep."
"Yes, Father," Clifton almost laughed at the imperious tone of
the final command, and the Duke of Dargon slipped into his rooms.
The High Mage sighed, stared at the door--
Luthias' face lurked within the wood.
Damn it all! He could not banish that sight from his mind. And it
was not the shock, nor the horror, nor the anger which kept the vision
recurring. No, he had seen worse, much worse, in the time when he was
in Beinison, learning from the now-dead Styles. No, something nagged
him; something was wrong, more than the obvious injustice.
Wrong--something was wrong with that head!
Furious at the visions, Marcellon strode to his room. Wrong with
it--it was severed from its body, that is what was wrong with it. The
life, the animation, was gone from the eyes, the soul from the body--
Marcellon threw open the door to his bed chamber, slammed it shut--
The Count of Connall stared at him from a hanging mirror. "Why do
you haunt me?" demanded the High Mage in an enraged whisper. He gazed
at the head. Something was wrong, missing...
Stubbornly, Marcellon blinked the vision away. Then he turned,
lit a candle, and pulled a chair to a nearby table on which sat a
bundle of black cloth. Marcellon pulled the velvet away and dusted the
crystal ball. "Then show me," he challenged.
Marcellon gazed at the ball, cleared his mind, and let his eyes,
his soul, see only the crystal. Yes, the crystal...then the mist.
The mist cleared, and Marcellon saw a riverbank, in the summer,
some people...
Yes, they were closer now. A young man, of twenty perhaps, in
riding clothes, brandishing a sword and laughing. Suddenly, Marcellon
realized he gazed a younger version of his son-in-law.
There were others with him, two boys and a girl. The boys were
tall and slim in the manner of young men growing too quickly. They
both looked strong, though one looked slightly more athletic, and the
other squinted in the sun. They laughed loudly (though silently, to
Marcellon) on the riverbank, and the more athletic lad retrieved a
sword from his saddle.
The girl was dark of hair and eyes. She, too, wore riding
clothes--boy's riding clothes--and her figure was just beginning to
distort them. Her eyes laughed at the playful challenge that Marcellon
knew his son-in-law had issued. The more athletic twin brandished the
sword, smiled at the girl, and attacked his Clifton boldly.
Clifton parried well, but Marcellon could tell that only his
superior training saved him. The athletic boy was naturally skilled,
and somewhat trained beside. He attacked Clifton again. His twin and
the girl cheered.
Again, the boy attacked his cousin. Suddenly, his body betrayed
him; Marcellon, the physician, recognized the clumsiness of a young
man whose body had recently spurted in growth and whose mind had not
adjusted completely to the change. He attacked, but missed, and
1tripped; Clifton swept a blow at him, laughing, and it contacted.
Blood dripped onto the grass. Marcellon could see the girl gasp;
she rushed forward, snatching a napkin from the picnic on her way.
Quickly, she pressed it to the cut. The boy brushed her away in an
effort to be manly about the wound, but kept the handkerchief, quickly
soaking the blood, to his head.
Marcellon blinked. The vision had disappeared.
Clifton on a picnic with twin boys: they were Roisart and
Luthias, obviously. Younger, perhaps fourteen. So the dark-haired girl
of thirteen was Myrande, a younger Myrande who knew no grief for
father or mother or uncle or brother or husband.
A picnic on the river...yes, Marcellon and Clifton and Lauren had
taken an excursion with Luthias and Myrande to the same place some
time that summer. Clifton had said it had been a favorite retreat when
they all were boys.
But this vision was merely a dream of childhood. It signified
nothing.
Suddenly Marcellon understood. Nothing--that was the problem.
There had been *no scar on Luthias' head*.
Marcellon left the room hastily, intending to ride immediately to
the palace. Then a thought overtook him: was it Luthias who had been
scarred, or Roisart his twin? It would make sense that Luthias, the
warrior, who would have been Knighted, would be the more athletic twin
whom Clifton wounded, but still--
One person would know. The High Mage ran to his son-in-law's
suite, and knocked loudly. "Clifton!"
"Come."
Marcellon entered and asked quickly, "Which of the twins did you
cut in a fight?"
The question seemed to startle the Duke. "Both of them, at one
time or another. Nothing like what they did to me, though."
"You went on a picnic, and fought one of the twins. He lost."
"Oh, that," Clifton realized. "That was...seven years ago. He was
so angry; I'd spoiled his looks."
"He had a scar."
"Yes."
"It was Luthias who was scarred?" Clifton nodded. "Where?"
demaned the High Mage.
"Over his right eye. He was nervous about it when Sir Edward came
to Dargon--"
"Thank you, Clifton," Marcellon finished abruptly, and he fled
the room.
Due to the snow, it took Marcellon much longer than he would have
liked to reach the palace. He entered boldly and demanded to see the
King and Sir Edward Sothos.
"How is the Countess?" the King asked when he was admitted.
Haralan shook his head. "It is all my fault. I should have never sent
that young man...and now his lady..."
Marcellon, in his urgency, ignored him. "Where is the Count's
head? I must see it."
Startled out of his guilt, the King called a servant and sent for
it. "Marcellon, I don't understand."
"I don't either, your majesty--yet," Marcellon answered in way of
explanation.
"What is wrong?" Sir Edward inquired.
"We shall see," Marcellon promised, grabbing the jeweled coffer
from the swift servant. With all haste, the High Mage opened it,
removed the head.
The forehead was smooth and perfect...no scar.
"He has no scar," Marcellon announced. "Count Connall had a scar
1over his right eye, and this head has no scar."
"A scar? I never noticed a scar," Sir Edward protested.
"It was seven years old, and therefore would have been very
light. Truth be told, I never noticed it either," Marcellon confessed.
"But Clifton assured me it was there. It was he himself who made the
cut."
"Perhaps it is healed beyond visibility," the King suggested.
"I doubt it, your majesty," Marcellon argued. "The Duke of Dargon
told me that his cousin was *scarred.* He bore a scar. And light as it
must be by now, I am looking for it, and it is not there."
"Then this cannot be the Count's head," Sir Edward concluded.
"Exactly," Marcellon confirmed, turning it to examine it. After a
minute, the High Mage scowled furiously. "It is a facsimilie--a
magical duplicate. Styles taught me how to manufacture these. He
taught Mon-Taerleor as well." The scowl ripened.
"Forgive me," Sir Edward interrupted. "Marcellon, who is Mon-
Taerleor?"
"He and I learned together from Styles," Marcellon explained. "We
were much alike." We were much alike once, Marcellon corrected himself
mentally. The High Mage sighed. Apparently, his friend had changed. "I
believe he is now the High Mage for Beinison."
"I see," the King murmered. "It seems a wise thing, as he can do
things such as this--" he gestured to the man-made head, "--and you
cannot."
"No, your majesty," Marcellon corrected. "I *will* not, and I
*do* not. But I can. I can." The High Mage swallowed his disbelief.
Alexander had not been like this. "He chooses differently than I."
The three were silent for a moment. "This isn't the Count's
head," the King began, "therefore, Count Connall is still alive."
"I doubt it highly, Haralan," Sothos countered him softly.
"Recall what Count Tyago said. In Beinison, they hang people and slit
their throats, and leave their bodies to animals. They've done
something so horrible to Luthias that there is no body left."
Marcellon replaced the head in the box and shut it with a
disgusted snap. "Yes, they've done away with him, and not prettily.
The Count of Connall was an expert in things military, and he knew
this land. We would be foolish to believe that he was not tortured for
information--and the Beinisons do not do such things neatly. The body
must be so mangled and scarred that--In any case, that head is not
his."
"We must tell the Countess," Edward suggested.
"No!" Marcellon countermanded, shocked. "It is bad enough to her
that her husband is dead. At least let her believe he died quickly and
with some dignity."
"We shall not tell anyone," the King commanded. "I will not take
the chance of the Emperor discovering our knowledge. But Luthias
Connall shall be revenged when we reached Beinison."
Saddened, the High Mage swallowed and turned away. "'Peace is
despair'd,'" he murmered, thinking of the blood, the blood and the
gold and men dying in the snow. "'....War then, War/Open or
understood, must be resolved.'"
"What's that you're saying?" the King wondered, his voice
sympathetically.
"The words of a blind poet," Marcellon sighed, "that I read once
in my crystal." The High Mage turned away. "And may God help
Beinison--and us."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Conflict of Interest, Part II
by John Doucette
(b.c.k.a JDOUCETTE@UPEI)
Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
2 Nober, 1013 B.Y.
Sir Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of the Royal Armies, stood in
front of the mirror in his quarters and adjusted his badge-of-office
for the tenth time in as many minutes. The silver Maltese cross set
with a ruby in its centre rested lightly on Edward's chest slightly
above his family's coat-of-arms; an eagle grasping a lance in each
claw, and below the eagle a great sword facing right, a flail facing
left. Satisfied that his uniform was satisfactory, Edward stepped back
a pace in order to scrutinize his over-all appearance.
At thirty, Edward looked ten years older. His experiences had
matured him faster than he had liked; three short years of mercenary
life had hardened him mentally as well as physically. His lean, tough
body bore many scars, large and small, obtained in countless battles.
Edward smiled wryly as he gazed upon his reflection. At five feet
ten inches and weighing one hundred seventy-five pounds, he was not
exactly the classical image of a knight. Indeed, he thought, his aide
and friend Jan Courymwen was taller than he; half a foot taller. In
Galicia, western Galicia at any rate, he was considered tall. Here, he
was of average height. He thanked Nehru that at least the people of
western Galicia had the same hair and eye color that a good deal of
Baranurians possessed. The only things that set Edward apart from
native Baranurians was the cut of his hair and his accent. In Galicia,
young men cut their hair short during their military training so that
everybody would look no different from his comrades. Edward finished
his compulsory training when he was seventeen but kept the style
throughout the rigorous training required to attain knighthood and
after receiving his Wreath of Honour, a Galician knight's symbol.
Edward had hesitated briefly over his choice of uniform for
today; normally, he wore the fine clothes that any knight wore, the
only difference being his badge-of-office and Baranur's crest. But not
today. Today's function was anything but normal. Today the Council
began. Today he would confront Baron Myros for the second time in
forty-eight hours, a confrontation he and the King had hoped to avoid.
Edward thought it ironic that the uniform he chose for today was the
same he had worn when he and Myros first met seven years ago. Edward's
brown eyes narrowed and his gauntleted hands clenched at the memories
of that meeting. The scar running from his right forehead to his left
cheek was one of those memories.
Edward was wearing the suit of chainmail he received as a gift
from his father before journeying to Count Janos' castle to begin his
training to be a knight. The only change he had made to the armour in
the thirteen years he'd owned it was to have his helm and shield
blackened after he was exiled. Over the chainmail he wore the black
livery displaying his family's coat-of-arms. His shield also carried
the same display emblazoned on its surface. His father's bastard sword
he wore on his left hip. His great sword, crossbow, and case with
thirty bolts were left safely secure in the chest with his other
personal belongings. He was wearing both daggers; one on his belt, the
other hidden in his right boot.
"Come," Edward responded to the knock at his door.
Jan entered the room wearing the blue-and-gold dress uniform of
The King's Own, the infantry contingent of the Royal Guard. Before she
was transferred to Edward's staff, Jan had been a captain in command
of one of the ten companies of The King's Own. Now, at twenty-two, she
was the youngest person ever to hold the rank of commander. She moved
1to stand behind her commander and her friend. At six feet four inches,
she towered slightly over Edward. Yet whenever they spoke, it was she
who felt like she was the one looking up. "It's time, Edward," she
said nervously.
Edward half turned to face her. "Nervous?"
"Bloody right I'm nervous!" she said, belatedly adding, "sir."
"What's to be nervous about?" Edward asked innocently. "Only the
most important nobles from across the entire Kingdom are here," he
joked.
"You really know how to steady a person's nerves, don't you, sir?"
Edward chuckled. "Sorry, Jan. Couldn't resist. Let's go." Edward
strode out of the room, his manner changing from one of familiarity,
present when he was alone with his close friends, to the stern,
distant manner he assumed at other times.
As Jan followed two paces behind and to the left, she reflected
on the friendship she and Edward shared. At times, Edward Sothos could
be a hard man to understand. But no matter what happened, Jan knew she
could always count on him to be supportive. She looked at Edward. She
had come to deeply respect and admire him and knew that if he asked it
of her, she would die for this man.
Jordaan and two of his men entered the Fifth Quarter, a haven for
those who engaged in less-than-honourable practices. The three
Galicians walked cautiously down the Fifth Quarter's main street,
aware they were being watched. A group of thugs passed by. Jordaan
could tell they were gauging his group's abilities. At a glance,
Jordaan had evaluated the thugs' own capabilities. They were poorly
armed, but they did have the advantage of numbers. As well, two of
their number were huge strong men. Ten minutes' work, he thought.
Perhaps less. He quickened his pace. If they wish to assail us, let
them. As long as they don't hinder my task.
Thirty minutes later, the three found what passed for a
marketplace in the Fifth Quarter. Jordaan quickly spotted the man he
was sent to meet. The man was selling food from a cart. Motioning his
men to follow, Jordaan walked over to the cart.
"G'day, guv," the man said, expression brightening. From their
look, these three were obviously foreigners. Today was going to be a
good one after all. "What'll it be?"
The amulet given him by the Dark One enabled him to understand
the vendor's words. Unfortunately, the amulet did't allow him to speak
them. "Information I seek," Jordaan said in Merctalk.
The vendor's eyes narrowed. "Information I have. Cost you it
will."
"Price you name, money I have."
"Twenty silver. Questions you ask."
"Not here. Seen I cannot be."
The vendor stroked his beard. Something wasn't right. Yet this
foreigner agreed to the price before I even named it. He must want
what I have very badly. "Difficult that is. Place I know. Talk there
we can. Seen we will not be."
"Show us you will."
"For a price."
"How much?"
"Two gold."
"Take us you will. On arrival, pay you I will."
"Come." The vendor led Jordaan and his men down an alley to a
small door. The vendor opened it and motioned for his customers to
step inside. The room was bare. The only illumination was provided by
a small candle.
The vendor held out his hand. "Payment." Jordaan handed over a
1small pouch. The vendor opened it and counted. He smiled, closed it
and put it in his purse. "Gold?" Reluctantly, Jordaan fished two gold
out of his own purse and handed them over. "Questions you have?"
Over the course of the next twenty minutes, Jordaan asked
detailed questions regarding the recent troubles between Baranur and
Bichu. The answers he got were well worth the price he paid. He still
had orders to carry out though.
"Satisfied?" the vendor asked when Jordaan had finished with his
questions.
"Yes," he answered. "What cost to send information to Crown
Castle?"
"Five gold," the vendor replied. He could hardly believe his
luck. Here was the chance of a lifetime. This foreigner was obviously
linked to one of the embassies at the Castle and wanted a steady
source of information.
Jordaan hesitated for a moment. "Agreed." He reached for his
purse. The vendor's eyes were glued to Jordaan's right hand's
movements so much so that he didn't see Jordaan's left hand as it shot
out and grabbed his left arm.
Jordaan hauled the vendor's left arm upwards in an iron grip.
With his right hand, he quickly drew the dagger at his belt and drove
it to the hilt into the vendor's body just below the armpit of the
man's upraised arm. The vendor gasped in pain. Jordaan gave the dagger
a vicious twist and the body of the vendor fell to the floor, his
sightless eyes staring at the ceiling as his punctured aorta pumped an
astonishing amount of blood onto the floor.
Jordaan wiped his dagger on the vendor's clothes and retrieved
his money. He ordered his men to make sure no traces remained that
could point the finger at them. When both indicated they had completed
their sweep, he ordered them outside.
He and his men were met by the group of thugs that passed them
earlier. Most were armed with clubs or daggers and a couple even had
short swords. If they'd been intelligent, they would have left the
three warriors alone. Instead, they attacked, seeing only what the
three foreigners would yield after their death.
Space to maneuver in the small alley was sparse. This gave the
Galicians an advantage they would not have had were they facing
opponents armed and armoured as they themselves were. Although they
weren't aware of it as yet, the thugs were dead men, walking corpses.
Jordaan and his men stood shoulder to shoulder against the thugs'
charge. The Galicians' swords flickered now forward, now backward in
the fencing strokes taught by the Galician swordmasters.
Two assailants perished within seconds of one another. The six
remaining attackers continued their assault even though they had been
bloodied without a blow being struck in return.
Again skill and experience won out over brute strength. This
time, three bodies were added to the growing pile at the Galicians'
feet. The thugs turned to flee. Jordaan shouted a command and he and
his men charged the enemy. If any of the thugs escaped, word would get
out that Jordaan had been in the Fifth Quarter. That would result in
too many questions being asked. Questions Jordaan, or his liege, could
ill afford.
His men finished two of the fleeing thieves. The third was well
ahead of Jordaan; he feared the thief would gain the marketplace.
Jordaan put all he had into a last burst of speed.
The fleeing thief was almost to the entrance when he tripped and
fell in the mud and snow. Jordaan caught up to him as the thief was
trying to rise. A sword stroke to the neck and the thief died, his
blood mixing with the churned up snow.
Jordaan quickly wiped his blade clean and he and his men made
1their way unhurriedly back to the King's Quarter. When the bodies were
found later that day, an investigation was begun. The investigators,
being overworked, conducted a cursory inquiry, after which they
decided that the thugs had probably assaulted the vendor found dead in
a small room off the alley in which the thugs' bodies were found and
that the vendor's associates had exacted payment. All in all, an
everyday series of events in the Fifth Quarter.
Edward strode out of the council chamber, a dark expression on
his face. It was becoming more and more difficult to avoid a serious
confrontation with Myros. After all these years, he finally had a
chance to avenge the deaths of his men and Haralan had expressly
ordered Edward to avoid Myros as much as possible. Add that to the
insults Myros had heaped upon Edward and the Sothos family name and it
was all Edward could do to keep his temper in check. Deciding that the
best course of action would be to return to his office before Myros
exited the chamber, Edward had just entered the corridor leading to
his office when he was stopped by a voice.
"Your Excellency!" Jan called. "Sir!" She hurried to catch up to
Edward.
Edward turned to face his aide. "Yes, Commander?" he asked in a
this-had-better-be-good tone.
"You wanted to speak to Lord Morion after the Council session,
sir," Jan cautiously reminded her superior. She had learned years ago
to be careful when dealing with high-ranking officers in a foul mood.
"Yes. I did." Edward's anger dissipated somewhat. "Thank you,
Commander." He set off for Morion's quarters, arriving ten minutes
later. Edward paused at the door, bringing his anger at Myros under
control. He waited five full minutes before knocking.
"Come," a voice said.
Edward entered the room and closed the door. "Forgive me for
disturbing you, Lord Morion, but there is a matter I wish to discuss
with you." Edward glanced uncomfortably at Kimmentari. "I would prefer
we discussed this alone." Morion made as if to protest, but Kimme
prevented any argument. "There is no need for anger," she said to
Morion. "I am a stranger to Sir Edward. His position and his
background demand that he treat me with suspicion in this matter."
Turning to Edward, the blue-haired Araf said, "Your uneasiness has no
foundation, Sir Edward. I understand your reasons. I take no offense."
Edward bowed slightly and held the door open for Kimme as she
made her exit. When she had gone, Edward turned back to Morion. "Lord
Morion," Edward began, "let us be brutally frank with one another.
When the King informed me of the special dispensation you had
received, I had my reservations."
"Oh? And by what right do you, an outsider, question my right to
rule my own lands as I see fit?" Morion asked angrily.
"By the right of my position as Knight Commander," Edward replied
calmly. He did not want to anger this man; indeed, from what
information Edward could gather, Morion was an honourable and just
man. A worthy ally. "Understand, Lord Morion, that I will allow
nothing that will harm Baranur."
"And you think I will?" Morion queried, on his feet now.
"Not intentionally." Edward held his hands up in a gesture of
pacification. "Before you respond, try and consider this from my point
of view. I have five Regiments, aside from some Militia and House
units, to defend the Northern Marches. Now I learn that there is a
noble with independent landholds close to Dargon and the Coldwell, a
noble who's reputation as a soldier merits my attention."
"The King has told me this noble will probably support Baranur
when war comes. As you and I well know, 'probably' is not good enough.
1Not when the Northwest's major trade route is threatened by this same
noble should he so choose. This forces me to restructure my
deployments. My troops are spread thin as it is. In order to properly
protect the Coldwell, I'll have to pull an entire Regiment from duties
elsewhere, thus putting further strain on the four remaining
Regiments. Knight Captain Sir Ailean, as you can well imagine, is not
happy."
"You are saying to yourself, why can't he take a Regiment from
the south? Normally, I would. But the situation is far from normal. I
dare not reduce our strength in the south, especially in light of the
information our trade caravans are sending back."
"As a soldier yourself, you can understand the position this puts
me in. The King highly respects this noble, yet I am forced to make
contingency plans, secret plans, to conquer this noble's lands should
the need arise. I have no desire to make war on this noble; indeed, I
have a deep respect for this man as well. But my first duty is to King
and Country and if am forced to take harsh action, I will."
"In short, Lord Morion, I need to know how you stand: when war
comes in the spring, will you give your support to Baranur, or will
you wait and force me to take unpleasant action?"
Morion's ice-grey eyes narrowed. When he responded to Edward's
question, he spoke in low, measured tones. "Were you anyone else, I
would hand you your entrails." Morion paused, visibly forcing himself
let go of his anger. "As you say, we are both soldiers. Were I in your
place I...would have said the same. If Baranur is attacked, you will
have my support and my troops. Otherwise, I remain neutral."
"Thank you, Lord Morion," Edward said, relieved. "That makes my
task much easier."
"Do I sense a 'but' somewhere, Sir Edward?"
"Lord Morion, you run a training school for warriors, do you
not?"
"Yes," Morion answered warily. Edward's unexpected question
caught Morion off-guard.
"I am told that the quality of your students is excellent."
Morion inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of Edward's
praise. He said nothing, however; he felt he knew where this was
leading.
"Indeed, I get daily requests from my generals suggesting that we
make an arrangement to recruit directly from your school. Knight
Captain Sir Ailean is most vocal in his exhortations. He thinks he
could raise an extra Battalion or two from your graduates, something
that would please him greatly. But that is not what I want to
discuss."
"It seems to me," Edward said, adopting a thoughtful pose, "that
for newly graduated students to fetch such praise requires an
instructor of immense talent."
"No." One word, but quite powerful when spoken by the right man.
"You haven't even heard my offer, Lord Morion."
"I've told Haralan every other time he asked and I'm telling him
now. No."
"Lord Morion, this request comes from me, not His Royal Majesty.
Haralan told me not two days ago that it was useless to try and
persuade you. But I did not survive three years of war by taking no
for an answer."
"Well, 'no' will have to satisfy you now."
"Will you at least hear me out?"
Morion hesitated before answering. He had no desire to return to
the King's service and he would not. And yet he sensed something
different about this man's offer. "Go ahead."
"I know of your reluctance to come back to the King. So this is
1what I propose: I'll send the troops to you and you train them."
"But I wouldn't be under the King's suzerainty?"
"Not at all. Morion, I've begun bringing the Reserve Regiments up
to strength. It will take time to train them, time I fear is in short
supply. I need someone who can whip them into shape. Fast. I think
you're the man to do it. Will you agree?"
"I'll have to think about it," he answered. Seeing Edward's
reaction he said, "For now, it's the best answer I can give you."
"Well enough." Edward and Morion shook hands in the way of
warriors, right forearm clasped to right forearm. Edward turned and
left, one of his many problems solved for now.
When Edward returned to his office, he found a message packet
waiting for him. He entered his office, sat at his desk, and opened
it. Inside was a note written in handwriting he hadn't seen in years.
He read it, not daring to hope that what he had dreamed of since his
exile might be coming true. He re-read it once, twice, three times,
each time his hope increasing. Realizing the danger to the writer, he
destroyed both the note and the message packet it came in. He gave
instructions to Jan to the effect that urgent matters prevented his
attending dinner with the King and His Royal Majesty's guests. Then he
went to his quarters and waited.
Others that evening had expressed their regret at not being able
to dine with His Royal Majesty. Baron Corneilious Myros, his chief
advisor Sir Grange Rarrack, and Celeste (known as the Dark One to all
save Myros) sat in Myros' quarters listening to Jordaan's report on
his day's activities in the Fifth Quarter.
"You are certain you were not seen?" Rarrack questioned Jordaan.
"Quite certain, my lord. This 'Fifth Quarter' is a haven for
criminals and other vermin, my lord. I do not think it likely they
would have been overly curious about us."
"Is this information accurate?" Myros inquired of Jordaan.
"Aye," Celeste said in answer to Myros' question. "My contacts
here assure me the man's knowledge hath never been proved wrong." She
carefully watched the reactions of Rarrack and Jordaan. Neither had
known that Celeste was a woman. Indeed, until now Myros was the only
member of the embassy who knew Celeste's true identity.
Of the two, Rarrack reacted the least strongly. He had suspected
for some time that the Dark One was not what he, she rather, seemed.
Rarrack had five decades of experience in the political arena behind
him and had learned long ago never to take matters at face value.
Jordaan, however, was another story. It wasn't the concealment of
knowledge that bothered him so much as it was the fact that the Dark
One was a woman. Like most Galicians, Jordaan believed that a woman's
place was in the home making sure the household operated smoothly.
Yes, unmarried women who had reached the age of majority at twenty-one
should undergo the same military training required of all males upon
reaching the age of fifteen, but the training was meant to provide a
means for unattached women to fend for themselves until they chose a
husband who would undertake that responsibility. The concept of women
in combat, be it magical or mundane, was unthinkable. Granted, women
did fight at times during The Wars, but those were desperate times and
called for desperate measures.
"Something distresses thee, Jordaan?" Celeste asked.
"This goes against all law and custom, my liege!" he said to
Myros.
Taking Jordaan aside and speaking in a low voice, Myros
commented, "Whether it does or not, the Dark One is skilled in the
Art. I, for one, do not wish to challenge her. Do you?"
"No," Jordaan reluctantly admitted.
1 "Good. Don't forget that she is loyal to me. She has aided me
greatly in making contact with the correct people here. Men that will
support our cause. When the time comes for us to challenge the Emperor
directly, she will prove most useful."
Jordaan acquiesced. "I submit to your will, as always, Your
Lordship."
Myros returned to his seat, speaking in normal tones once more.
"Continue with your report, Captain." Jordaan spent the next thirty
minutes relating the last of the knowledge he had gained that morning
from the informant in the Fifth Quarter. The four of them spent the
next several hours discussing the ramifications of what they had just
heard.
Edward made his way along the eastern battlements of the inner
wall as silently as possible. The note he received earlier told him he
could find the note's author here. Edward very much wanted to meet
with the author. It had been far too long since they had spoken to one
another.
He saw a hooded shape ahead, silhouetted in the torchlight. He
quickened his pace, a thrill of anticipation coursing through his
body. The person heard his footfalls and turned to face him. Hands
went to the figure's hood and removed it. Edward stopped and stared.
"Elaine?"
"Yes, Edward. It's me."
"Why did you want to see me?" he asked, drawing closer.
"It's been nearly nine years since we saw each other, Edward,"
she said, looking up at him. "I didn't know what had happened to you.
Were you alive? What were you doing? What happened since you left? And
when I saw you two days ago, everything came flooding back. That last
day. The pain I felt when you rode into the courtyard with Father and
we saw the verdict."
"Edward, I love my husband! But when I saw you two days ago,
feelings I thought I'd buried years ago came to the surface."
"Then why did you ask to meet me?!"
"I saw you still had feelings for me. Even though we only glanced
at each other, I could see it in your eyes. I wanted to make you
understand my feelings. I thought that if you knew I loved another,
then perhaps your feelings towards me would change. And I wanted to
know why you hate Corneilious so."
"Corneilious Myros," Edward said in disgust, "is a cold-blooded
butcher."
Elaine rose to her husband's defense. "My husband--"
"Your husband," Edward snarled, "ordered my men put to death
after I had surrendered to him."
"I don't believe you!" she said defiantly. "Corneilious would
never do such a thing!"
"Oh wouldn't he?" Edward was nearly shouting, not caring who
heard or saw them. "Ask him, Elaine, about the battle we fought in
Alnor. Ask him about the men who died afterwards!"
"You say that only because you are jealous," Elaine said coldly.
The look she gave him matched the frigidity in her voice. "We have
nothing more to discuss." With that, she turned and walked away.
"Nehru's Blood!" Things weren't going at all like Edward planned.
He hurried after Elaine, blocking her way.
"Get out of my way!" she said and tried to go around him.
Edward grabbed her arms and spun her to face him. "Not until I
get the answer to a question."
Elaine coldly regarded Edward's hands around her arms. "Is this
what living with these barbarians has done? Where are your knightly
virtues, Edward? Have you forgotten what my father taught you? What
1would he say if he saw you now?"
Every question Elaine asked struck home like a spear to the
heart. Edward released her, ashamed at his actions, Elaine's questions
echoing in his soul. What would Count Janos say? he asked himself. The
answer came swiftly. He would say you lost a part of yourself during
your years as a mercenary, Edward. A part of yourself you must regain
if you are to remain a true Knight. He stood aside to let Elaine pass.
She walked past without saying a word, her hood drawn over her head.
"Elaine, wait."
The pleading tone in Edward's voice stopped her. "What do you
want?" she asked, her back still turned.
"I had something to ask you, remember?"
"What is it, Edward?" she asked.
"Tell me what really happened to my father?"
"About three years ago," she began, a slight tremor in her voice,
"Duke Markin accused your father of treason. The charge was dismissed
by everyone as ridiculous. Then Markin produced evidence. Neither I
nor my father accepted Markin's evidence, but others did. A trial was
held and your father was found guilty. He was taken to Zourkhos'
Square where he was given to the Executioner."
"Gods no!" he swore, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm sorry, Edward," she said, unsuccessfully trying to keep the
emotion from her voice. She seemed to be about to say more but
couldn't hold back the tears any longer. Elaine fled, leaving a
stunned Edward Sothos staring silently out over the battlements at the
ice floes slowly moving down the Laraka River to the sea.
Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
7 Nober, 1013 B.Y.
"Edward, you've been like this for five days now. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Jan."
"Nothing? Nothing?! You may be able to fool everyone else, Edward
Sothos, but not me."
"Oh?" Edward asked in a deceptively calm voice.
"That's right," Jan answered. "I know you too well. Out with it."
"Oh you know me, do you? Well then you know that I don't like
people interfering in my personal business. You're not my keeper,
Commander. My life is my affair!"
"Edward, this is me, Jan Courymwen, you're talking to. I thought
we were friends."
"Friends don't butt in where they're not wanted and they--"
"Dammit, Edward, this isn't like you!" Jan said in a raised
voice. "I'm worried about you!"
That struck home. What Edward had been about to say died on his
lips. He rose from behind his desk and went to the window. He stayed
there for several minutes, pondering how much he should tell his aide.
Jan, for her part, was smart enough to keep silent and let Edward come
to a decision without her interference.
Turning from the window with a sigh, Edward said to his friend
and aide for the past three years, "Sit down, Jan. We have a lot to
talk about." He spent the next hour filling Jan in on the parts of his
past he had chosen not to tell her about previously. She learned about
the events surrounding his departure from Galicia, how he met and came
to despise Baron Myros, his relationship with Myros' wife, Elaine, and
finally about his father's death and how it affected him.
"Edward, I'm sorry," Jan said. "I had no idea. I truly am sorry."
"I know, Jan. I'm glad there's someone I can share this with."
"The King doesn't know?" Jan asked incredulously. Edward and
Haralan were very close. If Edward hadn't told him...
1 "No. I...I can't. You know most of the nobles here still regard
me as an outsider. If Haralan knew my father was convicted of treason,
it would be one more thing he'd have to keep buried away, one more
reason for him to be concerned about me."
"But wouldn't he want to know? He is your friend. Surely he'd
want to help?"
"Yes, he would. But then he'd be worried about the information
coming to light. No. He has far too much to occupy him already. I'll
not increase his burden."
"Speaking of burdens, this has been weighing down on you. I can
see it, and something has got to be done about it."
"There is nothing that can be done. Nothing can wash the stain of
treachery from my family's honour."
"If nothing can be done, what's the use in worrying about it?
Weren't you the one who told me that if nothing can be done about a
problem you should accept things the way they are and move on?"
"This is different, Jan. This is a matter of honour."
"No it's not different, Edward. Your family's honour may have
been stained, but your personal honour hasn't. And that is what will
count in the long run."
"I can't just alter my principles on a whim."
"And I'm not asking you to. Perhaps you will be able to prove
your father innocent one day. But until then, concentrate on keeping
your honour, your's Edward, intact. I think you'll find people will
soon forget about events that transpired in Galicia."
"You have an old mind in that young head of yours, Jan
Courymwen."
"Merely following your example." Jan retrieved her cloak and
Edward's from the chair they had been flung over and proceeded to put
hers on while handing Edward his.
"What's this?"
"We're going to a tavern I know in the Merchant's Quarter. Don't
raise your eyebrow to me, Edward Sothos. I haven't once seen you go
outside the Castle unless it's on King's business and it's damn well
time you did. Enjoy yourself a little."
"People will talk. Remember what happened to the Princess'
marriage because of such talk. No. I can't jeopardize the respect of
my office like that."
"To the crows with what people say! We're just two friends,
soldiers, going out for a night on the town. I won't take no for an
answer."
The two stood motionless for several seconds, locked in a
friendly contest of wills. Finally, Edward acquiesced with a smile and
a nod of his head. "Alright, Jan--"
"Coury, Edward," Jan corrected him. "My friends call me Coury."
"Alright, Ja...Coury," he said. For some reason he couldn't
identify, he felt strangely uncomfortable using Jan's nickname.
Perhaps it was due to the fact that in Galicia, a man didn't use such
a term of familiarity with a woman unless the two were intimate.
Nonsense, he thought. Jan and I are just friends and that's all there
is to it. Still, one part of his brain persisted, she is a beautiful
woman. Any man would be overjoyed to have her. Enough! Edward said to
himself. I will not think such thoughts!
Later that night, or early the next morning, rather, when Edward
had divested himself of the last of his clothing and climbed into bed,
the thoughts he had been suppressing came to the fore again. It was
then he realized that until that night, he had not thought of Jan as
anything but a friend and subordinate in the three years they'd known
each other. He hadn't stopped to consider her as a woman. She is a
beautiful woman, he admitted to himself through the dull pounding of
1an alcohol-induced headache. Very beautiful. And with that thought,
Edward drifted off to sleep.
Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
21 Nober, 1013 B.Y.
Celeste locked the door to her room and laid a powerful warding
spell upon it to ensure she would not be disturbed. Crossing to the
window, she closed the curtains to keep her activities from prying
eyes. Content the room was as secure as possible, she went to the
closet and withdrew a small, plain-looking wooden chest. Opening the
chest, she removed a finely crafted hand-mirror and stand and
proceeded to place stand and mirror against the closed closet door.
When satisfied the mirror was securely fastened to the stand, she
stood back and spoke the word of command that caused the assembly to
enlarge until the mirror had changed from a small hand-held variety
into a body-length mirror.
Celeste positioned herself exactly three feet in front of the
mirror and began to cast her spell. The Spell of Mirror-Talking was a
complex one that placed a great strain on the caster. The fact that
Celeste was attempting to use the spell over such a great distance
only made things harder. To her knowledge, no one of her Order, save
possibly the Primus, had ever successfully used the spell to
communicate over a distance of more than five hundred leagues. Her
intended receiver was many times that distance away.
As she cast the spell, she would pause periodically to withdraw
spell components from concealed pouches within her night-black robes.
First, she withdrew a handful of sand, which represented the mirror,
and sprinkled it on the floor in front of her. Next, she took out the
feather of an eagle, which served to assist the caster in obtaining
the desired distance, and placed it on the sand sprinkled moments ago.
As she was drawing near the spell's completion, she drew a small vial
of water, representing the glassy-smooth surface of an undisturbed
pool, from her robes and sprinkled the contents around the perimeter
of the sand making sure the water and sand never came in contact with
one another.
Celeste finished her chant and as she did so, all three spell
components burst into flame and were consumed. The smoke that one
would expect from such an occurrence was not present. Or, rather, it
was not present in the room, but in the mirror.
Celeste stood, exhausted, as the grey mist the smoke had become
swirled and billowed in the mirror. This was a good sign, for the
smoke became mist only if the spell had succeeded. All that remained
to be seen was whether or not the signal was strong enough to be
noticed by the intended receiver.
After several minutes of waiting, minutes in which Celeste
managed to assemble the outward appearance of normalcy, the mist
gradually began to slow its motion, finally stopping and fading
entirely. "Cho dakh, Primus," Celeste said in greeting to the
black-robed figure in the mirror.
"Cho dakh, Celeste," the Primus returned in his whispering voice.
"Thou hath done well in contacting me over such a great distance. Thou
hath some information to impart to me?"
"Aye, Primus. The situation here hath changed drastically. The
strife between Baranur and Bichu was the product of foreign
intervention in Baranur's affairs. Beinison is responsible. As thou
would'st expect, King Haralan hath taken grave offense at this blatant
interference in his domain's affairs. Indeed, His Royal Majesty called
a Council which convened not five days ago. The delegates hath split
into two factions; one calling for war and the other counseling
1caution and diplomacy. Neither faction hath gained the upper hand as
yet."
"And what of Myros?"
"His Lordship suspects one of his advisors is an agent of our
Master. He hath asked me to determine who the culprit might be. I hath
been giving the Baron vague answers in response to his queries. I hath
been unable to uncover any evidence of treasonous activity. Myros
guards his secrets well."
"What of this friend you mentioned? The one Myros used as a
pretext for his journey to Baranur."
"As I thought, Primus, he and Myros are enemies. Indeed, Sir
Edward and Myros came near to exchanging blows. The animosity between
the two is readily apparent during the Council's daily sessions."
"Sir Edward? Sir Edward who?"
"Forgive me, Primus. Baranur's Knight Commander, Sir Edward
Sothos."
"Dion Sothos' son?" the Primus said with undisguised surprise in
his voice.
"Aye, Primus," Celeste said in a neutral voice.
"It seems Edward hath done well for himself these past
eight-and-a-half years," the Primus said more to himself than Celeste.
"This is an unexpected and pleasant turn of events." Speaking to
Celeste once more he said, "The evidence against Myros I hath long
sought for may soon be delivered. If it is as I suspect, thou wilt
receive instructions to move against Myros within a matter of days,
perhaps hours. When thou dost, take care that thou dost not harm, nor
allow others to harm, Sir Edward. The Sothos family hath long figured
prominently in our empire's history. Edward is the last surviving male
to bear the name Sothos. The line must continue. Dost thou fully
comprehend what I am saying?"
"Aye, Primus," Celeste replied. "It shall be as thou commands."
"Good. Cha loth, Celeste."
"Cha loth, Primus," Celeste said, bowing. When she straightened,
the Primus' image was gone, the spell terminated. "What hath I
stumbled upon?" she said, thinking out loud. "Why is the Primus so
concerned about thy well-being, Sir Edward Sothos?"
Stormhaven, exact location unknown, Galician Empire
21 Nober, 1200 G.Y.
"Cha loth, Primus," Celeste said, bowing. The Primus terminated
the spell and was about to go down to the Library to consult with
Xavier, The Order's current Lokhmahst, when his manservant, Lothan,
entered the study.
"The Sehrvat Primus wishes to speak with you, my lord."
"Send him in then, Lothan." Lothan bowed then opened the door and
ushered Derek, Sehrvat Primus of The Order, into the study.
"The translation is complete, Primus," Derek said without
preamble.
"Dost thou hath the documents with thee?"
"Aye, Primus. Thou wilt find them most interesting to read."
"Then give them hence." Derek handed several scrolls to the
Primus without a word. The Primus quickly scanned the twelve pieces of
parchment. When he was done, he looked his manservant full in the face
and said, "Get thee gone. Pack enough belongings for a journey to
Rhylon. We leave in one hour."
Lothan paled under his master's gaze. Few would not. Stammering
acknowledgement of his orders, Lothan bowed, turned, and hurried to
the Primus' quarters. Much needed to be done, and an hour was not much
time.
1
Imperial Palace, Rhylon, Duchy Rhylon, Galician Empire
22 Nober, 1200 G.Y.
The aged and frail man who sat upon the throne of Galicia was
near death and knew it. At age eighty, Emperor Nyrull, his full title
being Protector and Defender of the Twelve Cities, Duke of Rhylon, His
Imperial Majesty Emperor Nyrull ("a title you could choke on", the
former soldier, who loathed ceremony, called it) was the oldest and
longest reigned Emperor in Galicia's sixteen-hundred year history. In
addition, his sixty year rule had seen the beginning of Galicia's
Golden Age, a time that saw the previous Galician policy of
isolationism end and Galicia's return to the web of international
politics. Now, all he had worked for was coming undone. His most
trusted and loyal subject, the wizard known as the Primus, had
unearthed a plot to seize his throne. The Primus now stood in the
throne room reading the names of the conspirators to Nyrull's inner
circle of advisors and generals. The Emperor listened to those
gathered debate which course of action to follow. Nyrull, as he had
always done, sat and listened, content to let them voice opinions they
would not have voiced had they been speaking directly to Nyrull.
"Perhaps," said Julius Valerius, the Empire's chief diplomat, "we
can reach an agreement with the cabal's leadership that will avoid
bloodshed."
"Avoid bloodshed? Avoid bloodshed?! They should all be taken to
Zourkhos' Square!" That from Proconsul Veers, one of Galicia's top
soldiers.
"I'm sure my esteemed colleague was referring to the inordinate
amount of very undesirable disruption that would be caused by such a
disturbance," commented Julian Adininos, head of the Finance Ministry.
"Proconsul Veers is right," said Admiral Xertes. "These men are
traitors and we must move against them before they can further
increase their forces."
"Need I remind you, Admiral, that such a course of action would
cause undue disturbance in our most agriculturally important regions?"
"This is war, Adininos! You can't just bury it in a ledger and
hope it's forgotten!"
"Calm yourself, Admiral," Valerius cut in. "Anger will get us
nowhere."
Xertes' response was a snort of contempt. He would have said far
more if Veers hadn't asked a question of the other man in the room
besides the Emperor and the Primus. "Well, Janos? You haven't said
much. What's your opinion?"
Emil Janos, late the Count of Nogrom until Duke Markin stripped
him of that title and now Weapons Master to the Imperial Guard, took
time to order his thoughts before speaking. "Both opinions have merit.
A civil war would destroy everything that has been accomplished since
The Consolidation Wars. Yet we cannot simply turn a blind eye towards
these noble's activities. I propose that we assassinate all save the
cabal's leadership."
That got approving looks from both bureaucrats and soldiers.
"What do you have in mind for the leaders?" Veers asked.
"That they be drawn and quartered as you suggested, Proconsul."
"No." All eyes turned toward the throne. "No," Nyrull repeated.
"Not all the leaders." Frail as he was, Nyrull could command a room if
he so chose. His blue eyes became as cold as ice and his voice as hard
as steel. "Proconsul Veers, you will take the Imperial Guard and
whatever other forces you deem necessary and you will march on
Markin's stronghold. No quarter will be given. Everyone--man, woman,
and child--in New Valencia is to be put to the sword." He leaned
1forward. "Do I make myself clear?"
Veers snapped to attention and saluted, right arm out from the
body, fist clenched. "You do, Sire."
"Good. You have a question, Admiral?" Nyrull asked in a
dangerously quiet tone.
"Do you think it wise to send the Imperial Guard, Sire? Who will
protect you?"
"I believe The Order can handle that. Correct, Primus?"
"Of course, Master."
"What of the assassins, my liege?" Valerius asked.
"The Order will handle that as well," Nyrull answered Valerius
while looking at the Primus.
"It shall be as thou commands, Master," the Primus said with a
bow.
Nyrull sat back and smiled.
Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
17 Deber, 1014 B.Y.
Jan sat at her desk struggling valiantly with a mountain of
paperwork that had built up during the two weeks the Council had been
in session. Today was the seventeenth day of the new year and the
forty-sixth day of the Council. Jan had argued, begged, and pleaded
with Edward to allow Daniel Moore to take her place so that she could
attend to the business of making the army's paperwork flow smoothly.
"Or as smooth as it ever flows," she said to herself. She smiled a
little and said, "Edward is going to have a fit when he sees his
desk." Sighing, she returned to her work.
Six figures materialized from the cold night air of Crown
Castle's Inner Courtyard. A seventh was waiting for them at the
entrance to the Diplomatic Wing, two dead or unconscious guards lying
in the snow. Three of the new arrivals walked over to the waiting
black-robed figure. Before they had even crossed half the distance,
the center figure of the similarly black-robed triad that had
accompanied them spoke words of magic and all three vanished.
Justin resumed his pace towards the wizard--he'd had his fill of
wizards lately--that he and his two companions would be working with.
The newly fallen snow crunched under his boots and his breath misted
in the crisp air. Nochturon was a pale disk in the cloudless night
sky. The stars could be seen with great clarity. Such a night is one
for celebrating, Justin thought, not this dirty business.
The wizard led Justin and his two friends into the Diplomatic
Wing's foyer. "Sit," Celeste told them. "I shalt bring some mulled
wine and then we may discuss how to execute this operation." She
walked over to the bored clerk sitting behind the reception desk,
ordered the wine she had promised, and returned to the three
adventurers. After a short delay, two attendants brought the wine to
the four.
Julia finished her wine quickly, revelling in the warmth flowing
through her veins. "We're not assassins. So why are we here?"
"I am no assassin either," Celeste responded coldly. "Thou art
here to protect my person and to ensure the mission is complete,
should I fall."
"So we're to keep the grunts"--Tarn named the derisive term that
referred to all soldiers--"busy while you work your spells?"
"Crudely put," Celeste said, giving Tarn an icy stare, "but
essentially correct."
"Who are we after?" Justin asked, getting down to business.
"Three men: Baron Corneilious Myros, his chief advisor, Sir
1Grange Rarrack, and Jordaan, Myros' Captain of the Guard. Myros and
Rarrack are still in today's Council session. Why it hath gone on so
long I know not, nor doth it concern me. If need be, we shalt
penetrate the Council chamber and execute the traitors. Jordaan is in
his quarters here in the Diplomatic Wing along with three of Myros'
top advisors and a guard of fifty warriors. Our only targets art the
three previously mentioned. However, if someone should'st seek to
prevent us from accomplishing the task at hand, they must be dealt
with."
"When do we attack?" Julia asked, her warrior's mentality showing
in the way she phrased her question.
"If thou and thy companions feel ready, we can begin now."
"Let's do it and be done with it," Justin said, clearly not happy
with the task.
"Follow me." Celeste got up and led the three past the clerk and
up the stairs leading to the rooms occupied by the Galician embassy.
Once at the top of the stairs, she led them fifty feet down a corridor
where they came upon a side passage that led directly to the embassy's
rooms. The four made their way thirty feet down the corridor to a
door. Celeste opened it and all four filed through. The corridor
continued for twenty more feet before turning to the west. At the turn
stood two of Myros's guards, armoured in platemail and carrying shield
and longsword.
A third guard came out of a room from which many voices could be
heard and stumbled slightly as he made his way towards Celeste and her
group. When he noticed them, he straightened as much as possible.
"Dark One," he said with the voice of one who has had too much to
drink, "didn't think you'd be here. And who are these three?"
"They art retainers of mine. Stand aside. I hath important
business to discuss with Captain Jordaan." Celeste continued on and
motioned for Justin, Julia, and Tarn to follow.
But the guard, with the dogged persistence too much drink can
give a person, kept with his train of thought. "Wait. I don't
recognize them. Let me see their papers." When the four did not stop,
he lurched after them. "Stop!" When they still refused to heed his
command, he made a clumsy attempt to draw his sword. By now, the
guards at the corridor's turn had had their attention drawn to the
scene being played out.
"Now!" Celeste said. Tarn whirled and fired an arrow at the
drunken guard. He died before getting his sword half out of its
scabbard. Julia and Justin drew steel and charged the two remaining
guards, who already had their weapons out and were shouting the alarm.
"Tarn!" Celeste called, as Tarn was about to go to his comrades'
assistance. "I need thee! Make haste!"
"What?" he asked, running back to Celeste.
"I shalt cast a spell. When I begin, thou wilt hold the door
open," she said, indicating the door through which the drunken guard
had come, "and when I am finished, close it with all haste and flatten
thyself on the floor."
Tarn nodded and Celeste began her spell. "Ast thrak"--Tarn opened
the door--"Uth harn"--Celeste reached into her robes and withdrew a
pinch of sulphur which burst into flame and was gone--"Ost"--Celeste
pointed a finger at the startled and confused guards in the
room--"frelbarl!" With the utterance of the last word of the spell, a
ball of flame shot from Celeste's outstretched finger. At virtually
the same instant, Tarn slammed the door shut and both he and Celeste
dove to the floor.
Inside the room, the fireball exploded not two seconds after
Celeste had worked her magic. The fireball was primarily intended for
combat against a large group of adversaries outdoors. In a small
1twenty by twenty room, the explosive force of the fireball was
contained and reflected back from the walls. The door, along with bits
and pieces of animate and inanimate objects alike, was blown out into
the corridor in flaming chunks which just narrowly missed Tarn and
Celeste.
The force of the blast staggered the four combatants as well,
sending Julia and her opponent to the floor. The guard recovered
first, aiming a vicious downward swing at Julia's prone form. He
missed, sending sparks everywhere when his sword connected with the
stone. All Julia had time to do was grab her shield and hold it above
her as her training taught. Her opponent was raining blows on her and
she knew that she couldn't hold on to her shield much longer. Justin
couldn't help as he was locked in deadly earnest combat himself.
With a last blow that caved in the front of her shield and sent
it flying, her opponent had her at last. Pausing, he saluted her, a
Galician custom the origin of which lay rooted in legend. It was that
custom that saved Julia's life.
The guard raised his sword to plunge it into Julia's heart. As he
did so, an arrow sprouted in his chest. The guard dropped his sword
and stood swaying for several seconds. He gazed at Tarn with a vaguely
reproachful look on his face, as if Tarn had interfered with something
he should not have. Then his face went blank and he toppled backwards.
Justin, meanwhile, was having a tough time with his opponent.
Every thrust had been skillfully parried, every riposte harder and
harder to avoid. These were obviously no ordinary guardsmen, but elite
warriors taught by some of Galicia's finest swordmasters. Already,
Justin had suffered half a dozen small cuts with only one or two given
in return.
Justin had help, however. Julia, by this time rescued by Tarn,
had recovered her sword and came to her friend's assistance. The
guard, beset from two directions at once, never stood a chance. The
fact he lasted as long as he did was testimony to his fighting
prowess.
"The guards must surely be alerted by now," Celeste commented.
"We must press on before we meet more opposition."
"Fine," Justin said. "Tarn, you bring up the rear. Julia and I
will lead. And you, Sorceress, will stay in the middle. Agreed?"
"Thy instructions art sound. I wilt abide by them as long as they
remain so."
Justin grunted in satisfaction and hurried down the corridor,
Julia beside him bearing a guardsman's shield to replace her ruined
one. They hadn't gone ten feet when five guards came running at them,
weapons drawn. Justin and Julia braced themselves for the attack. It
never came.
Celeste stepped between the two warriors and cast yet another
spell. Justin was seized with fear by the power of the dark words
Celeste spoke, and he wasn't even the intended victim of the spell. A
sideways glance showed that Julia was similarly affected. The effect
on the advancing guardsmen was devastating.
Two guards died immediately, killed by their own fear amplified
by Celeste's spell. Another ran screaming in terror. The last two
guards, stronger willed than their comrades, backed slowly down a side
corridor.
The sound of many booted feet preceeded a large group of guards,
perhaps twenty in all, led by Jordaan. Justin and Julia stayed where
they were. Only Celeste could hope to deal with such a large force.
Deal with them she did.
Jordaan didn't waste time with questions. He ordered his men
forward, hoping to overwhelm the Dark One before she could get a spell
off. His hopes were in vain.
1 Celeste drew a small wand engraved with arcane runes from her
robes. She pointed it down the corridor and calmly spoke a word of
command. Lightning flashed from the wand, felling five guards and
wounding two. Thunder echoed and rolled throughout the building.
Lightning flashed a second time. Four more guards joined their
brethren in death.
Jordaan recognized the futility of continuing. His only hope lay
in forcing a fight in more open surroundings where his men wouldn't be
concentrated and his greater numbers would work to his advantage.
"Back!" he shouted, his battlefield-trained voice sounding clearly
over the deafening thunder. "Fall back to the keep!" He turned and
ran, his men close behind.
Jan paused. She was about halfway through the stack of papers on
her desk when she heard it. "Thunder?" she said aloud. "We can't be
getting rain this time of year." She rose and went to the window
overlooking the courtyard. The snow had started again, giving
everything a peaceful demeanor. "Must be my imagination." She sat down
and went back to work. And again she heard it. A cold chill walked up
her spine. "That wasn't my imagination this time." She was about to
call for a guard when the door opened and one of the two guards
outside her office stuck his head in.
"Sorry for disturbing you, ma'am," he said. "I know this is
crazy, but I just heard what sounded like--"
"Thunder?"
"You heard it too, ma'am?"
"Yes, but it's not coming from outside."
"Well it certainly couldn't come from inside."
"Gods! That's it! Gregory, raise the alarm. Quickly, man! We have
intruders in the castle!" Gregory saluted and was gone. Jan yelled for
the other guard. "Haran!"
"Yes, Commander?" he asked, half in the doorway.
"If there's not a squad in here pretty bloody fast, you'll be
cleaning stables for the next twenty years!"
Haran swallowed once and ran.
Jordaan ran through a door and found himself in the Hall of
Warriors, a one hundred-foot long by forty-foot wide hall that arched
to its ceiling thirty feet overhead. The Hall was dedicated to
Baranur's twenty greatest warriors. Their statues, ten each along the
north and south walls, one every ten feet, stood in silent tribute to
those who helped make Baranur what it was today. Jordaan couldn't
believe his good fortune. He was so relieved he shouted for joy,
drawing the attention of the four guardsmen from The King's Own.
Jordaan shouted at his men to deploy and then outlined the
situation for the Baranurians. "Assassins have entered through the
Diplomatic Wing. I fear they are after my Lord Myros. Will you join
us?" At their nods, he stationed them at the east end of the Hall as a
last defense should he and his warriors be defeated.
His men were deployed in a semi-circle facing the door through
which they'd come. Jordaan drew steel and waited.
The door flew outward in a cloud of sparks as it was blown off
its hinges by a word of magic. Celeste, Justin, Julia, and Tarn
stepped through. Celeste took a step or two forward and stopped.
"Yield thyself, Jordaan, and thy death wilt be swift and painless, I
promise thee."
"No, Dark One," Jordaan said in a calm voice. "If you want me, or
he to whom I have sworn my fealty, you must pay the price." He lifted
his sword.
"So be it," she said in an emotionless voice. She leveled her
wand at Jordaan and spoke the word of command. He was flung back ten
1feet, to lay unmoving on the floor.
The loss of their leader did not affect the Galicians as it would
have other troops. These men were veterans who knew what must be done
to survive in combat. As one, they flung themselves at the little band
standing in the blackened doorway. They realized that their only
chance was to slay the sorceress before she slew them.
Celeste realized this also. Not having time for a more complex,
more deadly spell, she chose a spell she had learned when she first
began her training, a spell that could be cast in seconds.
Dropping the wand, she began to chant the words to her spell,
moving her hands in short, sharp passes as she did so. She spread her
hands in a fan in front of her and seven glowing darts shot out,
directed at the three nearest guardsmen. The closest guard received
three of the darts and tumbled to the floor. The other two received
two darts each, felling one guard. The third winced in pain and kept
coming, only to die as Tarn shot him through the throat.
The immediate odds were now five-to-four in favor of the
guardsmen. But when one considered the lightness of Tarn's armour, and
the fact that Celeste had none at all, those odds increased to
two-to-one.
"Die well, my friends!" Justin yelled and launched himself at the
enemy. Julia followed his example as well, screaming the ancient
battle-cry of her ancestors at those who sought to slay her and her
comrades. Tarn simply dropped his bow, drew his short sword, and
prepared to exact a heavy toll for his life.
For the moment, Celeste was untouched as the battle raged on
around her. To her immediate front, Justin fought with savage fury
against the two guardsmen engaging him. To her left, Julia beat aside
her enemy's shield and ripped his throat out, all the while shouting
her battle-cry at the top of her lungs.
Celeste heard a grunt of pain behind her. She whirled and saw
Tarn, outmatched and fighting two opponents, bleeding from a gash to
his right arm. Grasping the amulet at her neck, she raised her right
arm, finger outstretched. She pointed at one of Tarn's attackers and
shouted, "Die!" The man collapsed to his knees and fell forward, blood
streaming from his mouth, nose and ears. Tarn flung his sword at his
opponent, forcing the guardsman to back away to prevent himself from
being injured. Tarn took advantage of the reprieve to draw a dagger
and send it thudding home under the man's chin strap. Face tight in
pain, Tarn ripped a strip of cloth from a guard's tunic and used it to
bind his wound.
By this time, the Baranurian guardsmen had, contrary to orders,
come to the aid of the Galicians. One attacked Julia, one went after
Tarn, and the remaining two charged straight for Celeste.
Celeste was growing tired. She had expended a great deal of
energy in working her magic. She was confident she could go on casting
the weaker spells indefinitely, but weak spells would do her no good
now. And if she chose to cast her most potent combat spell, then she
would be unable to work the teleport spell she would need to escape.
As the saying went though, beggars can't be choosers. All these
thoughts flashed through her head in a matter of seconds; any mage
that could not instantly evaluate potential dangers and their
counter-measures was not a mage, or anything, for very long.
She reached into her robes for two pieces of black obsidian.
Holding them together, she began speaking words of dark power, words
that placed an immense strain on her very soul.
Her hands flew apart, the obsidian crumbling to dust. The torches
in the Hall grew dim as a chilling wind blasted throughout the Hall's
length. A Gate, black as night and radiating a smothering evil, opened
in the air before the two guardsmen now only fifteen feet from
1Celeste. From this Gate, Celeste had summoned a creature said to exist
only in legend. A creature mothers used to frighten bad children. A
creature from Man's nightmares.
Celeste had summoned a demon.
Jan led her squad at a dead run towards the Council chamber. She
feared she would be too late, that she would arrive to find the
delegates dead. The thought that Edward would be among them only
served to heighten her fear. She ran faster.
The demon strode through the Gate, wings rustling and muscles
popping. All combat ceased as everyone, Galician and Baranurian, stood
staring in pure unadulterated fear at the ten-foot tall apparition
before them. The demon paid them little notice, however. All its
attention was focused upon she who had summoned it to this plane.
Celeste knew that a test of wills was about to take place. If she
lost, the demon would devour her and would be free to roam Makdiar at
will. The demon's dark red eyes locked with hers. She screamed but
would not break eye contact. The demon smiled, sure it would have an
opportunity such as it had not enjoyed in uncounted milennia.
But Celeste was stronger than the demon thought. She gathered her
anger. Anger at the way she was treated as a child. Anger at those who
denied her her inheritance. Anger at the Primus for trying to prevent
her from joining The Order as her parents and their parents before
them had done. Anger she hurled at the demon for daring to defy her.
The demon shrieked in pain and rage. Pain caused by the assault
of alien human emotions upon its mind. Rage because this puny human
female had beaten it and forced it to her will.
"Hazkaramatan!" Celeste spoke, arms flung wide. "Thou know'st me
as thy master! Thou must do my bidding! Slay'st thee those humans thou
see'st behind thee and thou art free to return to thine own plane of
existence."
The demon Hazkaramatan slowly turned to face the two terrified
Baranurian guardsmen. It advanced slowly, spittle dripping from its
two-foot long fangs. Smoke curled up from the floor where the spittle
touched. The guardsmen screamed in stark terror. Hazkaramatan paused,
enjoying the terror, absorbing it, tasting it, feeling it. When it
felt the terror had gone on long enough, it raised its gleaming talons
to strike. The guardsmen fled for their lives, but to no avail. The
demon launched itself into the air with one stroke from its powerful
wings and bore down on the luckless humans. It caught them as the
reached the door, rending and tearing with talons and fangs, sending
bloody gore everywhere, taking out its rage and frustration on its
victims.
The task done, Hazkaramatan looked at Celeste and began to speak
a dread promise should they meet again. But before it could even
formulate the first syllable, the Gate appeared once more and the
demon was drawn through. Celeste collapsed, nearly sobbing in relief.
She had been very close to losing control. Five seconds longer and she
would have.
An unearthly scream echoed through the halls of Crown Castle,
bringing Jan and her men to a stumbling halt. "By all the gods!" the
sergeant commanding the squad swore. "What manner of foes are we
dealing with?"
Jan spun on him. "It doesn't matter!" she said angrily. "You are
sworn to protect the King with your lives!" she said to the frightened
soldiers. She snorted in disgust. "Does the name The King's Own mean
nothing?!" she shouted at them. Getting no reply, she delivered the
gravest insult one could give to a member of the Royal Brigade. "King
1Caeron would be ashamed of the lot of you!"
That got results. The mention of the man largely responsible for
the creation of the Royal Army made the soldiers hang their heads in
shame. "Well what are we waiting for?" the sergeant asked his men. He
drew his sword. "For Haralan!" he shouted and his men echoed him. The
guardsmen ran on.
The sight of Celeste collapsing seemed to be the signal for the
fighting to start anew. The last two Galician guardsmen threw
themselves at Justin, determined to exact vengeance for their friends'
deaths. Justin fought wildly, killing one man and receiving several
deep wounds.
Tarn backed up until he was standing over Celeste, who was
desperately trying to stand. Tarn knew he was outclassed. His
profession was thievery, not fighting. Add to that that his opponent
had a longer blade than Tarn and the outcome was never in doubt.
Tarn knew he had no chance, so he concentrated on defense, trying
to buy time for Celeste to recover her strength and deal with his foe
by magic. Time and again, he parried what surely would have been a
killing thrust. But that is not to say he did so without cost. He had
suffered a number of small cuts and gashes and the wound on his right
arm had started bleeding more heavily.
He stumbled against Celeste's leg and lost his balance
momentarily. The Baranurian raised his sword and plunged it down,
cutting through leather and flesh and bone. Tarn fell across Celeste,
dead before he hit the floor. The guardsman was about to finish
Celeste when his comrade fighting Julia yelled for help. The
Baranurian hesitated briefly with indecision. His comrade shouted
again and the guardsman ran to his fellow's aid.
Julia had beaten her opponent back several feet so that he was
backed up against a statue. He had lost his shield and was wielding
his blade with both hands. Blood was running down one leg and he had
taken several cuts to the chest as well. He shouted for help against
this madwoman.
Julia threw her shield away as well, fighting as her ancestors
had done. She beat her opponent's sword down and aimed a thrust at his
chest. He parried clumsily, knocking her blade up and through the side
of his throat. He fell, spitting up great quantities of blood as he
gasped for air like a landed fish.
Julia heard the running feet behind her at the last moment. She
turned, but not quickly enough. The Baranurian's blade slid deep into
her left side. She instantly slammed her fist around it in order to
trap it in her body and twisted, forcing the sword from her enemy's
grasp. The Baranurian scrabbled for his dagger but Julia drove her
sword through his mouth and out the back of his skull. The body fell
with the sword still embedded in its cranium, its sightless eyes
staring at the ceiling. Julia fell back against the statue and slid to
the floor in searing agony.
Justin advanced against his foe swinging his sword two-handed,
ignoring the blood flowing freely from his many wounds. For every blow
the Galician landed, Justin landed three. The Galician's tunic was
torn and red with blood.
Justin delivered a last series of blows that resulted in severing
the Galician's sword-arm at the elbow. Putting all his energy into one
last swing, Justin sent his sword in a dazzling arc, sending his
enemy's head from his shoulders.
The fight done, Justin collapsed to his knees, his sword falling
from his weakened grasp. He looked around, surveying the carnage. His
gaze fell upon Tarn's body. "You stupid bastard," he said softly
through tears. He had always thought the cheerful, irreverent thief
1would live forever. And now he was dead, his light extinguished
forever. "You and Julia saved me more time than I care to admit, my
friend," he said.
"Julia!" She hadn't come to help him, but he was too distraught
with grief over Tarn's death to notice. Please gods let her be alive!
he thought. He twisted his body around, trying to find his long-time
friend and companion. He caught sight of her slumped against a statue,
sitting in a pool of her own blood. "No!" He began dragging his
pain-wracked, bleeding body across the floor to her.
Five agonizing minutes later, he had dragged himself over to
Julia, a trail of blood on the floor behind him to mark his passage.
Julia's eyes were closed and he reached a gauntleted hand up to touch
her face. As he did so, her eyes slowly opened.
"You're alive!"
"Not for long," she said in a pain filled voice.
"Don't say that," he said desperately. "Hang on. Please." His
voice had taken on a pleading tone. "We'll get the mage to give you
something. You just stay alive!"
"Don't try and fool yourself. Or me for that matter. I'm bleeding
like a slaughtered pig and I can't feel my legs."
"Julia, save your strength."
"It won't make any difference." She continued, her voice
beginning to fade, her skin growing cold. "We've seen a lot together,
you and I, haven't we?"
"Yes we have." Justin was crying now.
"No regrets?"
"No. None."
"You were right," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
"About what?"
"The way I fought," she said with a weak smile. "You always said
my ancestors would be the death of me."
"Julia..."
"Justin," she said, turning her head to look at him, "I'm scared.
I don't want to die."
Justin put his arms around her and held her. "I'm here."
"Hold me," she said, her voice so low that Justin had to strain
to hear.
"I am. I am holding you. I won't let go."
She shuddered slightly. "I'm...so...cold."
"It's alright. I'll keep you warm." He felt her go limp in his
arms. He reached for her pulse and found none. He cradled her in his
arms, gently stroking her hair.
Celeste walked weakly over to the two companions, finally having
wrested Tarn's body off of her. "Justin, I am sorry."
"No. Everything's alright. She's just resting."
"Aye. Of course she is." She hesitated before continuing.
"Justin, I must go. Myros and Rarrack yet live and whilst they live,
all this is for naught."
"Go," Justin said softly. "Julia and I'll just rest here for a
while."
Celeste was about to reply when the sound of running feet could
be heard plainly. "Go," Justin repeated.
"What thee and thy companions hath done for my Master, the
Emperor, wilt not be forgotten. On this I give thee my sacred pledge."
Then, not daring to delay any longer, Celeste strode through the
double doors to the east towards the Council chamber.
When she had gone, Justin stopped stroking Julia's hair. He was
slowly slipping towards death himself. Not one to do anything slowly
in his life, he chose to end his life in the same manner in which he
had lived it. He concentrated on his pain and let it take him to the
1blackness.
Warrior and mage, noble and knight, subject and King stood ready
to defend themselves. All faced the chamber's doors in grim silence.
The shock of seeing Luthias' head tumble from the gold casket was
slowly giving way to rage and a need for vengeance. After the horrible
shriek that sounded just minutes ago, it would seem those assembled
would be granted an opportunity to vent their emotions on something.
The doors had been barred, but Marcellon had quietly assured the
gathered nobility that the doors would be brushed aside by the
creature beyond as if they didn't exist. He added that he wasn't sure
even he, one of the most powerful wizards of the age, could defeat the
menace lurking outside. That did nothing to reassure the chamber's
occupants.
The doors were indeed brushed aside with little effort, but in
not quite the manner Marcellon had predicted. The one-foot thick
wooden beam barring the doors began to move, slightly at first then
with ever increasing violence until finally it was flung from its
brackets by some unseen force. The doors parted and a figure clad in
night-black robes that hid all features strode slowly into the
chamber.
"No farther," Sir Edward said, moving forward a pace or two. The
figure halted. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"I wilt not answer thy query, Sir Edward. Thou must turn to Baron
Myros for the answer."
Edward turned slightly to face in Myros' direction. His old
enemy's face wore a look of astonishment and anger. "Well, Myros?"
Edward's voice was taught with rage.
"Her name is Celeste," Myros said with disgust. "I had thought
her loyal to me. It seems I was wrong." There were startled gasps
everywhere. Myros had spoken in fluent, if heavily accented,
Baranurian. Since his arrival on the last day of Ober, Myros had
projected the appearance of not being able to speak in any other
language except Galician. The fact that he did speak Baranurian meant
that he had known all along what had been said by those who thought he
hadn't.
"You'll forgive me if I'm not overly distressed."
Myros' only response was a snort of dismissal. "What's your game,
Celeste?" Before she could answer his question, Jan and her squad came
pounding up to the doors. "Edward! Your Royal Majesty!" Jan said with
a surprised voice. "You're alive!"
"So we are, Commander Courymwen," Haralan said in a subdued
voice, the grief over Luthias' death returning now that the crisis
seemed to have passed.
"What's happened?" Edward asked.
"Intruders have penetrated the castle, sir. They appear to have
been stopped in the Hall of Warriors by a combined force of Galicians
and some of our own men."
"Was the attack your doing, Celeste?" Edward asked.
"Aye. The deaths of thy guardsmen were unavoidable, Sir Edward."
"What is your purpose here?" the King asked.
"Baron Myros hath been declared to be in rebellion against His
Imperial Majesty," Celeste pronounced. "All his lands and titles art
forfeit to the Crown. In addition, the Emperor hath decreed a sentence
of death upon Myros' person. To be carried out with all due haste. The
same sentence is imposed upon Sir Grange Rarrack."
Edward again turned to Myros. "Well, Corneilious, it seems--"
Before Edward could finish, Myros grasped his signet ring, spoke a
word of command, and disappeared. "Typical. It seems your mission here
was a waste, Celeste."
1 "Not completely. I was sent to eliminate three conspirators.
Jordaan, Myros' Guard Captain, lies dead in the Hall of Warriors. And
Rarrack shalt soon be dead."
"But at what cost?" Marcellon asked harshly. "Four of our
soldiers are dead because they simply got in the way!"
"Three young adventurers lie cold in death because of those four
guardsmen, Marcellon of Equiville! And not only those. A great many of
Myros' former warriors art dead as well. Their loss was Galicia's
loss."
"And what of the demon you summoned?" Marcellon's face was an
angry mask. "Do you have any idea what would have happened if you had
made even the smallest mistake?"
"Aye, Master Wizard. I did not cast the spell lightly. I was
fully cognizant of the consequences of my actions. I suspect I shalt
answer for the deed upon returning to Galicia." Her tone of sincere
remorse seemed to pacify Marcellon.
"Now, I hath another task to perform. There is one among you to
whom the Emperor owes a great deal," she said, looking around at those
assembled. Her gaze came to rest on Edward. "Sir Edward Sothos. Eight
years ago, thou were exiled from thy homeland, never to return. With
the death of thy father, thee art the rightful heir to the lands of
Alphoria. Since the beginning of The Consolidation Wars that gave
birth to the Galician Empire these seven centuries past, the Sothos
family hath played an important role in Galicia's history. Thou art
the last descendant of thy family to bear the name Sothos. The Emperor
feels that Galicia can ill-afford to be without the services of the
Sothos line. Wilt thou consent to return with me to the land of thy
birth and take thy place as Baron of Alphoria?"
There was stunned silence. Many of the nobles gathered considered
Edward to be an outsider, an upstart wandering knight who happened to
worm his way into King Haralan's good graces and was not worthy of the
honours bestowed upon him. With Celeste's revelation, they began to
see him in a different light.
There were those in the room who genuinely liked and respected
the lonely, scarred, at times stern knight. Two in particular prayed
that Edward would say no to this most tempting offer.
Haralan came forward and laid both hands on Edward's shoulders.
"We have shared a great many things, Edward. You have been my best and
truest friend and the gods know I would not want to see you leave." He
sighed. "But I would not hold you back from something such as this. If
you wish, I will absolve you of all oaths of fealty to me. I only ask
that if you do go, never forget that I am your friend always." Haralan
stepped back and waited for Edward's decision.
Jan, too, did not want to see Edward leave. Waiting to hear
Edward's choice, she felt as if she was waiting for the headsman's axe
to fall. The depth of her feeling surprised and frightened her. The
more so because she wasn't at all sure it wasn't just a friend's fear
of losing someone.
"It is tempting..." he said, looking at Celeste. He caught sight
of Jan standing in the doorway. The look in her eyes just then sent a
jolt through him. He wrenched his eyes away, his emotions confused. He
looked at Haralan, the first person besides Elaine that he had truly
opened up to. The thought of never seeing his friend again filled him
with anguish.
"I can't," he said at last. "I've made a new life and new friends
here," he said to Celeste. "Galicia is a part of me, but part of my
past. Thank you, but...no." Haralan broke into a wide smile and
pounded Edward on the back in joy. Jan sent a prayer of thanks to the
gods. She felt enormously relieved.
"Then I hath but one task left to perform."
1 "Allow me one last look at the world?" Rarrack asked. "One
concession to an old man's dignity?"
"Thou die'st well, Rarrack," she said in agreement.
Rarrack walked slowly and with great ceremony out of the chamber.
Celeste made to follow but stopped when Haralan called after her.
"Will Galicia aid us in our war with Beinison?"
Celeste remained silent for several minutes. When she spoke,
every ear strained in anticipation. "Nay, Thy Royal Majesty. Neither
shalt Galicia ally with Beinison. The time is not yet right for
Galicia to fully re-enter the world. When that time comes, thou shalt
hear from us." With that remark, Celeste silently followed Rarrack out
of the chamber and into the courtyard.
Rarrack stood admiring the beauty of the scenery for several
minutes. He heard footsteps crunching in the snow behind him. "It is
time," Celeste said.
He nodded his head, back still turned to her. "It's a good night
to die."
He faintly heard the sound of chanting behind him and then his
world exploded in pain as seven burning darts pierced his body and he
fell to the snow. It was wondrously cool. His pain faded and he died.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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