DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 11 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 6 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 08/01/1998 Volume 11, Number 6 Circulation: 678 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb A Spell of Rain 2 Stuart Whitby Mertz 29, 1016 Maiden Cloth Sue Donnymouse Vibril 30, 1015 Deliverance 2 John Doucette 24 Sy, 1014 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondance to or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 11-6, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright August, 1998 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Jon Evans . All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Battling the sinister force of entropy is a full-time job for any Web site that grows and changes over time. As a site evolves, its structure needs to gracefully accomodate new information and new services, while at the same time continually offering the user navigation that is intuitive and painless. That's a difficult job in and of itself, made worse when you realize that few popular sites have the luxury of "freezing" their sites while new services and navigation are implemented. In my other life's work as a Web devloper, I often help my clients through the struggle of defining their site's structure and navigation. Often, an approach that might be intuitive to the designer will be frustrating for the end-user, and this is exacerbated by the amorphous nature of hypertext, with its propensity for nefariously cross-linked documents. At DargonZine, we've been able to go for a long time with only minimal attention given to navigation. Until recently, our site was simple enough that navigation wasn't a major issue. However, as the amount of information we offered our users grew, so did the site's complexity and our need for better navigational facilities than a single "return to home page" at the bottom of every document. We knew that the answer to our problem was a site-wide navigation toolbar, but it still took us nearly a year to close on a particular layout and set of icons. But if you visit the DargonZine Web site today, you will see that the nav bar is now a reality. It isn't implemented on every single page, but it's well on the way to becoming as ubiquitous as Coca-Cola! That may not sound like cause for celebration to you, but it marks another milestone in the development of our Web site, and hopefully it will make our site more attractive and easier to use for everyone. Let us know what you think of it! This issue contains the second parts of two stories which were begun in DargonZine 11-5, our previous issue. Those are Stuart Whitby's "A Spell of Rain", and John Doucette's "Deliverance". These are accompanied by "Maiden Cloth", a tale which was originally written for last year's "Night of Souls" issue, DargonZine 10-7. Unfortunately, after its author disclaimed ownership, the story passed through many hands on its long and troubled journey toward publication. Finally, after many months of counterproductive revisions and occasional abandonment, you see it here in these pages in its original form, as it was first submitted over a year ago. We hope it has finally found a place to call home! Stay tuned for our next issue, which will highlight the results of our newest writing contest! ======================================================================== A Spell of Rain Part 2 by Stuart Whitby Mertz 29, 1016 The netmender's new apprentice sat outside the shop to enjoy the cooling breeze on the balmy spring day. In the two months since Jason had shown up at the door -- not begging charity, but asking politely about apprenticeship -- Martin had not a bad word to say about the boy. >From the outset, he had been diligent, hard working, polite, and a fast learner. He was much older than Martin would normally have thought of taking on, but he was willing and, much more importantly, educated; here was someone who could write down the names of anyone who owed him money, along with the amounts -- paying a scribe to formalise debts had seemed an expensive option on occasion in the past, but had proven cheaper than losing the money altogether. After only two months of having him make new nets, Martin was almost ready to put Jason to work patching rents in the slimy, rotten, filth-ridden ones that the fishers brought back from their trips. Jason's deft hands had almost recovered from the blisters that working with dry rope brought; now he would need to grow new callus to work with wet. Yet he had never once complained, and asked nothing more than his due: food, lodging and the secrets of a trade in return for work done. In truth, Jason liked working for the netmender. It was far removed from the work he had previously done trying to work weather-magics in his father's tower, and working with his hands rather than his mind appealed to him. He could also appreciate the irony of working for a man named "Weaver." Jason had been lucky to come at a time when the netmaker was without an apprentice, and even luckier to find that the man was prepared to take on an untried and unknown youngster. The thumb-thick rope ran slowly off the drum behind him. At first, Jason had to concentrate hard on the work, but he was now reaching the stage where he could let his mind wander as he worked on the nets. The edge of this net had already been sealed, and, with the hard part done, he could look at the trading end of the docks as his hands continued their work. His gaze wandered, skipping over the ships and boats, the porters who unloaded bales and pallets, the hawkers -- whose claims of superior quality wares almost drowned out the perpetual noise of the gulls -- and the fishers who packed the last of their catch in salt-filled, blood-stained crates. Slowly, Jason's mind detached itself from his surroundings, and his stare became fixed on the waters before him. His hands still moved, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice kept repeating, over and over, "... right over left, loop, and through, left over right, loop, through, and pull. Right over left, loop, and through, left over right, loop, through, and pull ..." Reaching the bottom of the net, he doubled the rope along the length of his hand, looped a holed stone onto the rope, and started his way back up again. Right over left, loop, and through, left over right, loop, and through. His face was expressionless; his breathing, shallow. His eyes never moved from the hypnotic surface of the sea before him. Right over left. He knew the weave as he knew himself. Loop and through. A cacophony of purest silence deafened him to all else. Left over right. The water grew darker, drawing him in. Loop. Toward it. Through. Into it. Pull. "Jason," came a dim voice from far away. "Jason?" Closer this time. What was the word he spoke? A spark of recognition lit the darkened confines of his mind. A sharp pain made the spark flare. "Jason!" A grizzled face came into focus above him, a concerned expression upon it. It grunted in satisfaction as the boy returned to reality, and to the discomforting fact that he was soaked through. "By Gow, boy, that's fast work, but you don't need to sit here in this kind of downpour to finish it!" Martin looked down at the pile by his feet and frowned at it, before giving up and asking, "Just how much have you done anyway?" Jason looked down and gasped at the white netting which was piled to his left. He did a quick count of the stones, and doubled the result. "Looks like almost seventy hands." He reached up to caress the stinging handprint across his cheek. "How long have I been out here?" Martin peered quizzically at him. "A little over two bells." Jason looked at the skies in disbelief, then back at Martin. "I must have been here longer than that, surely? I didn't expect any bad weather for at least the next two days. There wasn't even a sniff of rain in the air when I started!" Martin just stared. Jason's eyes rolled back in his head as he realised what must have happened. "Looks like my father's in town," he muttered to himself as a troubled frown creased his brow. Jason's guess was close, but not quite right. Kilan was getting nearer, but still had a considerable distance to ride to reach Dargon itself. After being directed to Sharks' Cove and spending almost two sennights searching, he had come to the conclusion that his informant had been mistaken in seeing Jason go that way. Four sennights of wasted effort, followed by the long journey to Dargon, had taken their toll. Although Kilan had the body of a man in his mid-thirties, he was well past fifty, and not used to sleeping rough. Influencing the weather was simple, but flattening and warming the ground that he spent much of the time sleeping on was beyond him. Today though, he could enjoy the sunshine on his back. It was warm, but not overly hot, and a gentle breeze shushed through the trees on either side of him. Only the sounds of the horse, the birds, and a nearby stream broke the silence. For the first time in days, Kilan felt almost good about the world. Of a sudden, he looked sharply upward, his eyes darting about as if the heavens hid assassins who bayed for his blood. A slight breeze had come up, and clouds had started to show in the skies ahead of him. Although summer storms could be quick to arise, experience told him that something was far from normal. A glance down the road behind him confirmed this. Clouds were scudding in from that direction too, and while his view was blocked by the trees, he would have staked his liver on the fact that the weather was closing in from all quarters. Grimly, he made a rough approximation of the distance to Dargon. Around ninety leagues. Four days' travel. Four days of not knowing if this was his son at work. Four days too many. Kilan thought briefly about trying to clear his path of the rain which he knew would follow, but quickly discarded the idea. Trying to create a change in the weather would take time and energy, and the results were never (to his great annoyance) guaranteed. Pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders, Kilan set his gaze on the road ahead, and dug in his heels. As the dawn bell announced the arrival of the first of Firil, Jason arose to the sight of clearing skies. The freak clouds of two days ago had dumped their contents over land, sea, and Jason's bed, but to Jason's trained eye, no strange weather portents remained. His attic room over the netmender's shop was cramped, and he had to concentrate to avoid touching the damp wooden ceiling as he dressed. Finally, he checked again the state of sky and sea, and, seeing no indication of further rain, left the shutters open to let his room dry out. After setting a fire in the kitchen, Jason cooked a quick breakfast of fish and eggs. Since there were plenty of new nets available should anyone lose one, he knew that he would be moved on to other areas this day. On finishing his food, he scrubbed his plate with clean sand and water, then took a second helping of the dish up to Martin, leaving it beside his bed as the man struggled to reach the waking world. Next, he opened the outside door and took a broom from the back of the shop. He proceeded to brush all the lint, salt, dirt and bits of frayed rope out of the door. The work served to wake him up fully in the mornings as the cool sea breeze swept stale air from the shop and the morning mugginess from his head. That done, he stood on the step and looked out over the dock area of Dargon, leaning easily on his broom. The town was only just beginning to wake up, though most of the small fishing fleet had already left. The remainder were on their return trip, hoping to catch the fishmongers who came down early to buy stock freshly landed that morning. At this time of day, only two or three voices announced their wares, and only half-heartedly, having no din to compete against. The sun once more glinted off rippling waters. Only a slight swell showed that this was a sea in front of him rather than a calm, inland lake. A scattering of white, feathered clouds moving slowly across the sky above him promised that this would be a fine day. The weather was probably a major influence on Jason's mood, but he was content. He had expected to see his father turn up after the unexpected weather some days back, but there was no sign of him, and the weather had returned to a balmy normality. Jason's wariness of the past few days had faded with the last of the blustery weather, and he now felt secure in the knowledge that he would retain the simple pleasures that his work brought him. A cooling breeze brought fresh air in from the sea, invigorating the senses and clearing the mind on an otherwise hot day. Little sound disturbed the tranquility; the lap of the tide against the side of the dock in front of him only added to the perfection of the morning. This was a day for feeling good. Kilan got his first glimpse of Dargon in the early afternoon of the third day of Firil as he exited a thin patch of woodland. The land in front of him was green and brown, interspersed with low, rocky tors of grass-covered granite. It was nearing summer, yet something about the feel and smell of the air told him that it should have been raining. The granite of the keep shone silver in the sunshine. Kilan had to squint to block the sun's wavering reflection in one of the keep's glass windows. A number of fishing smacks could be seen against the glimmering backdrop of the Valenfaer ocean at the mouth of the Coldwell, and a centre of traffic showed the probable location of the market square. Drawing his horse to a halt, he looked to the sky. The few visible clouds had been dragged different ways by the winds -- something was far from ordinary. Dismounting, he moved to an open space to practice his arts, free from the obstructions and interruptions which would hinder him in town. Some time later, Kilan staggered back toward his horse, his face pale from the effort of spellcasting. "Ol's piss, that boy must be strong!" This would not just be a simple case of wresting control as he had expected. He hauled himself ungraciously into the saddle and kicked his horse weakly in the ribs. The docile animal set off at its usual plodding walk, giving Kilan plenty of time to think in weary appreciation on the strength of his runaway child. Strength like that could only come from the powder that he had added to the rising bread mixture the night before the boy left. Kilan wheezed a weak laugh to himself as his strength returned and he made his way toward the town, knowing that the culmination of the research that he had started on his wife had worked in his son. Jason looked contentedly at the skies outside. This was the third day of near perfect weather. It seemed like it picked up whenever he started to weave another net, or even if he touched a rope, but that had to be coincidence. He knew that even if the power he supposedly had was to manifest, he would have to be concentrating intently on it, and that he would have to force the patterns to his will by incantation or through a focus. He still could not *see* or *sense* the weather as his father could, but after so much study, he did know that the weather of the last three days was no natural occurrence. It no longer greatly concerned him. There must be other sages nearby, and it could be one of them who was the cause of this enjoyable blight. Martin was off on a trip to the market for some food and talk. There was normally plenty of fish available free to a netmender, but many of the fishers were quietly worried about the strangely good weather, to the extent that they stayed in port rather than risk becalming in such conditions. Besides, they could hardly sail without wind, and a lack of wind was an anomaly if ever one existed in Dargon. This had, however, kept the shop fairly busy over the last few days, with the fishers taking advantage of the lay up in port to get their nets repaired or replaced. Now though, most of the work that he could do alone had been done, and he had time to sort out the ropes, stones and bladders into some semblance of order. Lighting a torch from the fire in the kitchen, he returned to the shop area, now able to see what he was doing in the dim recesses of the rear of the shop. Planting his torch in a wall sconce, he bent to the task of clearing up the mess of rope, sorting it into drums by size and approximate length, and then stacking it on the wide shelves in the rear of the shop. He then bent to the task of sorting the stones into buckets and matching the bladders beside them. Eventually, he stood up, task complete, as a figure appeared, silhouetted, in the doorway. A leather bag hung at hip level from a strap around its shoulder. "My my, haven't you grown?" came the man's voice, his words seeming to ooze both mirth and hidden meanings. Jason jumped, wide eyed, and felt the blood drain from his face. "Father!" His eyes darted about, looking for an escape which he knew did not exist. "What are you ..." he started, then realised that it was a stupid question. "How did you find me?" His heart hammered in his chest, and while the shock of discovery lent him energy, there was nowhere to run. "I figured that your faith in Cirrangill would force you to stick with a coastal town. After Sharks' Cove, this was the next obvious choice. Besides, anyone with the sense to see it could hardly fail to notice where you were." Kilan sounded like he was about to burst into joyous laughter. Jason rocked back in confusion. "What do you mean? I haven't told anyone who I am! Or who you are. I've kept to myself since I got here, and haven't done anything but get myself a job that I'm good at." "Ah, but the weather *has* turned ... how shall I say it ... unusual around here, don't you think?" "If I had known you could find me so easily, I would have moved on further," Jason replied miserably. "It's not as if I had any way of checking where *you* were." He shifted his feet nervously, disgruntled at being tracked down. His father's grin was suddenly made visible as the sun dimmed behind him. "That almost sounds like you haven't tried practicing any magic since you got here." Only the tremor of a chuckle betrayed the fact that Kilan believed he already knew the answer. "Why should I? It didn't work when I was trying. Why should it work when I give it up? I think I proved that I have no talent in that area. That's why I left in the first place and told you to get another apprentice. I certainly didn't expect you to come looking for me." Though still breathing hard from the shock of discovery, he was now starting to sulk. Kilan's eyes narrowed slightly. "You never tried any magic? What have you been doing then, mending nets?" Jason ignored the sarcasm. "Yes, strangely enough. And cooking, cleaning, washing and fetching. You know, normal apprentice stuff." He gestured around at the buckets of stones and ropes. Taking a similarly flippant approach, he asked, "How have you been?" "Culchanan's ghost, boy! How do you think I've been?" The joyous exclamation seemed to echo around the room, causing Jason to jump in surprise. "Worried sick and looking for you!" Expressions of concern and relief battled plainly on his father's face. "Do you realise what you could have done, running off when you did? Do you know just how close to realising your powers you were? Didn't you know how dangerous it was running off when you did? And then you end up learning a trade in a place like this?" He gestured around at the clutter of nets and baskets which littered the floor as the shop slowly darkened. The torch now provided much of the light. Jason stood silent for a while, then started to laugh weakly. "At least this is something that I can do. I said in the note that you should get yourself a decent apprentice. You should have tried, rather than coming to look for me." Jason sighed, knowing how much inconvenience he had caused. Soon though, he remembered his time in the tower, and his resolve hardened. "You know, I haven't failed at *one* task here yet. I don't know if you noticed, but there was a certain point that I just could not get past when I was trying to become a weatherweaver. Here, I'm by the sea, I can let my thoughts drift, and yet I still manage to get the work done. I happen to like it here. Even my master sticks to things which he can accomplish -- unlike some people I could mention." A wry smile appeared on Kilan's face. "You may be wrong there, son. About accomplishments, I mean. I take it that you have noticed the unusual weather that Dargon is experiencing presently?" "Yes. I thought that might have been your doing." "Well, in a way, but I only arrived here today. Now how do you think I found you so quickly?" The weatherweaver paused, but Jason chose not to answer. "These are your weaves causing this. Quite impressive really, even if I say so myself. I knew you were strong, but I didn't realise that you would advance so far, so fast." "What do you mean? I haven't even tried any magic, and now you tell me I'm at the root of the strange weather we've been having here?" A note of concern entered Jason's voice at his father's words, and he longed for Martin to return, though that was unlikely for some time. "What do I mean?" Kilan asked. "Well, I mean that the bread which you took with you from the tower was more than just eggs, flour, water, yeast and salt. And seed, in that particular case." Jason was near to panic. "You put something in that?" His voice had increased in both volume and pitch, stopping just short of a shout. "What have you done?" Something flashed over the seas. "What have you done to me?" His distress must have been plain as he looked, aghast, towards his father. Kilan refused to take offense. He knew the boy was just unsure of what had been done. Once he knew, his attitude would change. All the same, Kilan jumped slightly when the thunder rolled in from behind, but it was not enough to raze the smirk of pride from his face. "Well, what all did I have in there? Some powders to enhance your concentration, some of the brine that Corambis concocted for me some years back from lichens and moss extract around the forest here -- that should help you align your mind to magic more effectively. What else? A smokeweed extract that should stop your emotions getting in the way of your magic, a miniscule chip of chrysoline to protect you from any hostile magics ... There are a number of other ingredients, mostly ones you won't have studied yet, but all made to work on different flaws in the human mind and body. All bonded together with amaranth and a weave of my own so that there should be no problem with effects fading or any of the constituents working against each other." He paused for effect. "You are unique, my boy ..." Kilan would have continued, but the sight of his son thudding down heavily into a chair and covering his eyes with his forearm stopped him. Kilan burst once more into a grin. "I know. Fantastic, isn't it?" Jason felt physically pained by his father's betrayal. By the sound of things, it was too late to reverse any changes that the spell had effected. His lips stretched in a rictus across his teeth, and he keened softly, mourning his loss of self. Outside, a soft drizzle leaked in sympathy from leaden skies -- skies clear only menes before -- into a choppy, grey sea. In the distance, lightnings flashed across the clouds as they moved low over the sea. The low growl of thunder was becoming a constant distraction. Kilan frowned, unsure of himself, and annoyed at the lack of gratitude his son showed. Then he came to the shocked realisation that there had been no focus, no incantation, and not even any concentrated effort on his son's part to cause this change in weather. It should still have taken *some* work at least to turn sun into rain. He stepped closer, reaching a tentative hand toward his son's head, patting it gently then holding it to him. The boy sat limp, hardly seeming to breathe as sobs racked his chest and shoulders. Tears soaked unnoticed into Kilan's tunic as he reached further, surpassing physical boundaries, and reaching into his son's mind, exploring the changes made. The corners of his mouth turned slightly upward at the ease with which he achieved his goal, but the satisfied smile turned to a look of concern, then outright horror at what he found. Breaking his contact, he staggered backward into a table, sending items flying from the bag which hung at his hip. The boy flopped back in his chair, still keening silently to himself. Kilan turned, and made a drunken lunge for the support of the wall. His mouth gaped wide in the knowledge of his failure. Somehow, he managed to haul himself outside into the rain, and lurched down the street, unable to come to terms with the gravity of his mistake. ======================================================================== Maiden Cloth by Sue Donnymouse Vibril 30, 1015 "Honey. Honey!! Where are you? Where -- Augh!" Cairel jumped as Honey sprang up behind him, out of the darkness and grabbed him from behind. She then ran past him down the path and sprang back into the dark bushes, giggling the whole time. With a grin Cairel ran after her. The landscape was well lit by the full moon. In years past neither Cairel nor Honey would have dared venture out-of-doors during the Night of Souls, but they were both feeling their full fifteen years' age, and had decided that they were too old to believe in the fables and tales the adults spun by the fireside for the other children. Besides, there were other, more interesting things to do. Cairel could not see Honey up ahead, but he could hear her excited breathing and the sound of her passage through the undergrowth. His own breath came out in half-laughs, thrilled at the chase. He always liked Honey, but now he felt a certain, special excitement around her. He wasn't entirely sure why, but there was something about her that he somehow had never noticed until this year. Maybe it was her new height. Until this year she was always the smaller of the two. Maybe it was loneliness. His older brothers had gone off to war, and half the village children were gone, migrated to the cities with their families in search of work and food. What Cairel wouldn't admit to himself was that suddenly Honey wasn't just a girl anymore, and he was no longer a young boy. He realized now that there was an attractiveness to the opposite sex, and for whatever reason, it seemed to concentrate itself in Honey. The mysteries of love were a mere rumor to him, but there were many mysteries about Honey, and Cairel knew he wanted to stay close to her, in case some were revealed. He stopped in a small ravine, panting, holding his breath fitfully so he could listen. Where had she gone? The sound of snapping twigs brought him around, and drew his gaze up the steep, rocky, slope. There, up the hill, with the moonlight shining on her, stood Honey. "Up here, snail!!" she yelled, jumping up and down and waving her arms. "You sure run slow!! Aren't you going to catch me?" "Shhh!" urged Cairel, "They'll hear you back at the house!" "Slow ox!" she taunted. "Mole feet!" He dashed up the slope, and she ran ahead of him. The higher they climbed, the slower they climbed. Finally Cairel paused. "Whew!" he exclaimed, pausing and stripping off his shirt. He mopped his brow with it, then tossed it on top of a prominent boulder. "All this running has me sweating!" Cairel started up the slope again, dodging around the boulders. "That's a good idea!" she called out. "I'm too hot for this," she added, in a tone of voice that caught Cairel's attention. He looked up just in time to see her throw her dress up over her head. He stood, stunned. She looked down at him with a mischievous grin and laughed at his shock. Cairel could do little but stare. He had seen her naked many times before, as children playing in the nearby streams, but somehow seeing her like this revealed the changes the years had made in them both. In the dim moonlight she was a vision of pale white curves, unmarked by any darkness save her flowing locks above and the beginning of a delta below. For some reason that made his breath shorter, and his blood hotter. "That's much better," she taunted saucily. "Now I can run even faster!" With a hop and a skip she disappeared. Cairel followed, a different sort of energy suffusing his legs. Cairel knew the slope reached a ridge at the top, then descended to the road. She wouldn't risk appearing there unclothed, so she would have to go further away from the house. He cut across the slope and crested the rise higher up. He ran hard toward the path, listening to her giggles ahead. He burst out of the brush at the same moment she did. He could see that she was naked, save for her shoes and a band of cloth around her chest. She let loose a delighted shriek, and nearly stumbled while turning back. He followed, and for a moment more they ran, laughing hard. Finally he reached out and seized the cloth, and pulled her in. They went down in a tumble. Cairel landed on top, pinning his quarry to the dirt. Honey squirmed, trying to push him off, laughing. He tickled her, squealing with glee. She writhed, shrieking, trying at first to escape, then wrapped her legs around his waist. She ran her hands across his smooth chest, her eyes wide. Cairel placed one hand on each hip, then slid them front and back, touching the forbidden cheeks, fondling the hidden treasure. He slid his hands upwards and seized the cloth around her chest. It was tight, binding the lower half of her breasts, pushing them up and making them look larger than they were. He tugged on the band, pulling it down. "No!" she exclaimed, laughing. "Not my maiden-cloth!" She grasped the band, trying to hold it up. They struggled earnestly until Cairel succeeded in lowering it until first one, then the other nipple emerged. Suddenly her resistence faded, and the maiden-cloth fell away. Cairel tossed it aside and stared in awe at Honey, who lay there, panting, waiting. Unsure just what to do, Cairel lowered his lips to her breast. "Just a taste of Honey," he whispered. "I wouldn't do that," a voice behind them said. They both yelped, scrambling to their knees. Honey covered herself and cowered behind Cairel. They stared trembling at the stranger who had accosted them. He was dressed in dark cloth, with a wide-brimmed hat on his head. From its rim dangled wooden rings strung with colored beads. The couple couldn't see much of his face, but when he smiled they could see only gums, without a single tooth in sight. The moonlight glinted off his eyes. "Who ... who are you?!" blurted Cairel, pushing back away from the man. "What do you want?!" "I wouldn't be ... tasting those sweets here at night," the man cautioned. "The nosuckle is likely to get you." "The what?" gasped Honey. "The nosuckle. Haven't you ever heard of the nosuckle?" He leaned forward, stepping closer, lowering his head to stare straight into their eyes. "Many years ago there was a young couple, just like you," he said. "They were tasting their spring buds too, just like you, only they got just a little bit further. Well, the girl, see, she was ripe, and after a while, she had a baby." The two started to squirm uncomfortably. "Of course," the man continued, "she was really too young. When the baby was born, see, her sweets were too hard, and they wouldn't give no milk! Oh, how the baby cried and cried, but when she gave her breast for it to suck, there was nothing there." "Well, after a long while of listening to the baby crying she got so angry that she went out and got some butterfly weed milk and gave that to the baby to drink." "But ... but butterfly weed .. it's poison!!" stuttered Honey, protesting. "Aye, that it is. She took the baby out into the woods, and wrapped it in her maiden cloth," he pointed to the white cloth lying beside the path, "and left it to die. Which it did." The man took a step closer, the beads on his hat rattling. "Well, perhaps I shouldn't say it died. Let's just say it wasn't a baby anymore. For, you see, a bit later that same two was out in the woods again, stirring the soup as it were. The nosuckle, for that's what the baby had become, saw the man and woman, you see. It thought that the man was attacking its mother, for being a baby it didn't understand such things as you do now. So it grew claws and teeth, and it tore the throat out of that young man, who was actually its own father." Cairel wrapped his hand uncomfortably around his neck. "After that it saw its mother there, with her lovelies exposed, just as if to give it suckle. Well, it was forever hungry, cursed as it was, and it tried to suck. But her tits were still just as hard: about as flat as your own, if you please." Honey wrapped her arms around her bare chest. "Well, it sucked and sucked, but nothing came out. So it sucked even harder, and finally sucked the life right out of her. So you see, that's why you ought not be tasting those sweets tonight, here in the woods. For the nosuckle is still out there," he swept his arm around at the darkness, "looking for a breast to suck. And if it saw yours, well, you wouldn't like it." The man leaned forward, stepping even closer to the frightened pair. "Now you better be getting your clothes back on and be getting back home. If you know what's good for ya." When they just sat there, paralyzed, he thrust his head forward with a jerk. "Go!" Cairel and Honey jumped to their feet and ran. They ran back up the hill the way they came, holding onto each other's hand and not looking back. They reached Honey's dress and she snatched it up, then they passed Cairel's shirt and he did the same. They ran until they reached the path, where they collapsed to their knees, laughing. "Who was that?" asked Cairel finally, shrugging his shirt on. "I ... I don't know!" Honey replied as she slipped her dress back over her head. Cairel watched her secret parts disappear from view, wondering when he would see them again. They fell into each other's arms and laughed a longwhile. Then, holding hands, they started back toward the house. Suddenly Honey stopped, her hands flying up to clutch her breasts. "What?" exclaimed Cairel. "My maiden-cloth! I left it back there!" "Get it in the morning," urged Cairel. Suddenly the woods seemed darker than they had before. Though he wouldn't admit it to her, he had a strong desire to be out of the dark, inside with the others. "No, no, you don't understand!" Honey insisted. "If I come back without it, my mother will see when I undress tonight. She'll know I've been up to something!! We have to go back and get it!" Together they turned back and ran up the path, always looking ahead for the dark form of the stranger. They reached the spot where they had met him, but he was not to be seen. "It's around here somewhere," Honey said. "Look at the side of the path." They scouted about. Suddenly Honey spotted a clump of white in the undergrowth. "Here it is!" She bent down to pick it up as Cairel stepped over to her side. What she lifted was not her maiden-cloth, however, but a bundle. It fell apart as she lifted it. Out rolled an infant's toothless skull. As they stared in horror, a wooden ring strung with beads fell to the ground. It was a baby rattle. With a howl of unreasoning terror, the two turned, and ran straight home, without stopping. ======================================================================== Deliverance Part 2 by John Doucette 24 Sy, 1014 Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur 24 Sy, 1014 B.Y. The woman stepped through the gate of the elegant house and stopped on the street, gazing up at the night sky. She shivered -- the time was very late and the air was cool -- and drew her cloak about her. She stood there for several menes, simply gazing up at the stars, her breathing slow and regular. She had always loved looking at the night sky. Some of her most prized memories of her early childhood were of lying on the grass or sitting on the low stone wall near her parents' small house, staring up at the night sky, losing herself, escaping from the world for a time. Tonight -- for a great many nights of late, actually -- she was in sore need of the solitude the night sky could bring. The cowl on her cloak partially obscured her vision, so she pushed it back, exposing her long brown hair to the light of the moon. She stood there for perhaps half a bell -- perhaps more, she wasn't certain -- before reluctantly lowering her gaze from the quiet sky. She looked about the broad street. Other than herself, the street was deserted. She preferred it that way. It made her task so much easier. She turned to her left suddenly and began walking with quick, decisive strides up the street, which was already beginning to slope upwards on its way towards the Royal Quarter and Crown Castle. She had no such lofty destination in mind, however. Keeping her cloak wrapped around her, her boots thudding softly against the cobblestones, she kept close to the buildings, houses of the wealthier of the residents of the Merchants' Quarter. She chose to leave the cowl of her cloak down, both to provide better visibility and hearing, and because she simply wanted to. She had been walking briskly for several menes when she spied her first major landmark, a moderately-sized plaza at the junction of five streets. She slowed, hearing voices, one hand moving under her cloak to grasp the hilt of the dagger riding in a scabbard on her left hip. As she approached the plaza, she slowed even more, her face a mask of intense concentration as she struggled to listen, trying to determine the danger, if any, the voices posed. The voices were much louder now as she approached the corner of the streets leading into the plaza from the north and east. She crept up to the corner of the building and risked a glance into the plaza. What she saw caused instant alarm -- two of the town guard not ten feet away and moving toward her. She drew quickly back and partially turned to face north, back the way she came, looking for a place of concealment. Nothing readily presented itself and she knew that to run would spell disaster -- the town guard would surely pursue someone fleeing down a city street this late, especially in time of war. She could not afford that, not now, not after all she had done and had suffered through these past months. The guards were almost at the corner now. She turned to face the corner, briefly flirting with the idea of using her dagger. That would not help matters either; would, in fact, only serve to make things much, much worse. She had only one option remaining to her, and she was loathe to use it. Uttering an oath, she let her hand slip from the dagger's hilt, her arms falling to her sides, the cloak opening somewhat to reveal the white shirt, green vest, and dark trews. Then she waited. The glow of a lantern preceded the arrival of the guardsmen. The two men rounded the corner and stopped short as they were confronted by the sight of a rather nice-looking woman of medium height, moderately well-dressed, wearing a dark cloak, and standing there looking as if her presence on a deserted street in the middle of the wee bells in a capital nearly under siege was as natural as rain on a spring day. The older of the two men narrowed his eyes and quickly took in the surroundings. His partner, he noticed, was taking in other, more shapely sights. "And what might you be doing out here all alone at this time of night?" The woman answered in an oddly-accented voice, her speech formal-sounding. "I am new to the City," she said, "and have lost my way. I had been enjoying the hospitality of a tavern recommended to me by friends. Friends whom, I might add, left me to my own devices some time ago." She smiled, a dazzling smile in the light of the lantern. "Would you be so kind as to guide my way to my lodgings?" The younger man started forward almost immediately, only to be stopped by a hand on his arm. "Hold it, lad. Not so quick. You, lass, where is it you are staying?" The woman -- youngish, the older guardsman judged -- turned her attention full on him and answered in that odd-sounding voice of hers, "I am staying at the Bardic Hostel, doing some scribe work for the College. As I have said, I have only just recently arrived in the City and I am not entirely familiar with it yet. Doubly so after dark." The older guardsman appeared to consider the answer until his deliberations were interrupted by his younger colleague. "Come on, Coros, what harm can she be? She's just a woman and unarmed." At that, the woman brought her hands out fully into the light, holding them out, palms up. Coros pondered for a few moments more before finally deciding, apparently, that his younger colleague's assessment was partially true. Her being a woman had no bearing on how dangerous she was, but the fact she bore no steel he could see went a long ways towards helping him make up his mind. Coros grunted and nodded, motioning for the younger guardsman to fall in on the woman's right while he moved to her left side. As the two men approached, the woman made certain to keep her hands out in the open. Just as they reached her, she suddenly reached out to touch each man on the forehead. She whispered a single word, and both men fell to the ground with a solid thud. She narrowly managed to catch the lantern before it, too, hit the ground. A fire was the last thing anyone needed. She stood straight, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she had been keeping in. She gazed down at the immobile bodies of the guardsmen for several moments before satisfying herself they would trouble her no more. She again glanced around the street, looking for witnesses, before extinguishing the lantern and setting it on the cobblestones between the two men. The woman drew her cloak about herself once more and stood there until she could see well enough to travel quickly if need be. When her eyes had fully adjusted to the light of the moon, she set off, treading briskly across the plaza, heading for the street that led west and slightly south off the plaza. As she stepped out into the plaza, she took the opportunity to look down the street from which the guardsmen had come. What she saw brought her to an awkward halt. The sky to the east was lit with an angry orange glow. She stared towards the eastern sky, turning her head slowly to look fully upon the spectacular and chilling sight. "Nehru's Blood!", she whispered in awe. There were gaps in the orange glow, clearly a fire. The fire seemed some distance away and it took her a moment to realize that the reason there were gaps in the glow was that the large, closely packed -- and expensive -- buildings that characterized much of the Merchants' Quarter were obscuring her line of sight. She now realized that the glow from the fire, if indeed that was the source of what she was seeing, covered nearly the entire eastern horizon. Perhaps the Beinisonians had begun their assault upon Baranur's capital. If so, she thought, she must move her plans along more rapidly than she had ever conceived and in a totally unanticipated direction. She did not relish the prospect of either option. She turned and hurried west, jogging along the dark street in her haste. Contrary to what she had told the guardsman Coros, she knew Magnus very well, day or night. She had spent the last three months getting to know the lay of the streets, among other, less desirable things. The nature and cost of the buildings changed as she moved west, generally becoming larger and more expensive. The part of the city she was entering was home to most of the more-powerful merchant families. Large manors abounded, intricate gardens on display both in and outside homes, status symbols in the game of wealth and power. Quite vain, but quite lovely in daylight, she thought as she hurried along, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to see if she was being followed. She jogged west for about half a bell before slowing to a brisk walk. She had spied her destination, a large, semi-fortified stone manor on the south side of a small square with a fountain in the centre. She slowed her pace somewhat as she approached the large door of the manor, wanting to bring her breathing under better control before entering. She must not seem anxious. The woman, her breathing now unhurried, walked up to the large wooden door. She reached out for a rope hanging in front of the door and to her left, tugging on it three times. She waited for a time, enjoying the quiet, formulating her thoughts and plan of action for the night's main task. Presently, the sound of a latch being undone came to her ears and shortly thereafter, a panel in the centre of one of the doors slid open to reveal a man's face. Light spilled out onto the street from a lantern the man was carrying. Immediately-apparent recognition dawned in the man's eyes. "Ah. They are expecting you, my lady." Not waiting for the woman to respond, the man closed the panel, plunging the street into darkness once more. The woman heard the sound of a bar being withdrawn and the door opened inward. The man was standing there, his lantern tightly shuttered to prevent as little light to escape as possible. The woman stepped through the door and past the man, who wordlessly closed the door and replaced the bar before opening his lantern. The man walked past the woman, leading the way up to the second floor, a journey both had made many times together in the past months. The man carried the lantern in his left hand, as he always did, holding it level with his eyes and out to the side, again as he always did. The woman, for her part, followed a pace or two behind and to his right, as she always did. The pair walked down a darkened hallway until the man halted before a door. He turned and nodded, as he always did, before walking off back the way he had come. The woman waited until the man and his lantern had disappeared, as she always did, before opening the door and stepping into the well-lit room beyond. She smiled slightly to herself as she entered, reflecting on how such a simple series of actions could take on the effect of a calming and even anticipated ritual. She would have been even more amused to find that the man thought the same way. The room was richly-apportioned, several expensive tapestries and even a few books in evidence. Four men were seated around an exquisitely-crafted table in the centre of the room. A fifth stood at a window, gazing east at the glow from the Fifth Quarter's death throes. It was this fifth who turned when the woman entered the room. "Ah. Celeste. We have many matters to discuss." Celeste closed the door without turning away from the man who had spoken. She nodded briefly. "We doth, indeed, my Lord," she said, gratefully resuming the archaic usages normally common to her speech. The man at the window, modestly dressed, walked over to sit in one of the two empty chairs at the table, a slight smile on his face. As he sat, he indicated with a gesture for Celeste to take the remaining chair. Celeste took the proffered seat with grace, pausing to slip her cloak off and drape it over the back of the chair. The man folded his hands in his lap and asked, again smiling, "What news of Master Cheldrith? Have you won him over? Will he throw in with us?" "Aye, Lord Enion," Celeste responded, "he hath indicated that he shall." That was news clearly to gladden Enion's heart; and the others present as well, to judge from their reactions. They have not as secure a position as they do publicly acclaim, then, Celeste thought. Enion nodded in salute to Celeste. "Your talents," he said in his rich, deep voice, "are truly astounding." Celeste nodded in acceptance of Enion's compliment, smiling slightly. An outward mask, that; her true reaction was one of disgust and loathing, not all of it directed outward. For certes shall I enjoy *your* death, Enion, she thought, both in the length and manner of the doing. He directed his next comment to the room as a whole. "Well, now that Celeste has brought us such good news, I think we can safely move on to the end game." Celeste interrupted the murmurs of assent and joking suggestions of what to do with their quarry once he was brought down. "My Lord, doubtless thou hast observed the flames even now devouring that part of the city on the far bank. Is it not somewhat early to be thus congratulating ourselves on the further success of this, our plan? Surely the flames doth herald the final onslaught of the Beinisonian host in their siege camp?" General laughter swept round the table. It was one of the others who imparted the source of their laughter to Celeste. "Not to worry. It is only the Fifth Quarter that burns. Good riddance, say I." Celeste responded, speaking as if to a particularly slow student. "Mayhap that is so, Gerrans, but think thou the Beinisonians shalt content themselves with the Fifth Quarter only? True it is they may not be assaulting the city walls even now, but it is just as certain that they shalt not be leaving anytime soon. Not possessing a host that overmatches that within the walls two for one. The Beinisonians shall assault or shall siege the entire city and then shalt we find ourselves forced to deal with the question of how, or even if, we should proceed." Gerrans made as if to respond, his face hot with anger, but Enion was there first, laying a restraining hand on the younger man's arm. "A valid concern, Celeste, but my man inside the Castle has informed me that the foreigner has a plan should that happen." Enion paused then added, a faint note of surprise in his voice, "It actually might succeed, too, which would be a refreshing change." Celeste posed another question, inwardly marveling that these men should so casually dismiss Edward Sothos as nothing more than an incompetent amateur. "And is this man of thine reliable, my Lord Enion?" "Very," Enion responded in a crisp voice. "His loyalty to House Northfield is unquestioned." Enion sat straighter, his hands on the arms of the chair, radiating authority. "Now we must turn our attentions to exactly how we shall accomplish our goal; the removal of the foreigner and the installation of our own candidate in his place." Enion smiled, a feral glint in his eye. "And *then* we shall see to the restoration of House Northfield to its place of prominence among the Great Houses." And then, thought Celeste, once the Sothos is freed of his duties and responsibilities here, then shalt I be thus able to depart this wretched land. She smiled and let the others think what they may. But not before I am well recompensed for my service, nay, not before then. ========================================================================