DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 7

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 --   DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 7        05/11/90          Cir 970    --

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 --                            Contents                                --

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

  DAG                          Dafydd                 Editorial

  The Bronze Horseman I        Max Khaytsus           Sy 10-Seber 22, '13

  Hunting of the Red Tiger II  M. Wendy Hennequin     Neber 1013

  A Night Off the Town         M. Wendy Hennequin     15 Mertz, 1014

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

1                         Dafydd's Amber Glow

                          by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr

                (b.c.k.a. <white@DUVM.OCS.Drexel.Edu>)

      Okay,  here is,  as promised,  the scoop  on the  DargonZine back

 issue archives:

      Back issues of  DargonZine are available from  the Archive Server

 run by Mark Seiffert. DargonZine has its own section of the Archive in

 the directory called other/digest/DargonZine,  with each volume having

 a  separate sub-directory  for it's  issues. There  are two  auxillary

 files available from the DargonZine  directory: the file "index" lists

 the file names and  the descriptions of what is in  the files; and the

 "list" file is a Unix-style ls-lR file of the files available.

      Back issues are requested  from the machine "Archive@mgse" (which

 may  have to  be translated  to "archive%mgse@rex.cs.tulane.edu"  from

 some machines) by sending it mail. An example of the commands required

 to get the help file, the index  and list files, Volume 1 Issue 1, and

 Volume2 Issue 1 of the magazine is below:

 - cut here ----------------------------------------------------------

 help

 send other/digest/DargonZine/list

 send other/digest/DargonZine/index

 send other/digest/DargonZine/vol01/issue01

 send other/digest/DargonZine/vol02/issue01

 - cut here ----------------------------------------------------------

      The files are also available  for anonymous uucp at 504-467-1069,

 2400      baud,     login      'archive'     in      the     directory

 "/archive/other/digest/DargonZine/". Callers at 300  or 1200 baud will

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      If you  have any  problems or questions,  please contact  Mark at

 "archivea@mgse"  (or "archivea%mgse@rex.cs.tulane.edu"  - Mark  is the

 administrator of the Archive and I have little to no knowledge of just

 how it  works. Please  be sure to  send your mail  files to  the right

 place:  questions/problems to  archivea@mgse,  requests  for files  to

 archive@mgse. Thank  you, and thanks to  Mark for the service  and for

 much of the above explanation.

      The above presented documentation is  right out of the DargonZine

 Info file, and, as noted, was  culled from the documentation that Mark

 provides  for his  Server. As  I said  last issue,  I have  tested the

 Server and it works. However, it seems to only accept one command at a

 time. So, if you want multiple issues,  it would seem that you have to

 send multiple mail messages to the  machine. But that's no bad thing -

 it will help  distribute the load on the network  if you don't request

 all 13 back issues at once anyway!

      I  just have  two more  things to  make note  of. Its  probably a

 little late for this (should have been in the last issue), but I would

 like  to remind  those students  who  receive DargonZine  and who  are

 leaving school for  the summer to unsubscribe (just send  me a message

 -its  that easy)  to save  the  bandwidth it  will take  to send  your

 account an issue of DargonZine and have it bounce because your account

 is no longer active. When you return in the fall, just send me another

 message  and I'll  resubscribe you,  and you  can get  the issues  you

 missed from Mark's Archive Server! Thank you for the consideration.

      And, lastly, there are a few  addresses out there that seem to be

 reachable from  the ListServ  network that distributes  this magazine,

 but  not from  my personal  account. I  would like  to reassure  these

 people, most particularly Cathy Newberry (who is the only account I am

 sure I cannot reach by mail - but there must be others), that I am not

 ignoring their  requests for  further information.  Cathy, I  tried to

 send you  back issues, and this  week the DargonZine Info  file so you

 could get them yourself. But, no  matter what I tried (and that wasn't

 as much  as it could have  been maybe, but I'm  no mailer-daemon), our

 Mailer refused  to believe that  your node exists. I'm  terribly sorry

 that I  couldn't respond  directly to  your requests,  but I  did try.

 Fortunately, I know  that the issues make  it to you, so  above is the

 back issue information.

      Thank you and enjoy DargonZine.

              Dafydd, Editor DargonZine

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

1                          The Bronze Horseman

                                  Part 1

                             by Max Khaytsus

               <b.c.k.a. khaytsus%tramp@boulder.colorado.edu>

      A brigand with a large gap  between his teeth handed the lance to

 the  young knight  on his  horse.  "He's giving  you a  chance to  die

 fighting, but  if you win,  the rest of us  will kill you."  He smiled

 savagely. "You went after the wrong people, boy."

      The knight backhanded  the brigand and brought the  lance up over

 the saddle. "I see I killed the wrong three. Get out of my way or I'll

 skewer you."

      Another brigand drew  his sword. "You be careful what  you say or

 you may have to fight without a tongue."

      The knight lowered the tip of  his lance to point at the speaker.

 "If I die here  today, more will come. Your kind  will _not_ rule this

 land." He thrust  the lance forward, hitting the brigand  in the chest

 hard enough  to knock him over.  "If I die today,  I will do so  for a

 good cause and people will remember my name."

      "Now,  now, Sir  Arvel," someone  said behind  the knight  and he

 turned to  face a man  dressed in full  plate made of  bronze, sitting

 atop a  night black mount. "Enough  of this bragging," the  rider went

 on. "I am  giving you this chance  because you did earn  the chain you

 wear and I wish to remove it from you the same way you earned it -- in

 combat."

      "Quinn," Arvel answered, "killing me won't make your life easier.

 You are still an outlaw."

      "Until I am  removed by a tribunal,  you will refer to  me as Sir

 Garwood Quinn."

      "Baron Bankroft already revoked your knighthood!"

      "Baron Bankroft is dead!"

      Arvel glared at the man in the bronze armor.

      "Are the peasants ready?" Quinn asked one of his men.

      "They are all in the field, Sir."

      "Good. If you will, Sir Arvel," Quinn turned to his opponent. "My

 men will escort you to your starting position."

      The gap-toothed brigand  took the reins of the horse  and lead it

 away. Quinn kicked his  horse to a gallop, going to  the other side of

 the meadow.

      Arvel's horse was  led to a red  marker on the edge  of the field

 and turned to face in Sir Garwood's direction. The brigand walked away

 and Arvel raised his head to the  sky in a silent prayer. As the first

 horn sounded, he leveled his lance.  On the second he kicked the horse

 into a trot. Across the field Sir Garwood did the same. The two horses

 gained speed on  their charges and the knights collided  with a clash.

 Arvel's shield received a  great dent in its face. He  was not sure if

 it could take another hit like that,  but he suspected he did at least

 as much damage to Quinn. He turned his horse and looked to find Quinn.

 The  renegade  knight adjusted  his  shield  and charged  back.  Arvel

 shifted his weight in the saddle and urged his own horse forward. Once

 again the  two knights  collided, but  this time  Arvel fell  from his

 saddle to  the ground  and Quinn  rode back.  He dismounted  and knelt

 beside the fallen man.

      "See how  combat before the  gods works?"  he asked and  took the

 chain of  knighthood into  his hand.  Arvel gasped  at the  force with

 which the chain  was torn off. "You're no knight,"  Quinn declared and

 slit the fallen man's throat.

      Rien  embraced Kera  one last  time  and whispered  "Have a  safe

 journey,"  in her  ear. Kera  pressed harder  against him.  "I'll miss

1you."

      After a minute or so they  released each other and Kera remounted

 her horse. Rien  watched her ride away until she  reached the curve in

 the road, where she turned back and  waved. He waved back and soon she

 disappeared from sight.

      Rien got back on his horse and kicked it into motion. There was a

 month long trip ahead  of him to do a job that  should have been taken

 care of months  ago. It was to  bring to justice, one  way or another,

 Sir Garwood Quinn, one of the knights of Baron Bankroft, or rather the

 late  Baron Bankroft,  who  was murdered  in cold  blood  by the  said

 renegade a few days before the Melrin festival. Quinn, in his festive,

 pre-holiday spirit, took a few of his  men and went out to pillage and

 plunder his baron's  lands and set up camp somewhere  near the village

 of Phedra, after permanently releaving the local constable.

      That was  the report Rien  received three  weeks ago at  the inn,

 telling of  something that took  place almost two months  before that.

 Now Rien's task was to find the renegade knight in the lands he's been

 despoiling and one way or another to take care of him and his dozen or

 so men.  Of course  by the time  Rien arrived, it  would be  well over

 three months since  the initial event and in that  time anything could

 have happened.  The problem  might have already  been resolved  by the

 local authorities, which was doubtful, as any organized process in the

 Duchy of  Quinnat would be  unlikely at best.  On the other  hand, the

 problem  also had  had a  chance to  grow, which  was the  more likely

 event. Rien only hoped it had not grown too much.

      He sent Kera to Sharks' Cove specifically for that reason -- what

 he was about to  do was going to be very dangerous.  She would be much

 safer on the road than in a fight.  She was to go to Armand and take a

 boat to Sharks'  Cove to deliver his message that  said he had finally

 gotten  around to  the  job. The  note also  requested  his horse  and

 equipment and a mount for Kera.  Rien had initially left his horse and

 gear behind to assure his co-workers that he would indeed take a break

 this time. All he  ended up proving was that he  did not need anything

 extra to run into more problems. The vacation became nothing more than

 a disorganized  job, but no one  would ever hear about  that. Rien was

 more restless than  Kera showed herself to be in  their week long stay

 at the  inn in  Dargon, but  he controlled it  better than  she. Being

 forced to "relax" and do nothing was sheer torture for him.

      Instead of dying of boredom, Rien managed to obtain an obligation

 to  the   High  Mage  (who   hopefully  still  knew  nothing   of  the

 troubleshooters), get a witches coven  upset with him (upset enough to

 try and  kill him), anger  the provincial  Dargon mob (which  hired an

 assassin  to  hunt him  down)  and  on top  of  that,  get himself  an

 apprentice! Apprentice for what? He worked alone! His association with

 Kera made him wonder about their  relationship now that he was finally

 alone and had  the chance to think.  Was it because he  felt sorry for

 her? Was it  because he felt responsible for the  disease? And why has

 their relationship turned sexual of all things? She didn't even have a

 drop of elven blood. His mate...ex-mate was at least an elf.

      One thing was for sure, Kera  lead the type of lifestyle he lead.

 Despite this tie  between them there was still a  problem. He was more

 than seven times her  age and would easily live to  see ten times that

 amount. She, at best, would live to the end of the century. In fifteen

 or twenty years she would be on the decline, no longer as strong or as

 agile...and twenty years past that,  the same would start happening to

 her mind. Rien  was not happy about human mortality.  It was the cause

 of the  initial conflict between his  people and the human  race. In a

 matter of  two centuries, a few  millenia ago, elves almost  became an

 extinct race because  of their inability to die a  natural death. They

 were  virtual  pacifists  back   then,  permitting  themselves  to  be

1slaughtered almost to the last.

      To date, Rien  knew of only four tribes in  existence, all living

 in  the  same  place,  Wildwood,  in  the  valley  of  the  Windbourne

 mountains, or Charnelwood  -- Darkling Forest --  as the superstitious

 humans  in the  area preferred  to  call it.  Two of  the tribes  were

 Ljosalfar. The one he was from and another, of which his ex-mate was a

 member. The other two were Dopkalfar  and Rien knew little of them. He

 could find them if he wanted to,  but there was never a reason to. The

 Dopkalfar were  the ones who  insisted that  the human lust  for elven

 blood should be repaid in kind and  it was this desire to survive that

 almost singlehandedly saved  the entire race. It was  this desire that

 separated  the two  groups into  the broken  race they  now were.  One

 remained peaceful and  the other became warriors. The  conflict lay in

 the issue of revenge and question of superiority. Did a more civilized

 race have the right to condemn another?

      For the  most part Ljosalfar  strongly believed that  they should

 not fight a war and should simply be ready to leave if the humans ever

 come again.  The philosophy of  the Dopkalfar was  to be ready  at all

 times to take on the challenge of  a war and win. There were naturally

 all sides to the issue in each of  the tribes and this was a source of

 great debates for many centuries.

      To Rien  it was all  ancient history, now  no more than  a racial

 conflict he  believed to be  wrong. There  were less than  two hundred

 elves that he  knew existed and their growth was  stunted by humans on

 the outside and internal conflicts at home. If Ljosalfar and Dopkalfar

 ever met for reasons other than to decide their future, it was to have

 as big  a fight as  they could, although no  elf ever died  by another

 elf's hand.

      There were some  human tribes in the mountains and  in the forest

 that did not  hate elves and some  that even revered them,  but on the

 whole, Makdiar was now a human world and the elves could no longer lay

 any claim.

      Rien left  his tribe to  see the world  his father was  from, the

 world no elf had visited for over two millenia. Most in the tribe were

 against it, but  Rien managed to convince a good  portion of them that

 it would be good  to know where they stood in the  minds of the humans

 and that he,  of mixed heritage, was  the best person to  find out. To

 his surprise, he  learned that his species was a  thing of legends and

 most, save scholars and mages, did not realize that these legends were

 often based on facts. Elves were as forgotten as the empires that rose

 to defeat them.

      During his time in the  human dominated places, Rien learned that

 humans feared things  they did not understand and often  tended to rid

 themselves  of these  inconveniences  any way  they  could. Maari  and

 Terell were both  in this category, but many others  were not. Perhaps

 because  time erased  the memories  of the  wars, perhaps  because now

 people  were more  tolerant.  Those like  Marcellon  and Taishent  and

 Connall, who had no problems with what he was.

      And neither did Kera, a fact  that, oddly enough, pleased him. On

 his fourth day in Dargon, just three days after they came to an uneasy

 truce, she saved his life. Perhaps she realized he was not human then,

 perhaps not. She certainly had  the opportunity, but more importantly,

 she had no reason in the world to  save a man who could just as easily

 have turned her  over to the town guard. She  could have abandoned him

 or killed him or  given him to Liriss, but instead  killed for him and

 remained  at his  side. That  was the  type of  people who  could live

 peacefully side by side with elves and that's why he developed respect

 for her...

      Rien could  not tell  if that  was the reason  for the  growth of

 their physical relationship and did not  assume that he would find out

1soon. For now he was glad she had decided to stay with him and more so

 that she  agreed not  to face  the dangers  he expected  to encounter.

 Their plan was, that since Kera would reach Sharks' Cove a lot quicker

 by ship, she  would pick up the  equipment and travel on  to Phedra, a

 week long journey, where she would meet  up with him again. By then he

 would have had a good week to take care of the job...or not.

      Rien caught sight of Phedra in early morning. It lay in a shallow

 valley, backed by a  forest on one side and open  to farming fields on

 the other. In spite of the hour,  there was no evidence of life either

 in the village or in the fields.

      Rien stopped his horse on the  hillside and scanned the area. The

 village appeared well cared for, but still empty. The fields were also

 in good shape,  but like the town, there were  no indications of life.

 Rien encouraged  his horse forward.  Up ahead  on his left  he noticed

 some motion behind  a large bush, whose leaves were  beginning to turn

 brown from lack of water.

      Unhooking his foot from the stirrup, Rien placed it on the arc of

 the crossbow, which hung off the saddle to his right. He bent down and

 grabbing hold of one of the two strings, pulled it back. Not an action

 that should be  done while riding, but better than  not being prepared

 at all.

      Rien looked ahead  again. The bush was still. Across  from it was

 an old tree with branches extending over the road with too many leaves

 to betray anyone hiding in it.

      The horse  was now about twenty  feet away from the  tree. At the

 current  rate he  would be  passing under  it in  a few  moments. Rien

 looked at the crossbow,  but it was impossible to place  a bolt in it,

 not only  because of lack of  cover, but also because  it was pointing

 straight down and  would not hold the missile.  Rien grumbled silently

 for a second and  with his left hand undid the  strap binding the hilt

 of his sword.

      He was passing under the first branches of the tree and looked up

 just in time to see a net falling onto him. The horse stopped and with

 a yell someone  leaped down. Rien caught the man  with his long dagger

 in mid-air  and his assailant  landed on the  ground with a  thud, the

 weapon lost somewhere under him. Rien  was also in a bad position. The

 horse would not move while the net was around it and he could not draw

 his sword to cut himself out. As he considered his situation, an arrow

 from behind the bush penetrated his leg with enough force to secure it

 to  the horse's  body.  The animal  reared up  in  surprise and  pain,

 breaking the arrow and throwing Rien off,  as a second arrow hit it in

 the shoulder, right were Rien's head had been a moment before.

      The net  caught on the  horse and the  saddle and Rien  more slid

 than fell to the  ground. He grabbed the dagger on  the ground and cut

 the net  open. When he  finally struggled  free, he encountered  a man

 with a  drawn sword. The  first swing  would have surely  made contact

 with his  head, except he timely  realized that his left  leg could no

 longer support him  and collapsed to his knees. The  sword went barely

 over his head and he hit the swordsman with his dagger.

      The man  staggered back  and Rien awkwardly  drew his  sword. His

 eyes were now silver-grey with anger, matching the color of the steel.

 Before  the brigand  could recover  for the  next attack,  Rien swung,

 slicing his  opponent's stomach open.  The brigand dropped  his weapon

 and collapsed on top of it, a pool of blood spreading under him.

      Rien staggered up,  the pain in his leg  becoming unbearable, but

 went on to  face the two new challengers who  appeared from beyond the

 bush. He parried  both their strikes, then attacked  one man's weapon,

 sending it  to the ground.  The second  man swung at  Rien, connecting

 loosely with his side. Rien returned the favor, but instead of pulling

1his sword back,  forced it forward. Panicing, the  brigand dropped his

 weapon and tried grabbing his sword,  but Rien pulled it back, leaving

 bloody streaks on the man's hands.

      Rien turned on  his second opponent, again knocking  his sword to

 the  ground. The  brigand tried  punching him,  but Rien  swung again,

 cutting his forearm  off. The man stared in shock  and horror and Rien

 put the sword through him for the last time.

      When Rien turned to face the last man, the brigand was sitting on

 the ground,  nursing his hands and  side, the sword laying  a few feet

 away, where  it had landed. The  brigand yielded and Rien  put his own

 weapon away.  He leaned on  his horse, still  covered by the  net, for

 support. A dark  pool of red appeared  where he stood and  his leg was

 soaked with blood from the calf down.  He pulled out a dagger from the

 saddle bag to cut the net off  when hoof beats sounded up ahead on the

 road. Rien looked up.

      Riding towards  him were three  men. The one  in the lead  rode a

 black stallion and wore bronze plate  armor. The other two rode at his

 sides and were dressed in chain.  Each man wielded a cocked and loaded

 crossbow. They  stopped less than twenty  feet away from Rien  and the

 man in  the middle  surveyed the scene  with calculated  interest. The

 brigand sitting  on the ground rose,  holding on to his  injured side.

 His  effort  was rewarded  with  a  crossbow  bolt  in his  chest  and

 collapsed to the ground, probably dead.

      "Is this your doing?" the man asked in an aristocratic voice.

      Rien nodded, studying the man silently. He believed himself to be

 speaking with Sir Garwood Quinn.

      "Those were my men," Quinn motioned  to the four bodies. "I think

 it'd be best if  you joined them..." A new bolt  was inserted into the

 crossbow.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

1                        Hunting of the Red Tiger

                                  Part II

                           by M. Wendy Hennequin

                       (b.c.k.a <Hennequi@CTStateU>)

      Donegal na Valenfaer laughed as  he watched the Beinisonian slave

 ship  burn  blue  with  hellfire.  "Well, that  wasn't  so  hard.  The

 Beinisonians aren't  as tough as they  think they are. We've  had more

 trouble pirating some rowboats."

      "Getting the others  will be more difficult,"  Richard warned him

 sternly. "Those girls they bought will be in the way." He gazed at the

 blazing Beinisonian  ship and frowned.  "You know, it'll be  much more

 difficult for me to  pick them off. Here we had  nothing to be careful

 of."

      "Don't worry, Rich," Donegal reassured him cheerfully. "I'll stab

 a few in the back, slit a few throats...it'll be easy."

      "Has anyone ever told you that you're too optimistic?"

      "You've told me a dozen times."

      "Why doesn't it sink in?"

      "Because I'm too optimistic, Rich," Donegal answered innocently.

      "You're also a  pain," Richard growled playfully,  making his way

 to the  path the Beinisonians  had taken. "Let's get  moving, Donegal.

 Maybe we can catch them at supper."

      "Did   you  bring   any   poison?"  the   leech  wondered,   only

 half-jokingly.

      The archer  abruptly stopped and  turned to his  friend. "Poison?

 Why would I bring poison on a hunting trip?"

      "Hey, why  would you  bring hellfire?"  Donegal countered  with a

 knowing smile.

      Richard flushed slightly, but he returned the smile and continued

 down the path. "Last time I was  here," the archer explained, "I had a

 little trouble with  the Sun People. A young lady  and I were enjoying

 ourselves, and a few of the men became rather irate." Richard chuckled

 softly. "Luckily,  I had a  little hellfire  on me; my  sword couldn't

 have fought their spears."

      "Sounds like a close call."

      "It was  worth it. She was  a fine woman." Richard  retrieved the

 spying glass  from his belt  and surveyed the  path in front  of them.

 "All clear  ahead," he reported in  a low voice. He  crouched. "Still,

 we're getting pretty close. Can you hear them?"

      Donegal listened; music and  laughter floated merrily through the

 jungle. "Maybe we can get them now, while they least expect it."

      Richard shrugged  at the  possibility and  crept along  the path.

 When they neared the clearing, Donegal stepped into the shadows at the

 edge of the brush; seeing him, Richard did the same. The volume of the

 music grew.

      Finally  halting,  Richard  parted the  underbrush  and  motioned

 Donegal to join him. The archer was grimacing.

      About two  hundred People  of the Sun--men,  women, and  at least

 fifty   children--filled   the    clearing.   Despite   the   carnival

 atmosphere--large groups were dancing, and  a huge carcass cooked over

 a  spit--each man  bore a  spear, and  some also  had strung  bows set

 carefully  beside them.  A  few even  had iron  swords.  In a  moment,

 Donegal, too,  was frowning. So much  for getting them out  while they

 were off their guard.

      Richard reached for the spying glass and unfolded it. "Do you see

 the Beinisonians?" the archer rasped.

      Donegal  quickly   scanned  the  jubilant  tribe   while  Richard

 meticulously  searched  with the  spy  glass.  "There they  are."  The

 surgeon pointed to  four men; three were Beinisonians, and  one was an

1older, elaborately dressed  Sun Man. "At least three  of them. Weren't

 there five?"

      "That's  what  I  thought."  Richard  compressed  the  glass  and

 attached it  to his belt. Turning  his back on the  festival, he said,

 "We have  some time  to kill. It'll  be a while  before that  beast is

 cooked fully."

      "Do the People of the Sun eat their meat fully cooked?"

      Richard made  a face. "Raw  meat? Don't  make me sick."  He rose.

 "Want to search for the other..." His voice trailed off, and he stared

 over Donegal's shoulder.

      The leech  whirled. Calmly and  patiently standing, not  ten feet

 from them, was the Red Tiger.

      "Or," Richard continued softly, "we  could go hunting a different

 animal." Slowly, he rose and drew an arrow from his quiver.

      The Lowenrote waited.

      Donegal began to stand. Richard placed  the arrow on the bow. The

 surgeon straightened. Richard drew the arrow back.

      And the Red  Tiger leapt, laughing, into the  jungle. "Let's go!"

 Richard urged,  and in a  split second,  he crashed after  the animal.

 Donegal rolled his eyes, sent a  brief prayer to Gow, and plunged into

 the jungle after his friend.

      Once again, he collided with Richard abruptly. Richard raised his

 hand  swiftly  and sharply  to  still  Donegal's question.  It  didn't

 matter; Donegal understood what was happening in a matter of moments.

      While  the  Lowenrote  stood patiently--no,  expectantly--on  the

 other  end  of the  small  clearing,  two men--two  Beinisonians--were

 chasing  two  desperately frightened  native  women.  The farther  man

 reached out to snatch his prey--

      And fell to the moist ground, an arrow in his neck.

      The  second,  running  past  Donegal,  paused  as  he  heard  his

 companion's cry.  Donegal leapt upon  him, forcing him to  the ground,

 and in a moment, the surgeon had buried his knife in the Beinisonian's

 back.

      When he  rose, Richard  was slitting the  other man's  throat for

 security's sake. The women--and the Red Tiger--were gone.

      "Well," Richard began  softly, "it won't be long  now. When those

 girls  return to  the party,  one of  two things  will happen.  Either

 they'll  tell how  they were  nearly raped,  and the  Sun People  will

 slaughter the other three Beinisonians,  or they'll tell how these two

 were killed, and we'll have an  entire tribe on us." Richard turned to

 his friend. "Well, Donegal, which do you think?"

      The surgeon grinned. "I think we may be in for it, Rich."

      The  Baranurian smiled  ironically. "You're  probably right."  He

 loaded an arrow. "You  know, it might be best if we  took off and left

 this island right now. The Beinisonians  can't come after us, and they

 certainly can't take those women any place."

      Donegal glared at  his friend. "We started this,  Rich, and we're

 going to finish it," the  surgeon commanded. Richard raised an eyebrow

 at Donegal's tone of voice, but  he said nothing. Donegal saw this and

 grinned gratefully. "Besides, Rich, it's much more fun this way."

      "That's a  fact," Richard agreed good-naturedly.  He stepped back

 into the  brush. "Well, in any  case, they'll likely bring  the entire

 tribe on  us. We're going  to need surprise  on our side,  Donegal. We

 don't have much  else." The archer took two more  steps backwards, and

 then Donegal could not see him at all.

      Donegal  glanced about  the  clearing and  quickly  moved to  the

 shadiest spot he could find. He  hid the backpack under a nearby bush,

 carelessly flung his white shirt into the jungle--let them look in the

 wrong spot!-- and hid himself in the shadows. Donegal smiled wickedly.

 No one would spot him in the murky shade.

1     "The band!" Richard hissed,  and Donegal remembered and panicked.

 Remove his headband? But that bright  red and yellow band hid the mark

 of    slavery!    If    the    Beinisonians   saw    it--    No,    he

 wouldn't--couldn't--risk it.

      "You stupid  ass!" Richard's  voice harshly mocked  the surgeon's

 hesitation. "Why don't you just wear a target on your head?"

      Donegal scowled,  furious at Richard  for stupidity that  was the

 surgeon's own. With a growled  oath, Donegal reached for the Bichanese

 band and hurled it from him with a vengeance.

      A crash sounded nearby. "A black angel and a golden one?" scoffed

 a voice in drunken accents. "The woman has had too much wine!"

      A couple of  loud guffaws seconded the  opinion. Another Beinison

 voice said,  only half-jestingly, "Don't  be so sure of  your mocking.

 This is  the year of the  Incarnations. It could be  Braigh and Alana,

 you know, and I wouldn't want to anger them!"

      The  laughs  became  louder.  "Don't be  silly,"  a  third  voice

 ordered. "They  were probably  just attacked  by some  jungle animals;

 that Lowenrote  that we  hear of  might well  be the  golden angel--or

 demon--the women spoke of."

      "Exactly,"  the   first  of  the  voices   agreed.  A  heavy-set,

 half-drunken  man parted  the  vegetation  on the  north  side of  the

 clearing. "The women had too much to drink."

      "I don't  think so,"  the third voice  argued, stepping  into the

 clearing. This man  was younger and cheerful, and  reminded Donegal in

 some ways of himself. "Look there."  He pointed to the man Richard had

 slaughtered. "Angels don't use bows. And look there." He indicated the

 discarded shirt.

      The first  retrieved it while  the owner  of the second  voice, a

 strong- looking  man with a  scar across  his bare chest,  entered the

 clearing. "It's  a shirt,"  the heavy-set  slaver said.  "They weren't

 lying."

      "Exactly. An angel wouldn't leave  a shirt be--" the youngest man

 started, but the arrow that went through his eye stole his final word.

 The heavy man  jumped backwards; the strong man burst  into the jungle

 in pursuit of whoever shot his friend.

      And  that, Donegal  decided,  leaves one  for  me. Screaming  the

 Highlander  war cry,  Donegal  leapt  onto the  heavy  man's back  and

 slammed the knife  into his back. The heavy man  yelled his pain, and,

 cursing, he threw Donegal to the ground. Turning, the enraged man, the

 blade still in his flesh, now leapt for the surgeon.

      Donegal swiftly  rolled to the  right, and the  husky Beinisonian

 fell onto the ground. Quick as levin, Donegal drew his Bichanese sword

 and stabbed again.

      Again, the man let out a  roar more bestial than the Lowenrote's.

 He  sprung to  his feet--how  can a  man that  big leap  like a  deer?

 Donegal wondered--and charged the leech.

      Donegal lowered his sword instantly, and, thank Gow, at the right

 moment. The heavy man impaled himself.

      Donegal stared, disgusted,  at the surprised corpse.  After a few

 minutes, the surgeon mentally shook himself out of his stupor and slid

 the  heavy man  from  his sword,  lest the  weight  damage the  blade.

 Sighing in relief, Donegal wiped  his blade on some nearby vegetation.

 It was over, aye, and they were successful. All the Beinisonians dead,

 thanks to him and Richard.

      Richard!

      The jungle was silent.

      "Rich!" Donegal shouted, frantic. "Rich!"

      The jungle was silent.

      "*Rich!*" Donegal cried. If he  had gotten his best friend killed

 in this stupid crusade, Donegal would never forgive himself.

1     "Don't get  excited," the  Baranurian counseled  drying, stepping

 out of the jungle behind the surgeon. "I'm all right."

      Donegal turned. The  statement was true, to a  point; Richard was

 well and whole, but a nasty  cut decorated the archer's chest. "Let me

 take a look at that," Donegal ordered.

      "Are you all right?" Richard  wondered as Donegal scrutinized the

 wound. "It's just a scratch; don't worry."

      "You're  right, Rich.  It isn't  bad."  But Donegal  went to  the

 backpack anyway and returned with some  gauze and whisky. "Did you get

 him?" Donegal asked as he cleaned his friend's wound.

      "Yes.  The arrow  hit  him  right in  the  heart.  The blood  was

 incredible."

      "How'd you get this, then?" the confused surgeon asked.

      "You're not going  to believe this," Richard warned,  "but a tree

 branch leapt out in front of me, and--"

      "There's some weird  things on this island,"  Donegal admitted as

 he finished  his task. He  capped the whisky  flask and looked  at his

 friend. "Now what?"

      "Well, now that  we've finished with the  Beinisonians, I thought

 we might go hunting the tiger," Richard suggested.

      Donegal, suddenly weary, sank to the ground, but he found himself

 unable to protest. After Richard had  helped him, it seemed to Donegal

 that he would be unfair or ungrateful to refuse to help Richard.

      "But I'm  tired, too," Richard  added, smiling calmly at  his old

 friend. "What do  you say we go back  to Port of the Sun?  We can come

 back next week;  I'm sure that no one will  kill the Lowenrote between

 now and then."

      "Sounds great," Donegal  agreed with all the  tired enthusiasm he

 could  muster. He  slowly rose,  donned  his shirt  and backpack,  and

 retrieved his knife from  the back of the heavy man  he had killed. He

 stared at the corpse for a moment,  then said, "Let's take care of one

 thing first." He bent and severed the head from the body.

      "What are you doing?" Richard asked, appalled. "Why are you doing

 it?"

      "I   think  the   Sun   People   have  a   right   to  know   why

 these--men--aren't coming  back," Donegal explained gruffly.  "And I'm

 going to make sure they don't make the same mistake again."

      Decapitating  the  Beinisonians  took  several  minutes;  Richard

 consented to return  and bring back the  head of the young  man he had

 killed. That  done, Donegal took the  heads by their hair  and carried

 the gruesome  bouquet to the  celebrating Sun People.  Richard thought

 the surgeon  was crazy  and told  him so, but  he followed  anyway, to

 "make sure you don't get yourself killed."

      So Donegal marched  like a conqueror into  the clearing; Richard,

 beside him,  carried himself  like a grim  guard. Within  moments, the

 music died. Fearful questions filled the clearing a moment later.

      "Where   is  the   interpreter?"  Donegal   loudly  demanded   in

 Beinisonian.

      The  older  man  with  the   profusion  of  feathers  and  shells

 decorating his  person came forward.  Beside him stood a  younger man,

 who spoke.  "I am the  interpreter. The chief  wishes to know  why you

 have done this. Why have you dishonored our tribe by robbing our women

 of honorable marriage?"

      "No!" Donegal shouted  angrily. "I have saved  them from slavery.

 They weren't going to marry the women; they were going to sell them!"

      The interpreter turned to the chief and spoke. The chief replied,

 and the interpreter said, "Why do you suspect this?"

      "I have seen  it!" He pointed to the ugly  brand on his forehead,

 the most dominant feature on his face  when he did not choose to cover

 it. "This was  the first thing they would do--burn  slavery into their

1faces and into their brains! I, too,  was a slave there, and I saw the

 injustice--the  beatings--the  rapes--the  whippings--the  torture!  I

 know!  These snakes  tricked  you!  Your women  would  have been  made

 slaves, sold like animals, made prisoners until they died!"

      The young man paled and relayed  this to the older man. The older

 man considered.  A young  woman timidly approached  the older  man and

 spoke. The  old man muttered  something to the interpreter,  who again

 spoke. "If this is so, dark one, you and your companion have done us a

 great service."

      "I am  not lying," Donegal  assured him stubbornly. "I  would not

 make up something so horrible."

      "We must then give the women to  you, since you not only have won

 them fairly from their purchasers, but  since you have also saved them

 from this misery."

      Confused, Donegal turned to  the archer. Switching to Baranurian,

 the tongue spoken  aboard the Eclipse, Donegal said, "They  want us to

 take the women."

      Richard half-smiled and considered. "Not a bad deal."

      "What are we going to do with them?"

      "Use  your   imagination,"  Richard  suggested,   laughing.  "But

 unfortunately, we can't do it. I can't handle more than five or six at

 a time, and we'd never get them all in the sailboat, anyway."

      Donegal looked at the interpreter  and shook his head. "We didn't

 fight for their freedom to take it away again. Let them stay here with

 you."

      The interpreter  relayed this to  his elder, who spoke,  and some

 men came forward bearing bars of gold and silver. The interpreter told

 the visitors, "You must take something for the deed."

      Donegal eyed the metals for a moment, then shook his head. "I did

 this to save them  from what I escaped. I want no  gold." He turned to

 Richard and switched once more to  the Baranurian tongue. "Do you want

 some of that?"

      "For what?" the archer inquired.

      "For saving the girls."

      "I didn't do it for money, Donegal."

      The surgeon smiled gratefully at  his friend, then turned back to

 the chief and  the interpreter. "We want  nothing," Donegal concluded,

 but then  the aroma of  the cooking  meat assaulted him.  "Except," he

 continued, "for a piece of meat and a drink of water to refresh us."

      The interpreter spoke,  and two women came forward  with meat and

 drink for  the visitors. Donegal spoke  their thanks and began  to eat

 timorously.

      Richard  sniffed the  meat and  started to  eat ravenously.  "Sun

 buffalo!" he cheered.  He took a long draught of  water. "Best meat in

 this part of the world!"

      Donegal took a  larger bite and found he agreed  with the archer;

 the meat was  rather tasty. The Sun People returned  to their dancing,

 singing, and  feasting as  the visitors  ate. "It's  nice to  see them

 happy again," Donegal sighed contentedly. He turned to the Baranurian.

 "Sorry we didn't catch your tiger, Rich."

      "As I said, the Lowenrote will  be here next week." Richard wiped

 his  hands  on  his  leggings,  took another  draught  of  water,  and

 retrieved his bow. "We'd better be leaving if we want to reach Port of

 the Sun at a reasonable hour. Let's go, Donegal."

      Donegal  nodded and  faced the  chief. "Thank  you," the  surgeon

 said. "Good-bye."

      The  chief  seemed  to  understand without  the  interpreter.  He

 smiled. Donegal waved farewell and followed Richard along the eastward

 path.

      "This is the one the Lowenrote led us to," Richard commented. "It

1should come out on  the beach, and then we'll just  follow it until we

 reach the sailboat."

      "Whatever." Donegal smiled tiredly. "What a day."

      "You do seem to bring excitement wherever you go," Richard teased

 with a grin. "I've gotten into more scrapes with you..."

      "Hey,"  the leech  protested  good-naturedly, "of  course it  was

 exciting. I only came with you because I was bored!"

      "Bored?" Richard laughed. "Well, that's  what you get for seeking

 adventure, Donegal."

      "And don't  blame me for  all those brawls  I seem to  get into,"

 Donegal continued  hotly, glaring  jestingly at  the archer.  "I don't

 start them."

      "No,  you  usually just--holy  Stevene!"  Richard  screamed in  a

 shocked  tone which  Donegal had  never before  heard the  archer use.

 "Donegal, look-- "

      Instinctively, the surgeon dropped, and  a knife whizzed over his

 head. He looked up to see  three demons, charred, ugly beings straight

 from the fires  of hell, attacking Richard with fists  and blades. Two

 more of the appalling creatures were running toward him.

      "Gow!"  Donegal  screamed  for  aid  and  drew  his  katana.  The

 horrifying man-shape jumped back and circled. The other skirted behind

 Donegal.

      "Don't call for his help," the one behind the surgeon taunted him

 sinisterly. "Gow rarely helps those who use Amante's methods."

      And the devil leapt onto  Donegal's back. The surgeon dropped and

 rolled, thus pinning the creature under  him. But there was the other,

 coming at him  with a short sword. Donegal lifted  his legs and kicked

 as  the one  underneath  him tried  to stab  him  from behind.  Again,

 Donegal rolled a little, pinning one of the ugly thing's knife arm.

      "Rich!" the surgeon called for his  only aid. His only answer was

 loud crack and a cry of pain. "Rich!"

      The pinned thing  was pummelling Donegal with his  free fist; the

 other  charged  again.  Frantically,  Donegal swung  his  katana.  The

 charger  leapt backwards  and  stumbled. The  pinned  one was  moving,

 trying to roll.

      Again, the free one charged. The  pinned one sought to roll. In a

 stroke of  inspiration, Donegal stopped  fighting and rolled  with the

 monster he had pinned. The thing  screamed as its companion buried his

 short sword  in him. The  other cursed and took  the name of  Sanar in

 vain.

      Donegal slid  from under  the body,  dragged his  Bichanese blade

 with him, and attacked the fiend  facing him. The short sword, Donegal

 knew, would be  no match for his  katana, if he were  a great fighter.

 But he wasn't;  the dead beast had been right  to say Donegal followed

 Amante's methods. No, Donegal couldn't win a straight fight; he had to

 strike from  behind, use surprise. Well,  he was a pirate,  after all,

 not a Knight of the Star. Still, his blade cut his opponent's arm.

      "Rich!" Donegal called.  He couldn't spare a  look; the grotesque

 thing came at him again. What were these things?

      Donegal managed to  leap away from the intended  blow and deliver

 one of his own.  He whirled to face his attacker  again. From here, he

 could see  Richard. The archer was  lying on the ground  and using his

 left hand to wield the cutlass. The  bow was nowhere in sight, but one

 of the  demons, an arrow in  its belly, lay dead  near Richard's feet.

 With another stroke, Richard killed one of his opponents.

      "Well done!" Donegal encouraged,  sidestepping another attack and

 aiming a blow at his antagonist's  head. Good Sanar, what *were* these

 ugly, burned things?

      A blade--Richard's blade--flashed past Donegal's astonished eyes.

 The surgeon stumbled and fell. The  attacker came forward and held his

1sword's  point  at  Donegal's  throat.  "And  now,  slave,"  said  the

 Beinisonian, "you will die."

      "Rich!" Donegal called, praying for a miracle.

      "Your  friend can't  help  you," the  man-thing laughed  cruelly.

 "Look, slave."

      Without moving  his head, Donegal glanced  aside. Another charred

 being held his blade at Richard's throat. Damn!

      "Now,  slave,  say  prayers  that Sanar  will  save  your  soul,"

 snickered the monster, "thought I doubt that slaves--"

      Giving a bestial roar, a red  blur flew over the creature's head.

 He looked up;  Donegal buried his katana in the  burnt thing's gut. It

 fell; Donegal turned to help his friend--

      But  the other  creature was  engaged, its  throat locked  in the

 teeth of the Red Tiger. Donegal sprinted to Richard's side, lifted the

 archer's head. "Are you all right?" the surgeon breathed, watching the

 Lowenrote rend the attacker with teeth and claws.

      "My arm," Richard answered, his voice stiff with pain.

      Donegal gently probed Richard's right forearm. "Broken."

      "Tell me something I don't know," Richard snapped.

      "Hey," Donegal began, "don't--"

      The  Lowenrote tossed  its victim  away with  a sudden  movement.

 Carefully, deliberately, it approached the men it had saved.

      "Run!" Richard  rasped, shoving Donegal  away with his  good arm.

 "She'd catch  me, but if she's  busy, she'll never catch  up with you.

 Go!"

      Donegal stood;  often the  commands in  Richard's voice  were too

 powerful to be  disobeyed. But the surgeon was still,  unsure. The Red

 Tiger trotted to  the pair and paused. Donegal's  limbs froze although

 Richard again was shouting at him to leave.

      Gingerly,  the Lowenrote  approached  the  paralyzed surgeon  and

 began to rub  its head against the  back of Donegal's hand,  much as a

 pet cat would. Donegal wondered if he would die of the shock. Then the

 tiger approached Richard and nuzzled the archer's neck.

      "I'll  be damned,"  Richard said,  reaching out  and petting  the

 beast. "She wants to be friends. Hello."

      Donegal was finally able to move; he blinked, then ordered, "Stay

 put, Rich. I'm going to find something to splint that arm to, and then

 we'll leave."

      "Use my  bow," Richard suggested,  gesturing with his  left hand.

 "It's broken.  I'm glad  I didn't  bring my best  one. You  like that,

 don't  you?" the  archer added,  scratching the  Lowenrote behind  its

 ears. "You're a good kitty."

      "I didn't  know you  liked animals," Donegal  laughed, retrieving

 the  bow  and  its string.  He  patted  the  Red  Tiger's nose  as  he

 approached. He gently reached for Richard's broken arm.

      "I've always like--damn, that hurts!"

      "Well, it's  going to,"  Donegal reminded him  practically. "I'll

 set it when we  reach Port of the Sun. I don't  have everything I need

 here." Quickly,  the surgeon  finished the job  and offered  Richard a

 hand up. "Let's get going."

      "I'm with  you." Richard  stroked the  Lowenrote's head,  and the

 tiger purred. "I guess I won't be hunting you anymore. Let's go."

      Silently, Donegal  led the way  through the jungle path.  After a

 few  minutes,  he turned  to  say  something  to Richard,  but  stated

 instead, "That tiger's following us."

      Richard  turned to  the beast.  "Go away,"  the archer  commanded

 gently. "Go on."

      With a resolute tilt of the head, the tiger nuzzled Richard's leg

 and trotted after him and Donegal when they moved on.

      "I don't  think it's going,"  Donegal observed, looking  over his

1shoulder. "What are we going to do ?"

      "Take her with  us, I suppose," Richard guessed.  He sighed. "I'm

 not fighting with her."

      "But a tiger?" Donegal protested. "On the Eclipse?"

      Richard, his pain still evident,  tried to smile. "Hasn't Captain

 Fynystere been saying we need a cat aboard?"

      It  was  near  the  next  dawn when  Richard,  Donegal,  and  the

 Lowenrote--whom  Richard  gave  the original  name  of  Kitty--finally

 returned to Captain Fynystere's house in Port of the Sun. They had had

 a hell of a time returning;  it was difficult to maneuver the sailboat

 with only three  arms. But luckily, the break had  been clean and easy

 to splint  and set. Unfortunately,  Donegal rued,  it would be  six or

 eight weeks before Richard could teach him to shoot a bow.

      "You  two look  like  you've been  through  a battle,"  Fynystere

 observed cheerfully  when the pair  joined him for breakfast.  Then he

 saw the Red Tigress. Fynystere looked briefly nervous, but calmed when

 Kitty approached  him gently and nuzzled  his hand. "So I  see you got

 your tiger, Richard."

      Richard looked at  Donegal and smiled. The  surgeon grinned back.

 "Yes, Captain," Donegal  answered, "and we managed to hunt  us a whole

 pack of wolves, too."

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

1                           A Night off the Town

                           by M. Wendy Hennequin

                       (b.c.k.a <Hennequi@CTStateU>)

      "Homesick?"  a  gentle  voice wondered,  causing  the  red-soaked

 paintbrush  to fly  from Gaoel  Fynystere's steady  hand to  the newly

 cleaned deck. The  captain of the Eclipse whirled and  stared into the

 serenely amused  face of his  bowmaster. Richard just  Richard smiled.

 "It's a nice painting," the archer commented, gazing critically at the

 nearly complete  representation of the night-shrouded  city of Dargon.

 Only the  Regehr, the  red north-pointing star  which would  crown the

 port city like a glowing ruby, remained uncolored.

      "You're back  early," the  captain finally noted,  retrieving his

 paintbrush. "Is something wrong, Richard?"

      The bowmaster  squatted beside  his old  friend. "Plenty,  but it

 will keep, Gaoel. It can't touch us here off the town."

      "Nothing can  touch us," the  captain noted smugly,  cleaning the

 brush so  that he  could complete the  painting. Fynystere  dipped the

 brush, smiling wickedly as he thought of the Eclipse's reputation. Not

 only could  no one  touch the Eclipse  or her crew,  but no  one would

 dare.

      "Nothing but our  own souls," Richard replied, sighing.  "It is a

 beautiful painting, Gaoel."

      "It's  a  beautiful  night."   Fynystere  looked  fondly  at  the

 moon-shadowed city with  a thousand flickering eyes, with  a mantle of

 stars such as Alana the Night  Goddess, the figurehead of the Eclipse,

 would wear.  Fynystere dabbed the  Regehr above Dargon  with blood-red

 color. "Mind telling me why you're  back so early on a beautiful night

 like this?"

      "You  know I  don't raise  living and  dead on  shore leave  like

 Donegal and Cedric do."

      "But  you  generally  like  Dargon,"  the  captain  pointed  out,

 delicately touching the canvas.

      "I  do like  Dargon," Richard  confirmed. "Are  you almost  done,

 Gaoel?"

      Fynystere smiled  at Richard's abrupt  change in subject;  it was

 typical of the bowmaster. "Aye, just." Fynystere washed the brush in a

 cup of  seawater. Richard rose  and lifted the painting.  "She'll hang

 beside the Eclipse," Fynystere decided  aloud. He folded the easel and

 closed  the  small chest  full  of  paints.  "Luen, take  the  watch!"

 Fynystere bellowed, and  he turned to the archer. "Well,  Rich, if you

 aren't going to drink on shore, you'll drink with me."

      "Aye, captain."

      Fynystere led  the way in  the dark  to his cabin  below. Richard

 opened the door for his friend,  and the captain, after gently setting

 the paint chest in the corner,  lit the hellfire lamp. Richard set the

 painting against the wall and took the spare seat.

      "Drink, Rich?"

      "I'll pour," the bowmaster offered,  taking a folded paper out of

 a pouch. "You read."

      Fynystere took the  letter eagerly, broke his  family's seal, and

 scanned the  neat handwriting  anxiously. He frowned.  "Xandra's still

 missing," he announced, anger and frustration in his voice.

      "Gaoel," Richard said gently, pouring the whiskey, "I don't think

 you'll ever see your sister again."

      "If she's dead, I'll kill that God-damned Duke!"

      "That will only get you killed," Richard noted, and as usual, his

 logic  was  irrefutable.  "Here,  drink." Fynystere  took  the  goblet

 absently. "It always amazes me that you only blame the Duke of Dargon.

 Your sister did participate, you know."

1     "Aye, but  Xandra didn't refuse  to acknowledge the child  or cut

 the Duke off from her. Damn that ass! He's probably the one who scared

 her out of Dargon in the first place. If it weren't for Fionn Connall,

 the Duke might have had her killed."

      "Clifton Dargon? Hardly," Richard laughed.  "I know Dargon has an

 overblown sense of honor, but it isn't *that* extreme."

      Fynystere started to grunt, but he  forgot the sound in the words

 of the  letter. "My God!"  When Richard  failed to speak,  the captain

 looked  at him  concern in  his eyes.  "Rich, there's  war! Beinison's

 attacked us!"

      "I know," Richard said calmly. "I  heard at the Rogue and Quiver,

 and while  I was waiting  for your letter,  I went to  Belisandra's to

 find out what I could about it. It's rather interesting."

      "Interesting?" Fynystere scoffed, kicking  a chair toward him and

 sitting firmly in it.

      "War is always interesting," Richard returned mildly.

      "Not when you're in it!"

      "I beg to  differ," Richard replied with formality  that was only

 half-mocking. "We war against ships,  and I've never heard you declare

 it boring."

      "This isn't the same."

      "Perhaps," Richard acknowledged.

      Fynystere took  the drink Richard  had poured him and  scowled at

 the bowmaster. "So, you went to Belisandra's. Why?"

      Richard  nodded. "As  I suspected,  some  of the  Duke's men  and

 Connall archers  were there."  The bowmaster  frowned. "They  knew the

 entire romance.  It's rather complicated,  but the  end of it  is that

 Beinison has executed the Count of Connall and attacked Pyridain."

      "They killed  Fionn Connall?" the captain  screeched, thinking of

 the man who had protected his  sister, who had helped Gaoel escape the

 city after he had clouted Connall's brother, the Duke.

      "No,  they killed  Luthias  Connall,"  Richard clarified.  "Fionn

 Connall  and  his  other  son--Roisart, I  think  his  name  was--were

 murdered last Melrin."

      "Murdered?" Fynystere let his breath out in a low whistle. "Sweet

 Randiriel. And now what?"

      "Well," Richard began,  taking a deep breath and  raising his cup

 to his mouth, "the Knight Commander  is fighting them off in Pyridain,

 and this duchy's getting ready for an attack on the Laraka River."

      "The Laraka? What for?"

      Richard  swallowed  his  liquor  and stared  at  his  captain  in

 disbelief. "Gaoel, come on! They're after Magnus! The Laraka's Magnus'

 lifeline."

      Fynystere  pondered the  information.  "I  suppose you're  right,

 Rich, but you would know better than I."

      Richard laughed and set the goblet aside. "Would I?"

      "You are from Magnus, after all."

      Richard leaned forward suddenly. "What makes you think that?"

      This time, Fynystere was laughing. "Wake up, Rich! Every time you

 open your mouth, you announce that you're from Magnus! You have one of

 the most pronounced Magnus accents I've ever heard!"

      "I don't have an accent. *You* have an accent."

      The captain  wiped his eyes  and caught  his breath, but  when he

 looked at  his bowmaster,  he was still  smiling. "Enough,  Richard: I

 have the accent, but you are still from Magnus."

      The archer folded his lips. "Yes," he agreed stiffly.

      Fynystere burst into  laughter once more. "Calm  down, Rich. It's

 the  only thing  I've  found out  about you  in  thirteen years."  The

 bowmaster sighed  and agreed. "You  keep your secrets more  close than

 any man  I've ever known."  Richard gave  his captain a  serious look.

1"Well, what about  the war? When do they expect  the attack on Shark's

 Cove? How is it faring in Pyridain?"

      "They  expect the  Shark's Cove  attack  to arrive  in Yule,  and

 despite the morale of the House Dargon troops and the Connall archers,

 it isn't going well in Pyridain at all."

      "Yule?!" Fynystere slammed  the goblet on a  small table. "Yule?!

 Sanar and Stevene, what the hell  are they thinking of? Yule? It isn't

 that far! And besides, from the south--the seas are fairly calm--Naia,

 Rich, Melrin  at the  latest!" The  captain exploded  to his  feet and

 stared  wildly  at  Richard.  "You  say it's  bad  in  Pyridain?"  The

 bowmaster nodded once. "How bad?"

      The bowmaster  shrugged and looked  at his old friend  mildly. "I

 don't have numbers."

      Fynystere punched  a wall.  "Damn you by  all the  gods, Richard!

 Will we win?"

      Richard settled  into his chair  calmly. "God knows. No  one here

 does."

      Fynystere snatched the discarded,  fallen letter, opened it, read

 it, and again looked at Richard wildly. "That's it, Richard. I have to

 do something."

      Richard was silent.

      The captain of the Eclipse crossed the room nervously. He came to

 his trunk and  threw it open. "Not much here,"  he assessed nervously.

 "It's enough." He shut the chest  soundly. "They may not think me much

 of a  captain, but I'll  be better  than the incompetent  whoreson who

 thinks  that  the Beinison  navy  won't  be  here till  bloody  Yule!"

 Suddenly, the captain  whirled. Still and silent,  Richard watched him

 placidly. "What's wrong with you? Aren't you even concerned? Rich, you

 own half this ship, and I'm leaving!"

      Richard smiled slightly. "Why are you leaving, Gaoel?"

      "My *country's*  under attack, you  jack-ass! Do you think  I can

 leave  my people  here, my  family,  to get  butchered by  Beinisonian

 curs?"

      "Do you think you will help them by leaving the Eclipse?"

      "Curse you!" Fynystere screamed. "Of course I will! I'll join the

 Royal Navy, and  they'll make me a captain. I  won't let those heathen

 Beinisonians touch my land." The captain scowled at his guest. "You're

 not even concerned that I'm leaving."

      "Nay, I'm  not," Richard  confirmed quietly, "because  you're not

 going."

      "I tell you--"

      "Sit  down  and  listen,"  Richard ordered,  and  without  really

 knowing  why,  Fynystere obeyed.  There  were  times when  one  obeyed

 Richard,  rank notwithstanding.  "You are  not going  back to  Dargon,

 Gaoel. You can't."

      "Why can't I?"

      "We'll put aside the fact for the moment that Clifton Dargon will

 have you killed on sight," Richard began calmly, "but Dargon's Admiral

 of the Fleet. Do you think you have a chance of a commission?"

      "What? But he's a Knight!"

      "I know," Richard agreed wryly. "It's very strange."

      "I wouldn't go to Dargon."

      "Fine," Richard  concurred for sake  of the arguement.  "And what

 would  you do  on one  ship? How  could you  protect your  family? You

 couldn't. You'd go where they tell  you, do what they tell you. You're

 likely to get killed. The Beinisonian Navy is nothing to laugh at, and

 you know it."

      "Of course I know it," the captain responded contemptuously. "But

 I'll have hellfire--"

      The bowmaster's  eyes burned as blue  and hot as the  hellfire he

1invented. "You will *not* have hellfire!" Richard thundered, and there

 was  no  room for  arguement  in  his  voice.  "Hellfire is  mine  and

 Donegal's, and  by my  God and  all of  his, it  will *not  leave this

 ship!*"

      Fynystere frowned, greatly displeased. "I can't just do nothing!"

      "I'm not saying that you should do nothing. But the fact remains,

 Gaoel:  you hurt  your family  and your  kingdom more  by leaving  the

 Eclipse than by staying with her."

      "What are you suggesting I do then?" the captain asked with angry

 stiffness.

      Richard leaned  forward, his  face serious.  "Gaoel, this  is the

 most powerful ship a-sail. You know that.  We have a fine crew, and we

 have hellfire.  We can sink anything  Beinison has afloat, and  we can

 afford to leave the Baranurian navy alone."

      "A personal crusade?"

      "Why not?" Richard countered, smiling again and leaning back. "If

 we still go after the merchant ships, the crew will be content."

      "I don't think the Beinisons aboard will like this, Richard," the

 captain muttered,  reaching for  his drink, but  internally, Fynystere

 was relieved. Despite  the fact that Clifton Dargon  had deserved that

 blow to  the face in his  court for deserting Xandra,  Fynystere truly

 had no wish to deal with him again.

      Richard abruptly  threw back his  blond head and  laughed loudly.

 "Gaoel, are you  jesting with me? 'The Beinisonians  aboard won't like

 this'?  Donegal, whom  they  enslaved? Albar,  whom  they branded  for

 worshiping Cephas  Stevene instead of  Gow and Sanar? Use  your sense,

 man!"

      Fynystere thought  about and  smiled; Richard was,  again, right.

 The captain sat back thoughtfully. "So," Fynystere said, "we leave the

 Baranurian  navy alone  and sink  anything belonging  to Beinison.  It

 might work; it might help." He  looked at his bowmaster earnestly. "Do

 you really think it would work?"

      "I think it's the best we can do, you and I."

      Fynystere laughed and poured  himself more liquor. "You're right,

 Rich.  You always  are." The  captain quaffed  his drink,  then looked

 searchingly at his old friend. "How did you know?"

      "Know what?" Richard wondered.

      "Know what I'd do, and how to talk me out of it."

      "Well, I know you," Richard explained uncertainly, "and as for my

 talking  you out  of  it--well,  I'd already  had  the arguement  once

 tonight."

      "Really? With who?" Fynystere asked, avid curiousity shining from

 his eyes.

      "With  myself."  The  bowmaster  sighed  as if  he  had  a  world

 oppressing  his   soul.  "I   realized  I'd   do  my   family--and  my

 country--more harm than good if I returned."

      "Hmm." For lack  of any better action, Fynystere  buried his nose

 in his  cup. As much as  he wanted more information,  Fynystere didn't

 dare break his own rules and question Richard about his past.

      "I couldn't leave the Eclipse anyway," Richard breathed, settling

 into  the comfortable  chair. "It's  like home  to me,  and I  have no

 other--and no one else."

      "You mentioned family," Fynystere reminded him.

      "A brother," Richard confirmed, "and  if he were in danger--" The

 bowmaster stopped, clouds in his blue eyes.

      "You'd leave?"

      "Leave?" The  archer gave a  short, barking laugh. "I'd  take the

 Eclipse with me. Believe me, Gaoel, I'd need all the help I could get.

 But as it is, I think he's well protected."

      "Hmm,"  the captain  muttered  again. "Here,  Rich, have  another

1drink." The captain tossed the skin  to Richard, who caught it deftly.

 "And tell  me one more thing  about tonight before we  drink ourselves

 senseless, Richard."

      "What's that?"

      "How did  you know that the  Dargon House troops and  the Connall

 archers would be at Belisandra's Tavern?"

      "It's a popular retreat of  both companies when they're in town,"

 Richard hedged as dexterously as he caught the skin.

      "Aye, and  how'd you  find that out?"  the captain  demanded, his

 hazel eyes sparkling. The bowmaster looked away. "Come on, Rich, or by

 J'mirg--"

      "Ask no questions, Gaoel," Richard threatened.

      A dim sun dawned in  Fynystere's clouded consciousness. "You were

 in Dargon before you joined us."

      "Aye." Richard inhaled heavily and took another drink. "I trained

 as an archer in Connall." The  archer suddenly smiled. "Those days are

 gone with your merchanting, Gaoel. Let's drink."

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

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                        ---------------------------

      Athene is a free network "magazine" devoted to amateur fiction

 written by the members of the online community.  Athene is not limited

 to any specific genre, but will publish quality short stories dealing

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      The magazine is published monthly, and comes in two formats --

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              ______________________________________

              A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion

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 Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction.

 Published monthly,  each issue contains short fiction,  articles and

 editorials by authors around the world  and across the net.   Quanta

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1------------------------------------------------------------------------

   (C) Copyright May 1990, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd <White@DUVM.BitNet>.

 All rights revert to the authors. These stories may not be reproduced or

 redistributed  save  in  the case  of reproducing  the whole  'zine  for

 further  distribution without  the  express  permission  of  the  author

 involved.