DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 8 05/18/90

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 --   DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 8        05/18/90          Cir 965    --

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 --                            Contents                                --

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

  Campaign for the Laraka I    John Doucette          10 Naia-1 Yule, '14

  My Father's Curse            M. Wendy Hennequin     18 Naia, 1014

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

1                       Campaign for the Laraka: Part I

                            An Unpleasant Surprise

                               by John Doucette

 Castle Pentamorlo, Duchy Dargon, Baranur

 10 Naia, 1014 B.Y.

      "You're right, Kimme, I don't understand," Morion said.

      "I am  not sure  I fully  understand either,  my love,"  the Araf

 commented. "All I know is what I saw  in the vision. I do not know why

 this vision  came to me. But  I do know I  must find the cause.  And I

 must know which ending is to be."

      "But do you have  to go now?" Morion asked, coming  to sit on the

 bed beside the woman who so recently came into his life.

      "Yes," she said, stroking his cheek.

      "But, Kimme,  there is a  war! I have  to leave for  Shark's Cove

 tomorrow to  meet with  this Sir  Ailean. I'd feel  much more  at ease

 knowing you were here, safe. Kimme,  I have to see to the preparations

 for leaving.  If you leave today,  we won't have time  to say good-bye

 properly."

      Kimmentari smiled. "Then I shall have to delay my departure."

      "I'll go and hurry my students along. The faster things get done,

 the  faster I  can get  back.  Then we  can...discuss things."  Morion

 quickly kissed Kimmentari and then departed.

      When he left the room,  Kimme shuddered. She'd felt the nightmare

 coming on  all the while  they were talking and  it had taken  all her

 control not to let anything show.

      Haltingly, she crossed the room  to the door and barely succeeded

 in locking it with her shaking hands before the nightmare came in full

 force. Kimmentari collapsed in a heap as the now-familiar scene danced

 and  swam  in her  sight.  Once  more,  the gore-splattered  room  was

 revealed in all  its horror. Once more, the cries  of innocents echoed

 in Kimmentari's ears. Once more, she  threw back her head and screamed

 a silent scream as a face of pure evil turned to stare into hers. Once

 more,  she heard  the  silent  promise on  the  dead  lips. And  then,

 mercifully,   the   darkness   welled   up  and   she   drifted   into

 unconsciousness.

 Castle Pentamorlo, Duchy Dargon, Baranur

 11 Naia, 1014 B.Y.

      "Kimme, please?" Morion asked as he prepared to mount his horse.

      Kimmentari  laughed, a  musical-sounding laugh.  "My love,  no. I

 shall be fine."

      "But what about the--"

      "The hoftanau  will not take  me while you  are gone. It  may not

 take me at all."

      "But  you  said  that  when  one  of  your  race  falls  in  love

 with...with a..." Morion searched for the correct expression.

      "Fast-liver," Kimmentari supplied.

      "A fast-liver. That  the fire-love comes over you.  And that it's

 usually fatal."

      "True," the blue-skinned, ruby-eyed Araf  said. "But in the Dance

 I saw  that our strands continued  after the Dance was  done. That may

 mean the hoftanau will not take me."

      "I would still feel better if you remained here."

      "No. I must find out the meaning of this vision."

      Morion put his hands on her shoulders. "Can't you tell me what it

 is?"

      "I can't  remember it clearly,"  she lied. "Perhaps  this journey

 will help  me determine  what the  vision means and  which of  the two

 endings is destined to come to pass."

      "You're sure?"

      "Yes."

      Just  as Morion  was about  to continue  the conversation,  a man

 wearing an  unimaginably polished breastplate interrupted.  "Sair," he

 said, back ramrod-straight, "tha Battalion is ready tae march."

      "Thank  you,  Colour Sergeant.  Start  them  off. I'll  be  along

 presently."  The  Colour  Sergeant  saluted, did  an  about-turn,  and

 marched away. Morion  turned to Kimmentari. He made to  speak, but she

 silenced him with a finger.

      "You must go," she said.

      Morion gathered her in his arms and kissed her lovingly. "I'll be

 back as soon as I can," he said as he mounted his steed.

      "Be careful," she said anxiously.

      "I intend  to be, Kimme." Morion  paused, unsure what to  say. He

 and Kimme stared at each other for a long time. Finally, Morion leaned

 over and kissed his lover a long, thorough kiss.

      "I love you," he said.

      "I know," Kimme replied, smiling. "I love you also."

      "I know. Good-bye." Morion put his  helm on and rode out the gate

 after his men. He was riding to war.

      Kimmentari  watched  him go,  the  ache  in her  heart  painfully

 present even before he rode out of sight. She turned to go to the room

 she and  Morion shared  to finish  packing for  her journey  to Dargon

 City.

      She  had just  entered the  room when  the waking  nightmare came

 again. This time, however, she saw a man dressed in black running down

 corridors filled  with death  and the  dead and she  saw the  same man

 enter the room  where cowered the innocents caught up  in the struggle

 for power.  Except this time,  the man in  black rescued those  in the

 room.

      As  had  happened many  times  over  the  months just  past,  the

 nightmare had  had two endings; one  for ill, one for  good. Just what

 part she had to play, only Thyerin knew. And He wasn't telling.

 War galley HUNTRESS, flagship Beinisonian Expeditionary Force

 Valenfaer Ocean, 150 leagues southwest of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat,

    Baranur

 2 Melrin, 1014 B.Y.

      Field Marshal Joachim Vasquez leaned  on the railing near the bow

 of the  HUNTRESS and  gazed out  over the moonlit  sea at  the vessels

 carrying  the thirty-five  thousand  soldiers under  his command.  One

 hundred forty transports, escorted by one hundred warships, fully half

 of Beinison's  complement of men-of-war,  sailed slowly north.  In the

 morning,  the armada  would  split, fifteen  thousand  men and  twenty

 escorts continuing north to Dargon,  the remaining twenty thousand men

 and eighty  warships diverting  to Shark's  Cove at  the mouth  of the

 Laraka River, Magnus' lifeline.

      The  war was  now  in its  sixth month.  The  offensive begun  by

 Beinison in  early Naia was  showing results even the  most optimistic

 strategists had only dreamed of. After only two weeks of fighting, the

 Baranurian front  in Pyridain collapsed. Even  now, Beinisonian forces

 were  racing  north,   hoping  to  reach  Pyridain   City  before  the

 demoralized enemy was able to mount an effective defense.

      Vasquez was  unaware of  the success of  the main  offensive. His

 force had  set sail as  soon as the  weather allowed. Vasquez  was not

 overly  concerned about  the success  or  failure of  the main  attack

 anyway.  If things  went as  planned, or  even moderately  so, Vasquez

 would be in Magnus inside three weeks.

      His  thoughts were  interrupted by  a young  Marine. "Pardon  the

 interruption, sir,"  the young man  said. "General Collanti  sends his

 complements and asks you join him in the Admiral's quarters, sir."

      "Good," the tall, black-haired man replied. "See to it we are not

 disturbed unless there is an emergency."

      The Marine saluted  and stepped aside to allow  the Field Marshal

 to take  the lead. Vasquez  made his way  below deck to  Fleet Admiral

 Grieg Talens' cabin. Although Talens  and Vasquez shared joint command

 of the B.E.F.,  until Vasquez and his troops were  ashore, Talens held

 authority due to his thirty years of experience at sea.

      In three  days, Talens  would put Vasquez  and the  B.E.F.'s Main

 Body ashore at Shark's Cove, whereupon  it would be his task to ensure

 the lines of supply and communication remained open to what would then

 be  known  as the  Shark's  Cove  Staging Area.  Talens'  subordinate,

 Commodore Alexi Tormana,  would have the responsibility  of seeing the

 B.E.F.'s Northern Force safely to  Dargon, upon which his post-landing

 task would then be identical to that of his commander.

      Vasquez entered the warm, spacious, brightly lit cabin due one of

 Admiral  Talens'  rank and  experience.  Seven  men were  waiting  for

 Vasquez's  arrival.  Admiral  Talens,   Commodore  Tormana  and  their

 deputies, Captains Danridge and  Gromiko respectively, represented the

 Navy. General  Collanti, Vasquez's second-in-command,  Collanti's aide

 and deputy Colonel Jackson, and Vasquez's aide and new deputy, Colonel

 Conti, represented the Army.

      "Now that  you're here,  Vasquez, we can  get down  to business,"

 Talens remarked.

      Collanti stiffened  at the  tone Talens  had taken  in addressing

 Vasquez. He was  about to make an oral protest  when Vasquez waved the

 comment aside.  There had always been  bad blood between the  Army and

 the Navy,  but the current  venture was  too important for  Vasquez to

 risk offending the man who would be his lifeline once ashore.

      There was another reason Vasquez  chose to disregard the comment.

 In the four  weeks spent aboard ship, Vasquez and  Talens had grown to

 respect each other's abilities. Though  neither had developed a liking

 for the other, neither had they developed a dislike. Both recognized a

 soldier  when they  saw one.  Still,  that didn't  mean the  Army-Navy

 rivalry had to be put on hold.

      "Good evening, gentlemen," Vasquez said as he strode to the chart

 table covered  not by naval charts,  but by a map  of the northwestern

 part of Baranur. "You all know  the general outline for the invasion,"

 Vasquez said, dispensing with preliminaries. "Now, I shall outline the

 specifics." Vasquez  picked up a  pointer and began his  briefing. "In

 three days, Main Body will commence landing here," he said, indicating

 a spot on the map, "at Shark's Cove. Once Shark's Cove is secure, Main

 Body  will advance  down  the  Laraka, laying  siege  to Port  Sevlyn.

 Shark's Cove and Port Sevlyn will each be garrisoned by a Regiment. In

 addition, two Regiments will hold the border with Kiliaen."

      "After  securing  Port Sevlyn,"  he  continued,  "Main Body  will

 advance on Gateway Keep in the  Royal Duchy. That, gentlemen, is Phase

 One. It  should take no longer  than sixteen days." There  was stunned

 silence around the table. The Army officers were shocked; Gateway Keep

 was four hundred thirty leagues from Shark's Cove. A long way to go in

 sixteen days  through hostile territory.  They were not  confident the

 task could be completed. The Navy officers, for their part, considered

 the scheme to be that much more proof of the Army's incompetence.

      Vasquez let  the silence continue  a little longer,  enjoying the

 reaction from his officers. Never one to let pleasure intrude on duty,

 he continued with  the briefing. "General Collanti  and Northern Force

 will land at Dargon in thirty-seven days' time."

      "Enrico," he said, speaking directly  to his long-time friend and

 former deputy,  "your task is to  seize and hold all  of Duchy Dargon.

 The details  I leave to you  with one exception: you  must subdue Lord

 Morion's holding at Tench. One more thing, Enrico. You'll have to hold

 Dargon on your  own. Expect no help  from me. I simply  don't have the

 men."

      "Don't worry,  sir," Collanti said  in his booming  voice. "We'll

 hold."

      "I'm sure  you will, Enrico. To  continue, Phase Two will  be the

 siege of  Magnus itself. After taking  Gateway Keep, I will  pause for

 three days before advancing on the enemy's capital."

      Vasquez paused to gather his  thoughts. Once ready, he continued,

 looking each of those assembled in the eyes as he spoke. "Phase Two is

 vital to the entire operation. Magnus is the key to Baranur."

      "If we  succeed," he said, hitting  the map with the  pointer for

 emphasis,  "the war  is over.  If  we fail,  Baranur has  a chance  to

 recover. Questions?"  he asked.  Seeing none, he  said, "Then  you had

 best get to your ships. Tomorrow, we begin a new era for Beinison."

 Shandayma Bay shore, 16 leagues north of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat,

    Baranur

 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y.

      Sir  Ailean of  Bivar, Knight  Captain of  the Northern  Marches,

 watched in  grim silence the column  of thick black smoke  that marked

 the grave of  the last of the war galleys  from Baranur's Laraka River

 Flotilla. Scout vessels had spotted  the armada two days ago, somewhat

 earlier than expected, and Sir Ailean had immediately moved his troops

 to the most  likely landing point. The fact that  he guessed correctly

 was small consolation. Ailean had five thousand five hundred to oppose

 four times  that if the  scouts' reports  were accurate. From  what he

 saw,  the  scouts were  indeed  accurate.  Too damned  accurate.  "Why

 couldn't they  overestimate just  this once?"  he asked  to no  one in

 particular.

      Ailean was  nervous. The young  man with  the pale blue  eyes and

 honey-blond  hair had  only recently  been knighted  after serving  as

 squire to Sir Edward Sothos for two years. Ailean had found his former

 master to be a stern, but  fair, teacher and disciplinarian. He deeply

 admired Sir Edward but was afraid  that the older warrior never really

 liked him. He had desperately wanted Edward to like him.

      And then,  just three  months previous,  Ailean had  received his

 Knighthood and  appointment to the  position of Knight Captain  of the

 Northern  Marches on  the recommendation  of Sir  Edward. When  Ailean

 heard that the  Knight Commander had pushed  for Ailean's appointment,

 he  was overjoyed.  He vowed  then and  there that  he would  give his

 former teacher no cause for disappointment.

      Now, here  he stood facing a  very real enemy for  the first time

 and he  felt fear at  the sight of  the armada anchored  off-shore. He

 knew that  all he  could do was  hurt the enemy,  delay him  until the

 Knight Commander could find the men to reinforce him. Ailean moved his

 line closer to the water's edge.

      Already, the  enemy transports had  released their boats  and the

 first wave of  Beinisonian troops were headed for  shore. Ailean could

 do  little  more   than  watch  as  the   Beinisonian  light  infantry

 disembarked and fought their way  through the waist-deep water; Ailean

 had  no archers,  and  of  his infantry,  three  Regiments were  heavy

 infantry  and  the  other  two were  medium  infantry.  Lord  Morion's

 Battalion, in  reserve, was composed  of the  best of his  current and

 former students.  While a group  of Morion's students was  equipped as

 light infantry,  their numbers were far  too few for Ailean  to commit

 them to engaging their Beinisonian opposites.

      The  Beinisonian  officers shouted  and  cajoled  their men  into

 formation in  knee-deep water perhaps  twenty yards from  the armoured

 ranks  of their  enemy. These  were some  of Beinison's  finest, elite

 soldiers  hardened to  the  ways  of war.  At  a  shouted signal  they

 charged, splashing through the water towards their enemy, screaming at

 the top of their lungs.

      They collided with the  Baranurian line, sabre against longsword,

 leather cuirass against chainmail and scalemail.

      The Baranurians  outnumbered the Beinisonians  five-to-four. More

 importantly, the  Baranurians far out-classed their  opponents both in

 terms  of  weaponry  and  weight  of  armour.  However,  most  of  the

 Baranurian troops  had never seen  combat before and  the Beinisonians

 fought like men possessed.  The inexperienced Baranurians began taking

 a step  backward here, two there  as they fought to  defend themselves

 from the foe.

      Ailean saw what was happening  and sent runners with instructions

 to hold the line,  to stand fast, to drive the  enemy back. Ailean saw

 and heard his  Captains and Sergeants hitting,  shoving, shouting, and

 cursing the men into immobility.

      The bodies began piling up all  along the beach as Baranurian and

 Beinisonian struggled to  kill one another. And always  there were the

 shouts of the sergeants, "Close up! Close up!", as they ordered men up

 from the rear ranks to replace those in the front who had fallen.

      The Beinisonians  had succeeded  in pushing the  Baranurians back

 ten yards and were forcing the  flanks, where the two forces were more

 evenly matched in terms of armour, back even farther. While his centre

 was holding firm, Ailean knew that if he could not bring the situation

 on the flanks under control he would  be forced to pull back even more

 than he already had to avoid  encirclement, thus allowing the enemy to

 bring  heavier troops  ashore.  And  that, he  knew,  would spell  his

 force's doom.

      Ailean wracked his  brain for a solution as the  battle raged on,

 but he  saw no way to  prevent catastrophe. Perhaps, he  thought, if I

 threw  Lord Morion's  Battalion in  to reinforce  the centre,  I could

 split them.  Possible, he thought. But  do I have the  time? He looked

 towards his flanks for the answer.  The left flank had finally managed

 to hold the enemy advance and was even pushing them back slightly. The

 right flank, however, had fallen back  even more and was now bent back

 thirty more yards from the water's edge.

      And then, in  a flash of inspiration, Ailean saw  his chance. The

 very success  of the Beinisonians  on the  right flank was  also their

 greatest danger. In pressing their  advantage, they too were now forty

 yards from the water's edge.  Being outnumbered, they could not afford

 to hold back a reserve. If Ailean could take his reserves into the gap

 between the Beinisonians and the water's  edge, he could roll up their

 left flank and fall upon their centre.

      Throughout history, it has long been taught that the last general

 to commit his reserves usually wins the battle, all other things being

 equal. Sir Ailean of Bivar was about to prove that maxim once more.

 Shandayma Bay shore, 16 leagues north of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat,

    Baranur

 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y.

      Lord  Morion side-stepped  the Beinisonian's  downward swing  and

 countered with a cut to the  throat. Ailean's plan to attack the enemy

 in the flank  had worked beautifully. Ailean and Morion  had taken the

 five hundred men and women of the reserve Battalion and led them north

 to the  assistance of  the hard-pressed 1st  Regiment of  the Pyridain

 Borderers. By  the time Ailean  and Morion had arrived,  the Borderers

 had been  pushed back sixty  yards from  the water's edge.  The Knight

 Captain led Morion's Battalion against the enemy without delay. Unable

 to  stand  assault  from  two directions  at  once,  the  Beinisonians

 retreated rapidly south.

      Ailean now  had the enemy  compressed into a  horseshoe perimeter

 that was quickly  shrinking. Light troops, no matter  how good, simply

 can not stand  toe-to-toe with heavy infantry and slug  it out. Of the

 one  thousand   bodies  littering   the  beach,  eight   hundred  were

 Beinisonian. And of those eight  hundred, two hundred had been wounded

 but had drowned before the tide went out.

      "On! On!" Morion shouted,  exhorting his students forward. "Press

 on! Drive them hard!"

      Two Beinisonian soldiers ran at  Morion. One stumbled and fell in

 the wet sand  but the other kept on coming.  Morion turned his enemy's

 thrust with his shield and aimed  a slash at his opponent's unarmoured

 head.  The Beinisonian  parried  with  his sabre  and  dropped into  a

 fencer's crouch.

      Morion thrust towards his adversary's  abdomen and was met by his

 opponent's  parry.  The combatants'  blades  never  met, for  Morion's

 initial  thrust  was  a  feint.  His real  thrust  was  aimed  at  the

 Beinisonian's left  side. His blade  slid deep between  his opponent's

 ribs and the man crumpled. Whether he was dead or not, Morion couldn't

 be sure  because the second  Beinisonian had regained his  footing and

 was after Morion once more after finishing one of Morion's students.

      Morion immediately  saw this one  would prove a  tougher opponent

 due to the fact that his enemy was left-handed, making Morion's shield

 useless,  even a  hindrance.  He  threw it  aside  and  leaped at  his

 opponent.

      Though  Morion   was  wearing   much  heavier  armour   than  the

 Beinisonian, his  enemy didn't hesitate about  grappling hand-to-hand.

 Both mens' swords had met at the guards and each had the other's wrist

 locked in a grip of desperate strength.

      Morion pushed  and strained,  trying to  gain enough  leverage to

 throw the younger  man off balance. His opponent  was strong, stronger

 than his size  would indicate. The wet sand under  Morion's right foot

 shifted and  he fell. The Beinisonian  was thrown off balance  as well

 although he managed to keep his footing.

      Morion struggled to  his knees and grasped his sword  just as the

 Beinisonian reached  him. Morion  caught a glint  of sunlight  off his

 opponent's upraised sabre and knew he had time for one last act.

      Desperation  lending him  strength, Morion  stabbed upwards.  His

 sword bit deep into his adversary's neck, severing the carotid artery.

 The Beinisonian fell, his lifeblood rapidly soaking into the sand.

      Morion stood, retrieved his shield  and rested for a moment while

 drinking from his canteen. He looked around; the battle was going well

 for Baranur. The Beinisonian pocket  had shrunk even further. The only

 thing preventing the  Baranurians from enveloping their  enemy was the

 water. Morion sensed that one more good hard push and the Beinisonians

 were finished.

      He replaced his canteen on his belt and was about to re-enter the

 fray when  someone pounded him  on the right shoulder.  Morion whipped

 around, sword poised to strike. It was Ailean.

      Seeing the grim expression on  Ailean's face, Morion asked, "What

 is it? What's wrong?"

      Ailean started to say something then stopped and turned, pointing

 out to sea. A black line of  boats was approaching, each packed to the

 gunwales  with  troops. Morion  could  see  the tell-tale  flashes  of

 sunlight that  meant the  the oncoming  Beinisonians were  armoured in

 something more substantial than boiled leather.

      "By all  the gods!" Morion  exclaimed. "They're sending  in their

 heavy infantry! They're not waiting to clear the beach!"

      "Yes," Ailean said tightly. "It is the end."

      "We're going  to have to  work fast if  we want to  extricate the

 bulk of our force," Morion commented.

      "Yes you will," Ailean said in agreement.

      Morion turned his head sharply to look at the young knight. "What

 did you mean by that?"

      "Sir Edward personally entrusted me with stopping the Beinisonian

 attack on  Shark's Cove.  At all  costs," Ailean  said, gazing  at the

 oncoming enemy.

      "But he couldn't have known the  size of the force that you would

 be facing."

      "It matters little.  We both know what the phrase  'at all costs'

 means."

      "Ailean,  they outnumber  us five-to-one!  We've hurt  them. It's

 time to fall back and delay them as long as possible."

      "I agree."

      "Well what is this talk of me taking command?"

      "You'll need a rear-guard," Ailean  said in a business-like tone.

 "The Borderers  should be  sufficient. That would  leave you  with the

 better part of three-and-a-half Regiments."

      "You don't stand a chance!"

      Ailean turned to speak. When he did, it was with determination in

 his  eyes and  a  note of  finality  in  his voice.  "I  swore to  His

 Excellency--on  my  honour--that   I  would  not  fail   him.  Do  you

 understand,  Lord  Morion?  The  fact  that I  have  failed  means  my

 honour--or my life--is  forfeit. My honour means more to  me than life

 itself. And so, I shall die to preserve it."

      "Ailean, don't be a fool!"

      "Lord  Morion,  you  placed  yourself under  my  command  when  I

 explained to  you the  gravity of  the situation. Do  you now  wish to

 revoke your pledge?"

      "No. Neither do I wish to see you dead."

      "It's decided, Morion. The longer you delay lessens the chance of

 escape."

      Morion stared at Ailean for long moments. Then, uttering a curse,

 he  left the  knight  and  began the  difficult  task  of executing  a

 fighting  withdrawal,  perhaps  the  most  difficult  of  maneuvers  a

 commander has to oversee.

 War galley HUNTRESS, flagship Beinisonian Expeditionary Force

 Shandayma Bay, 16 leagues north of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat,

    Baranur

 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y.

      "Well, Vasquez," Fleet Admiral  Talens asked in irritation, "what

 are they doing?"

      Vasquez  lowered the  spyglass he'd  borrowed and  said, "They've

 spotted the  second wave. They're  retreating." He slammed  the object

 shut. "We  have them! I'm going  ashore. Colonel Conti, see  to it the

 rest of the force is landed."

      "Yes, sir."

      A boat was put over the  side and Vasquez and a six-man bodyguard

 headed  for the  beach  as  fast as  the  oarsmen  could row.  Vasquez

 intended to personally  oversee this battle to its  conclusion. He had

 the chance  to capture  six Colours  in one battle.  That would  be an

 achievement no other Field Marshal could rival.

      Vasquez  was intently  studying  the battle's  flow. He  couldn't

 believe what he was seeing.  The Baranurians were succeeding in making

 their withdrawal,  outnumbered as  they were. Whoever  their commander

 is, thought Vasquez,  he is a worthy opponent. "I  look forward to our

 meeting," he said aloud.

 Shandayma Bay shore, 16 leagues north of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat,

    Baranur

 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y.

      Morion  was  slowly  disengaging  the three  Regiments  of  heavy

 infantry. He  split his own  Battalion into  two groups, one  to cover

 each  flank. The  troops were  holding up  well, considering  this was

 their first battle for most.

      Morion  was  increasingly  dissatisfied  with the  speed  of  the

 withdrawal. Ailean had something less than two thousand men to try and

 hold close  to twenty-five hundred  at bay with another  four thousand

 about  to land.  Morion estimated  he had  another twenty  minutes, at

 best, to get his troops away from the fighting.

      Morion's  force was  about halfway  to the  dunes. He  turned his

 attention from his  soldiers to the battle still  underway. Ailean had

 been forced back but by some miracle was keeping the enemy at bay. But

 at what great cost. Half his men  were dead or wounded and those still

 able to  fight were trying  to hold a  frontage that five  times their

 number  had difficulty  holding  earlier that  morning.  And that  was

 against  the  enemy's  light  infantry.  When  the  Beinisonian  heavy

 infantry landed, Ailean's force would be overwhelmed in seconds.

      Morion knew he had  to act quickly or he would  not even have his

 twenty minutes. He called the Commanders of his three Regiments to him

 and  briefly  explained  what  he  had  in  mind.  There  was  shocked

 disbelief. Morion's plan was dangerous  and if things went awry, there

 would be  no hope of  putting up even a  token resistance. But  as one

 Commander put it, "We'd just be buying ourselves a few minutes more if

 we don't."

      A few minutes  later, Morion, now seated on his  horse, was ready

 to implement  his plan.  Trumpets blew, drums  sounded, and  all three

 Regiments changed from line-of-battle to line-of-march. To be attacked

 now would  spell disaster. At a  signal from Morion, the  Colours were

 unfurled  and the  signal given  to force-march.  All three  Regiments

 moved off at a trot, the fastest pace they could manage in the sand.

      Morion  drove  them  mercilessly, seemingly  uncaring  about  the

 difficulties  the quickness  of  the  pace and  the  heat  of the  sun

 presented to the men and women  under his command. Once they were past

 the dunes and onto better footing, he ordered the pace stepped up even

 further. When  he'd put a league  between his force and  the enemy, he

 slowed the  pace to a  walk. Riding to  his senior Commander  he said,

 "Keep them  headed toward Port Sevlyn.  I'm going back to  see how Sir

 Ailean fares."

      He galloped back to the beach as fast as his horse could make it.

 He arrived just in time to witness the battle's final moments. By this

 time, the enemy had landed his second wave and surrounded the remnants

 of Ailean's force.  Morion looked down on the scene  with a mixture of

 pride  and  grief. Pride  that  both  Regiment's Colours,  King's  and

 Regimental, still flew. Grief that less than fifty men warded them.

      As  he watched,  the  enemy's commander  came  forward and  asked

 Ailean to surrender.

      Ailean refused.

      Again  the  Beinisonian asked,  almost  pleaded,  with Ailean  to

 surrender. "Why  waste your  life? I  shall have  the Colours  with or

 without your surrender."

      Again Ailean refused.

      "So be it," the enemy commander replied and slowly walked back to

 his own lines.

      The end was swift. The Beinisonians charged Ailean's group and it

 was over in minutes. Ailean was among the last to fall, preserving the

 Colours and his honour to the very last.

      "Damn you, Ailean," Morion cursed softly. "Damn you and your Code

 of Conduct. And  damn you, Sir Edward, for accepting  his pledge. Look

 what it's brought."

      Morion turned his  horse and made his way back  to his troops. He

 knew  he could  not stop  the Beinisonians  with his  small force.  He

 probably couldn't  even delay them. But  he must try, for  Baranur was

 lost if he didn't.

 Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur

 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y.

      The Melrin festival's going quite  well considering there's a war

 on, the "owner"  of The Tipsy Dragon tavern thought.  Adrea Rainer was

 watching the  tavern while her fellow  trouble shooter (for lack  of a

 better word) Rien was off on business elsewhere.

      At thirty, the blond-haired, brown-eyed  thief still had not lost

 her touch.  She could pilfer  your coin-purse while standing  right in

 front  of  you  and  you  would never  be  the  wiser.  Her  five-foot

 eight-inch frame held her well-muscled  one hundred thirty pounds with

 ease. There  were not many that  made the mistake of  antagonizing her

 that got away without a scar or three for their troubles.

      Adrea  had been  going non-stop  since early  this morning.  On a

 normal day,  she'd be  lucky to get  ten customers  before night-fall.

 Now, late afternoon, The Tipsy Dragon was full to capacity and she was

 hard-pressed to keep up.

      She was  returning yet-again  for a  round of  ale when  a street

 urchin who worked for Gaius  Caligula burst wild-eyed into the tavern.

 "The Beinisonians have landed!" he  shouted. "They're at the north end

 o' town!"

      The  patrons panicked,  trampling each  other in  their haste  to

 reach the door. Adrea vaulted across  the bar just in time and watched

 as the  tide of humanity flowed  out the door. She  could hear screams

 almost immediately. Obviously, the  Beinisonians had moved faster than

 the boy had said. Outside, she could hear the looting begin.

      She  threw off  the apron  she was  wearing and  ran to  her room

 downstairs in  the basement  sub-levels, taking the  steps three  at a

 time. She had prepared for this. Before he had left, Rien had told her

 to be ready  to move at a  moment's notice in case the  Cove should be

 attacked. Adrea  had scoffed at  the notion.  Shark's Cove was  so far

 north of the  Beinison-Baranur border that the  thought of Beinisonian

 soldiers running through the streets had been laughable.

      Adrea burst  into her room  and quickly dressed in  clothing more

 suited for  travel. Next,  she began shoving  her belongings  into her

 pack: food, extra clothing,  everything disappeared into the backpack.

 She secreted a throwing dagger in her right boot. Two more disappeared

 up  her sleeves.  She began  buckling  on her  shortsword but  thought

 better of  it. Wearing  a weapon  so openly  would surely  attract the

 attention  of  any  soldiers  she  might  run  into  on  the  streets.

 Reluctantly, she  stowed the sword  away in her backpack;  her daggers

 would have to serve.

      She ran up  to the common room  and was about to  leave The Tipsy

 Dragon  when she  heard  a  woman scream  just  outside. She  stopped,

 thinking quickly. Obviously she couldn't  leave just now, at least not

 by the  door. Her only  other alternative was  to try leaping  from an

 upstairs window.  Adrea was  on her  way when the  door to  the tavern

 burst open.

      Adrea  turned and  saw  a young  woman,  perhaps eighteen,  being

 pursued by  six soldiers.  The woman's  dress was  ripped and  she had

 bruises on her  face. Apparently, she had escaped  before the soldiers

 could overly harm her. She flung a  chair at one of her tormentors but

 to no avail. The six caught her and forced her to the floor.

      Adrea, at the  back of the room near the  stairs, went un-noticed

 throughout the entire  event. She stood rooted to  the spot, uncertain

 of what to do.  The sensible thing to do would  be to run immediately,

 before the  soldiers noticed her. But  that was not in  Adrea Rainer's

 character. She could not abandon an innocent to such a fate.

      She crept  closer to the soldiers,  who by now were  taking their

 turns with their victim. Adrea closed to within ten feet and drew both

 daggers  from her  sleeves. She  stood and  was noticed  at once  by a

 soldier just finishing  with the now-unresisting woman  lying naked on

 the floor. Adrea threw both  daggers in quick succession, both finding

 their  marks. The  soldier who  noticed  her fell  backward, a  dagger

 sprouting  from his  throat.  A second  Beinisonian  collapsed with  a

 dagger protruding from his back.

      One of the  remaining four shouted something in  a language Adrea

 wasn't familiar  with but  could guess the  meaning of.  Adrea quickly

 drew her last dagger and settled  into a fighting stance. She expected

 the four  to rush her  without regard  for tactics but  they surprised

 her, fanning out in a semi-circle.

      At a given command, all four  rushed her at once. Adrea swept her

 dagger in an arc before her and succeeded in delivering a deep gash to

 one  of  her attacker's  arms.  Before  she  could capitalize  on  her

 accomplishment,  she was  grabbed  roughly from  behind  in a  massive

 embrace. She struggled but could not loosen the hold on her.

      The soldier  she had slashed came  to stand in front  of her, his

 hand clasped  tightly to his  wound. He looked her  in the eyes  for a

 moment before  nodding to one of  his companions who reached  down and

 wrested the dagger from Adrea's hand.

      The  wounded   Beinisonian  said  something--evidently   a  crude

 remark--and the others laughed. Adrea  spit in his face. Surprisingly,

 he  did nothing  except  take Adrea's  dagger from  one  of the  other

 soldiers.

      The wounded man said something in  a low voice, turned and walked

 over to the  young woman sobbing on the floor,  the dagger hidden from

 her sight.  He knelt  between her  legs and  Adrea heard  her begging,

 pleading with the man not to rape her again.

      The  wounded soldier  slowly brought  the dagger  into view.  The

 woman screamed  at the sight  of it  and began struggling  against her

 assailant.  The  soldier  brought  the   blade  down.  Adrea  heard  a

 sickeningly  wet sound  and saw  the woman's  struggling legs  go limp

 except for  a slight  twitching as  her life  gushed from  her severed

 carotid artery.

      The soldier stood  and indifferently tossed the  dagger aside. He

 nodded and Adrea  was forced to the floor. She  kicked and flailed her

 arms  but there  were too  many of  them. Her  tunic was  ripped open,

 exposing her breasts.  She tried to resist but she  was held fast. Her

 trousers were hauled roughly off her and  she felt the cold metal of a

 steel gauntlet touch her thighs.

      Looking around in desperation for  something, anything, to use as

 a weapon,  she spied a heavy  spitoon within arms reach.  She wrestled

 one arm free and grabbed the  spitoon. She swung with all her strength

 and felt it connect with the body  on top of her, sending her attacker

 to the ground.

      Adrea ran for the stairs, hoping  to reach a room upstairs so she

 could escape from  a window. She had just reached  the stairs when she

 felt something heavy hit her  between the shoulder-blades, sending her

 sprawling. Rough hands  dragged her to the middle of  the room and the

 partially  stunned   trouble  shooter  was  held   down  and  violated

 repeatedly.

      After they were  through, Adrea was hauled upright and  held in a

 standing position in front of the  wounded soldier, now sporting a cut

 on his  scalp. He  said something  but Adrea was  aware only  that she

 could feel  a soreness between  her legs. The Beinisonian  slapped her

 and again spoke, this time much  harsher. He saw she was still unaware

 of him and made a noise of  disappointment. He drew his own dagger and

 held  it in  front  of Adrea's  face. Still,  Adrea  did not  respond.

 Deeming  that there  was no  more  pleasure to  be had  from her,  the

 Beinisonian quickly and efficiently disemboweled her.

      Adrea collapsed immediately,  unable even to scream  the pain was

 so intense. The  four soldiers expertly looted  Adrea's belongings and

 left their hacking, naked victim to die slowly in unbearable agony.

      Across the street,  the boy who had shouted his  warning to those

 in The  Tipsy Dragon turned from  the ghastly sight the  tavern's open

 door afforded him and retched against a wall.

 Laraka River, 10 leagues southeast of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat,

    Baranur

 1 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Lord Morion  sat his  horse seemingly  ignoring the  rain pouring

 from the sky. Two thousand eight  hundred men and women marched slowly

 southeast along  the riverbank. The  rain, and the occasional  bolt of

 lightning,  served to  lower  their already-low  morale.  Most of  the

 survivors of the previous day's battle  were numb with shock. They had

 seen friends  die or  horribly wounded  and what  was worse,  they had

 lost. The  few veterans among  them tried  to keep up  their comrades'

 morale, but the veterans themselves were in a somber mood. Not because

 of the deaths--they had seen plenty of death during their service--but

 because they  knew the odds  they faced.  Most wore the  expression of

 soldiers that were going to die and knew it.

      Morion rode at the  head of the column. He was  aware of what his

 soldiers were  thinking; he had  had those same thoughts  himself many

 times in  the past. He  was tempted to  agree with his  veterans. Port

 Sevlyn was only six days away  and had a militia. Morion discarded the

 city immediately. He had too few men and Port Sevlyn was too large for

 him to  adequately defend. The only  other option was Gateway  Keep in

 the Royal Duchy.

      Gateway was built  for the very purpose Morion  required; to stop

 an invader from  reaching Magnus. "Yes," he said  aloud. "Gateway. For

 good or ill, we'll make our stand at Gateway."

      Morion turned in  the saddle and surveyed his men.  They may look

 beaten now, he  thought, but they'll do. They'll do.  He faced forward

 once  more and  settled in  the saddle  for the  long, tense  march to

 Gateway. The Beinisonians would be close behind him all the way.

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

1                             My Father's Curse

                             by Wendy Hennequin

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

      The King  was laughing when  Marcellon, Sir Edward, and  I walked

 into his private  audience chamber. There was a chess  board set up in

 the corner;  the red  king was  lying prostrate in  the center  of the

 board, defeated.

      Fine thing,  for a King to  be laughing and playing  chess in the

 middle of the  war. But I am a  Knight, and as Sir Lucan  and my uncle

 Sir Clifton Dargon taught me, I held my peace.

      King Haralan turned from his other advisors when he saw us enter.

 "Greetings,  Mage," the  King  began, slowing  his mirth.  "Greetings,

 Edward.  Welcome,  and  welcome  to  you,  Sir  Knight."  I  bowed  my

 acknoledgement. "What think you?"

      Marcellon advanced and helped himself to  a goblet of wine from a

 tray. Marcellon's often bold before the King, bolder than anyone, even

 me, and I'm fairly  forward, King or no King. "What  think I? Of what,

 your majesty?"

      "That I  take a  Queen--that I  take the  Countess of  Connall to

 wive."

      Marcellon swallowed the wine quickly to avoid choking. Sir Edward

 stared. I  smiled and  bowed to  the King  again. "Your  majesty shows

 excellent taste  in women," I  complimented. "The Countess  of Connall

 would make a fine queen. It's too bad your majesty won't be able to do

 it."

      The  King   raised  his  eyebrows.   Sir  Edward  stared   at  me

 unbelievingly. Marcellon shot me a  friendly glance of admiration. The

 Master Priest, who stood behind the  King, scowled at my boldness. The

 King  recovered  first, blinked,  and  spoke  to  me. "You  think  her

 difficult to court, Sir Knight? In that, I would agree."

      "That's true,  your majesty,"  I answered,  smiling. And  don't I

 know it!

      "That's the  least of your problems,  sire, if you want  to marry

 Lady Myrande," Marcellon interrupted. "For one thing, you'll never get

 the Church to agree to it."

      "You  overstep your  bounds, I  think, Mage,"  the Master  Priest

 replied  scornfully. "The  Church  would  do nothing  to  stop such  a

 marriage. It could bring only good. Although the Countess is far below

 the King in  station--the mere daughter of a Knight--"  I frowned. Sir

 Edward scowled.  "--she is well-liked  and capable. She would  make an

 excellent guardian  of the Princes  Sadron and Kalien should  the King

 fall in battle."

      Sir Edward finally found his  tongue. "You're not going to fight,

 are you, Haralan?" he burst out. "Don't be a fool."

      "No  more  than I  must,"  the  King  promised.  "I am  no  great

 warrior."

      "Besides,"  the Master  Priest continued  as if  he had  not been

 interrupted, "there is no reason to prohibit such a marriage."

      Marcellon looked at  me and I at him. "Forgive  my boldness, your

 holiness," Marcellon began, his voice  deferential, "but I believe the

 Stevene stictly forbade adultery and bigamy."

      "So he  did, Mage,"  the Master Priest  answered darkly.  "But no

 such impediment exists here."

      King Haralan gave Marcellon an odd look. "I don't understand you,

 Marcellon,"  the  King admitted  softly.  "I  am  a widower,  and  the

 Countess is a widow."

      "Not while I'm still breathing!" I ejected finally. Marcellon and

 Sir Edward had wanted me to keep quiet, to see how long it took before

 the King realized  who I was. But  the hell with it.  I wasn't letting

 him think he could marry Sable while I'm still alive. And if he didn't

 recognize me now, he was really dense.

      The King stared at me in disbelief,  much as Sir Edward had a few

 moments ago. "Count Connall," he finally breathed. "My God." He became

 a little calmer, and began again. "Greetings and welcome, Sir Luthias,

 Count of Connall. Forgive my rude assumptions, but I did not recognize

 you  with that  beard--and the  rest of  your body--attatched  to your

 head."

      "I hold  no grudges," I  admitted graciously. I can  be gracious,

 sometimes, if  I want, and  King Haralan  didn't deserve my  wrath. He

 did, after all,  think I was dead,  and he does, after  all, have good

 taste in women.

      "And we are glad to  see," King Haralan continued, switching from

 Normal Person  to Royal Pompous  mode, "that  you are so  difficult to

 suprise."

      "What's so suprising?"  I returned. "I admire my  wife, too." The

 King laughed.

      "This," the  Master Priest  said contemptuously to  King Haralan,

 "is the Count of Connall?"

      "He  is," Sir  Edward  answered for  the  King. "Apparently,  the

 Beinisonains didn't kill him, but rather tortured him."

      "I don't want to talk about it," I said.

      "If your majesty still wishes to  marry with the Countess, I will

 arrange the divorce."

      I glared at  the Master Priest. What a--! "Over  my dead body!" I

 shouted  at him.  Then I  took two  steps forward  and pointed  at him

 angrily. "Better yet, over yours!"

      Marcellon  gave  the Master  Priest  a  cool look.  "The  Stevene

 allowed for  divorce only  in extreme cases,"  the High  Mage reminded

 him.  I  knew that,  somewhere.  But  theology  was one  of  Roisart's

 hobbies. I  like history better.  Marcellon continued in his  dry way,

 "You would do well not to abuse your power."

      "Is that a threat?" demanded the Master Priest.

      "If need be. You are not the only one with power, your holiness."

      "We would recommend that you worry more about the Count Connall's

 threat,"  the King  said light-heartedly.  I gave  him a  wicked grin.

 Sometimes King Haralan and I  understand each other, which is strange,

 for we are so different. But then, Roisart and I understood each other

 perfectly--sometimes,  I think  Roisart  understood me  better than  I

 understand  myself--and  we,  too,  were very  different.  "The  Count

 Connall threatened your very life, Master Priest, and in the matter of

 the Countess, he  rarely stays his hand." The King  paused and waved a

 herald forward. "The Countess Connall cannot  be far; summon her to my

 presence immediately."

      "And the Bichanese lords with her, your majesty?"

      "Bring them," commanded  the King. King Haralan looked  at me and

 Sir  Edward.  "The  gracious  Emperor  of Bichu  has  sent  us  thirty

 knights--what do they call them?"

      "Samurais," I offered.

      "Just so. The Emperor has sent us thrity samurais--" As usual, no

 one in the Kingdom can manage a correct Bichanese pronunciation! "--to

 aid us  in the  war against  the Beinison Empire.  Among them  is your

 Castellan, Count Connall; do you require him for the war?"

      I nodded and began to thank the  King. Michiya was just the man I

 wanted for my chief aide and advisor. He  is one of the few men I know

 whose  military  knowledge I  completely  respect  and whose  military

 prowess I would fear, if we were enemies. But that Master Priest began

 again--damn him!

      "The Count Connall would not be so foolhardy as to raise his hand

 against me, a holy Priest of the Stevene."

      I  was  going  to  say  something about  how  the  Stevene  hated

 hypocrisy, but instead I turned to  the King. "Your majesty, I believe

 we have settled the matter of my wife. Would your majesty grant me the

 favor of  requiring the  Master Priest  to shut his  damn mouth?  As a

 'mere knight,' I have not the rank to do so."

      "I  do,"  Marcellon volunteered.  "Shut  up,  Jehan." The  Master

 Priest  scowled, and  Marcellon  offered his  sweetest, most  innocent

 smile.

      "The matter is  closed," the King proclaimed. "We  will not marry

 the Countess;  indeed, we  had only  meant it as  a jest,  although we

 admire Lady Sable  greatly. Now, your holiness, be so  good as to hold

 your tongue. We have other matters to discuss."

      "Tell  me about  the Bichanese,  Haralan," Sir  Edward requested,

 sitting. "You said there are thirty. Who leads them?"

      "A  very  respectable  man   of  perhaps  Marcellon's  age  named

 Kirinagi."  Somehow I  knew  that Michiya  would  pronounce that  name

 differently. "He is very knowledgeable and very capable. His second, I

 gather, is Ittosai Michiya's brother, whose name I don't recall."

      "Ito," one of the advisors  said. "Ittosai Ito. An odd Bichanese.

 He has blue eyes."

      I vaguely recalled Michiya once telling me about an older brother

 named Ito, but I had other things  on my mind. How far had Sable gone?

 Would she recognize me? Did she still--

      "Speaking, as we were, of generals, Haralan, would you approve my

 appointment for General of the  Cavalry?" Edward asked. "I have chosen

 Sir Luthias, Count Connall."

      "I approve completely. The post is yours, Sir Luthias."

      "Thank you, sire,"  I said automatically, but I  was watching the

 door for Sable.

      "How are matters in Pyridain?"

      And Marcellon and Sir Edward started in on it, the whole romance,

 from start  to finish.  In the  middle, the door  slammed open,  and I

 heard Sable's voice in the hall  beyond: "Your majesty will forgive me

 if I speak candidly and say that this had better be good!"

      King Haralan whirled. I knew Sable  would never speak that way to

 the King. And  then she came in, leaning heavily  on Michiya's arm and

 on another man, a tall Bichanese with blue eyes. I suppose he was Ito,

 but I didn't care. Right then, I fell against a wall, terrified.

      Sable was pregnant.

      God, no,  I prayed. I  didn't mean it.  I wouldn't kill  a Master

 Priest, God.  Don't take  her from  me. No, don't  take her.  You took

 Roisart  and Father--before  that Mama-Aunt  and Sir  Lucan and  Uncle

 Clifton--not her, God, not her too!

      *"I lost her, Lucan; she's gone, and there's no remedy for it!"

      "I understand."

      "How can you understand? How  dare you? Your wife lives; Morwyn's

 alive, and so is  Sable! How do you know what it is  to lose your wife

 to your sons?"*

      The King was  standing. Sable was panting; she was  pale, and her

 dress was soaked from  the waist down. Marcellon was at  her side in a

 second. "When did the water break?"

      "Just now."

      "Are you in pain?"

      "I have been, all day, but I didn't realize it was labor."

      "You?" Marcellon  laughed. I wanted to  be with her, to  hold her

 before she died, but I couldn't move. "You, the midwife, Lady Sable?"

      "I've never been in labor before," she snapped. Then she smiled a

 little, till pain erased it. "I'm glad to see you, Marcellon, and you,

 too, Sir Edward."

      I stared  at her. No  greeting for me?!  I hadn't been  gone that

 long! But I couldn't speak, couldn't tell her, couldn't move...

      Sable  finally looked  at  me,  but I  don't  know  whom she  saw

 standing there.  "I regret I'll  not be able to  get to know  you, Sir

 Knight. Your majesty--"

      "*Sable!*" I finally screamed, but that was all I could do.

      And  she looked  at me  again, frightened  and pale,  and fainted

 right into the arms of the big, blue-eyed Bichanese.

      Now I could  move. Marcellon was beside her, and  Michiya and his

 brother were propping her up. I knelt beside her. "Don't let her die,"

 I begged, taking her hand. "Don't let her die."

      "What   nonsense   are    you   talking?"   Marcellon   wondered,

 half-interested. "Your majesty, excuse us.  I will see to Lady Sable."

 The King consented,  and Marcellon turned to  Michiya. "Lords Ittosai,

 help me move her."

      "I  can carry  my  own wife,"  I snapped,  lifting  her. She  was

 awkward to manage, so pregnant...oh, God, don't let her die.

      But she  was going to die.  She was going  to die. And it  was my

 fault.

      "Luthias-sama," Michiya  was saying excitedly, "they  told me you

 were dead!"

      "I'm much better," I grumbled, shifting Sable. "Where do you want

 me to take her?" I asked Marcellon.

      "You do not look much better than a dead man," the tall blue-eyed

 Bichanese said.

      "Let me take her," Michiya offered.

      "No." I turned to Marcellon. "Where?"

      "This way," said the mage, and I followed.

      "Can I stay  with her?" I asked, barely aware  of Michiya and Ito

 following me.

      The High  Mage nearly  stopped dead and  stared and  smiled. "You

 wish to stay with her? You're more unusual than I thought!"

      "Do you think I'd let her die alone?" I shouted.

      "Die?  What are  you talking  about? Hurry,"  Marcellon continued

 without  waiting  for  my  answer.  "We've got  to  put  her  to  bed.

 Gentlemen, return to Sir Edward."

      *A little  boy was sneaking  through the  halls. It was  past his

 bedtime, and he  would be punished by Mama-Aunt if  he were caught. It

 was  harder tonight;  he  was tired,  for today  had  been his  fourth

 birthday, but he  persevered. He must once again thank  his father for

 the gifts: a  new sword, of real  iron just like Sir  Lucan's, and his

 very own pony!

      And he crept, alone in his nightshirt, to his father's study. His

 bare feet made no noise on the cool stone.*

      Michiya spoke quickly  in Bichanese to his  brother; Ito replied.

 "I  shall  stay with  Luthias-sama,"  Michiya  announced, and  marched

 beside me. I was glad he was there. God, if only Roisart were here! If

 only Father--

      Damn it, it was  *his* fault, not mine! I didn't  do it! I didn't

 mean to do it--

      But deep  down, I knew  it was my  fault. I've always  known. And

 now, I was being punished.

      Marcellon opened a heavy door and  ushered me inside. I put Sable

 on the soft bed. Marcellon spoke to  Michiya, but I don't know what he

 said; Sable was stirring, and she cried out in pain.

      "Easy," I soothed, brushing her hair.

      "Luthias," she breathed, "you're alive."

      Normally, I would have given her a sarcastic or funny answer, but

 I choked.  Maybe Beinison  took the  humor out of  me. "I'm  sorry," I

 finally managed. "I'm  sorry, Sable. It's my fault. I  never meant for

 this to happen. I  didn't want you to be--" When  had this happened? I

 thought I was careful. I thought--

      It didn't matter. She was pregnant,  she was dying, and it was my

 fault. It was all my fault.

      "That first  night," she breathed. "Everything  was so confused."

 She  smiled, touched  the chain  across my  shoulders. "When  were you

 Knighted?"

      She  was dying,  and  she  wanted to  know  about my  Knighthood?

 "Sable," I began, but I couldn't finish. What was I going to tell her?

 What could I tell her? What did it matter? She was going to die!

      "I'm  glad you're  home," she  whispered, then  pain crossed  her

 face, and she shouted.

      "Do  you want  an anestetic?"  Marcellon offered,  coming to  her

 bedside with a  cloth. I took it  in one hand and  wiped her forehead.

 With the other hand, I searched for hers and grasped it.

      Sable  shook her  head. "It  won't be  long." And  she cried  out

 again.

      How could someone be in this much pain and not die?

      *The  Baron drank  from  the  blue decanter  and  whirled on  his

 castellan. "Do you know how it feels?" the Baron demanded wildly. "How

 can you? How can you know how it feels? Morwyn lives still; my Julia's

 dead!"  The Baron  turned toward  the portrait  of his  dead wife  and

 sobbed. "Oh, Julie..." The castellan  approached gently and put a hand

 on the Baron's  shoulder, but the Baron furiously pushed  him away. "I

 don't want your sympathy; you have none."

      "You're drunk, Fionn. Go to bed," the castellan suggested mildly.

      "What does it  matter? What does anything  matter?" The castellan

 turned away and shook his head. He stared at the door, helpless. "What

 can matter after your sons murder your wife? God, I hate them--I curse

 them!  May they  feel  the same  wound--may the  women  they love  die

 bearing their children!"

      The  castellan's eyes  widened.  Swiftly turning,  he struck  the

 Baron angrily.  "For God's  sake, hold your  tongue!" he  shouted. The

 Baron toppled, and the castellan turned to the door.

      But the little boy had fled.*

      Sable held my hand tightly. I  thought she was going to break it.

 How long had  this been going on? It seemed  like hours. Yet Marcellon

 was calm--she was dying and Marcellon was calm!--as if everything were

 all under control.

      What did he  know? Damn the Mage! Or maybe  he didn't understand,

 but  that's very  strange for  Marcellon,  who knows  mysteries as  if

 they're obvious.

      Sable cried  out again.  "Push," Marcellon commanded  gently, and

 Sable's face twisted  with the effort. She cried  again, but Marcellon

 said, "Push, Sable. I can see the head."

      And that, I knew, would be the end.

      *The little  boy leapt into  his bed  and pulled the  covers over

 him. Unable to be strong any longer, he sobbed into his pillow.

      Suddenly, there was a voice at his side. "Luke?" Little arms went

 around him. "Luke, what's wrong? Don't cry."

      He couldn't  tell him;  no, he wouldn't  burden his  brother. The

 little  boy  would bear  the  secret,  the  hate, the  guilt--and  the

 curse--alone.

      But still he sobbed till dawn in his brother's arms.*

      There was  a baby  in the  room, a crying  baby, but  Sable still

 breathed--and she was still in  pain. I stared. Marcellon was smiling.

 "Another push, Sable, and we're through."

      "It shouldn't be...this bad," she panted.

      "There's  another child  here," Marcellon  explained. "There  are

 twins."

      Oh, God, she  really is going to  die! Just as Roisart  and I had

 killed our mother, my sons would kill theirs! Oh, God, please!

      Marcellon gave me  a strange look. Then he looked  at Sable again

 and  produced  another screaming  child.  "Now  just the  afterbirth,"

 Marcellon encouraged.

      I remember wondering what the hell *that* was. And Sable, in less

 pain--she was dying  for certain--pushed again, I suppose,  and it was

 over.

      And she still breathed.

      She smiled at me and squeezed  my hand--gently, thank God; it was

 sore as hell--and  I stared at her. She was  alive. I couldn't believe

 it.

      She must be  dying peacefully, gradually, so  painlessly that she

 must not even realize  it. Thank God for that; at  least she would die

 in peace.

      And  Marcellon came  forward, bearing  two bundled  lumps. "Would

 your excellencies deign  to view your perfectly  healthy children?" he

 asked gaily, putting  them on the bed  next to Sable. I  stared at the

 Mage in disbelief,  then looked at the babies as  Marcellon moved away

 to wash his hands.

      "They're so small," I said. Then I felt stupid.

      Sable whacked  me playfully. If I  hadn't known she was  dying, I

 would have  thought she was  getting better. "Newborns  generally are,

 dullard,"  she  laughed  breathlessly. "Especially  twins."  Then  she

 looked at me seriously. "Roisart and Luthias?"

      "What?" I asked.

      "Names."

      "Fionn, not Luthias."

      "Lauren and Clifton called their little boy Fionn."

      "All right," I conceded dully, "Roisart and Luthias."

      "That," said the approaching High  Mage, drying his hands, "would

 be highly inappropriate."

      "Inappropriate?" Sable asked. "Inappropriate  to name my children

 after their father and uncle?"

      Marcellon,  in  that annoying  way  of  his, raised  an  eyebrow.

 "They're girls," he explained simply. And I felt even stupider.

      "Julia?" Sable suggested, looking at me.

      "Fine,"  I said  without  fighting. Perhaps  calling my  daughter

 after her would free me of her death. "The other...Morwyn?" She nodded

 and smiled, and  I knew that she  was glad to name  our daughter after

 Mama-Aunt.

      "After your  mothers?" Marcellon questioned, and  I nodded. "Very

 good. If  you don't  mind, I'll take  the babes to  be blessed  by the

 priests."

      "By the  Master Priest?"  Sable asked sleepily,  snuggling toward

 me.

      "Don't  be ridiculous,"  Marcellon  answered  dryly. "His  breath

 would wilt the poor children." Sable smiled. "I shall return shortly."

      I kissed Sable  swiftly, then rose. I  caught Marcellon's sleeve.

 "How much longer?" I asked in whispers.

      "Longer?"

      "Until she dies."

      Marcellon  gave me  a  very  strange look.  "Your  wife is  fine,

 Luthias,"  he soothed,  putting a  hand  on my  arm. "It  was an  easy

 labor." *That*  was easy? "She was  never in any danger  of death. She

 will live for many years. Don't be alarmed."

      "She's  not  going  to  die?" I  asked  incredulously.  But  that

 couldn't be...any woman I cared for...

      "Of course  not," Marcellon returned with  slight irritation. "Go

 back to  your wife,  Sir Luthias, if  you like; she  will sleep  for a

 while, however."

      "Sleep? After that?"

      "They  don't  call  it  labor for  nothing,  manling,"  Marcellon

 scoffed,  using  Clifton's  horrid  nickname for  me.  His  eyes  were

 smiling, though. "Go on, Luthias. It's all right."

      I stood rooted, staring at the door as Marcellon closed it, until

 I  heard Sable  call me.  I turned.  "Are you  all right?"  she asked,

 holding out her hand.

      I came to her and took it.  "Me? I'm fine. You're the one who was

 in the pain. Sable, how are you?"

      "Wonderful," she told me. I sat in the chair beside her bed. "Are

 you all  right, Luthias? I  thought sometimes  that you felt  the pain

 more than I did."

      She'd never know how much. I  touched her face, and then I kissed

 her. "It's all right, Sable." She  had said she was wonderful; she was

 going to live, Marcellon had said. It was going to be all right.

      Seeing the  change in my face,  she sighed, closed her  eyes, and

 slept.

      And I laid my head down  beside hers, thanking God that my father

 had not cursed me after all.

      *The Baron  drew his little son  onto his knee, but  the normally

 exuberant boy trembled  and looked away fearfully.  "Don't be afraid,"

 the Baron said soothingly. "It's all right."

      The boy would not answer.

      The Baron  held his son  close. "I didn't  mean what I  said last

 night,   my   son,"   the    Baron   whispered,   rocking   the   boy.

 "Grown-ups...when we  hurt, sometimes  we say  crazy things,  and they

 hurt others...I never meant to hurt you, my son."

      Uncertain, the boy withdrew  slightly and looked questioningly at

 his father.

      The Baron saddened at the pain  on the little boy's face. "I love

 you,  my strong  son," he  said, holding  the boy  close. "I  would do

 anything to spare  you pain--I would give anything to  be certain that

 you never feel the  pain I felt when your mother died.  I love you and

 your brother;  please believe that,  my son, and believe  that nothing

 you did hurt her and nothing I said was true."

      And the boy sobbed and held his father tightly. "It's all right,"

 the Baron whispered. "Don't cry, Luthias." The Baron held his boy at a

 small distance. "You believe me?" The boy nodded. "I would never curse

 you, nor  would I  ever hate or  hurt you." The  boy nodded  again and

 gulped his  tears. "Now come,"  invited the Baron, offering  his hand.

 "Let's go riding."*

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

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  ******   *****            The Online Magazine              ***********

  ******   *****        of Amateur Creative Writing         ************

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

      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

 with just about any interesting topic.

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

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      To subscribe, send mail (no interactive messages, please) to:

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      Please indicate which format (ASCII or PostScript) you prefer to to

 receive.  Back issues, an index, and submission information are also

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              ______________________________________

              A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion

              ______________________________________

 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

 publishes  in  two  formats:   straight  ascii and  PostScript*  for

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 get more info, send mail to:

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 Electronic publishing is the way of the future.  Become part of that

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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.