DargonZine Volume 5, Issue 3 10/02/92

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 --   DargonZine Volume 5, Issue 3        10/02/92          Cir 1130   --

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 --                            Contents                                --

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  Pact V                       Max Khaytsus           Yuli 15-17, 1014

  To Be Continued              Michelle Brothers

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1                                Pact

                                Part 5

                            by Max Khaytsus

                 (b.c.k.a. <khaytsus@cs.colorado.edu>)

      Many  hours  passed  before  Aimee gathered  herself  and  forced

 herself to look for  a way out. Her father always  taught her that she

 should never  be afraid and  running to hide  in the darkness  was the

 wrong thing to do.  Of course neither did she want  to let anyone here

 know she had seen  them and Captain Koren and that  she knew that they

 killed him.

      At first  she ran back  up the stairs to  the heavy oak  door and

 tried to get  out, but the door  was locked and banging on  it did not

 help. Aimee then went back to the base of the second set of stairs, to

 hide in the maze of rooms and  corridors, not far from the guards. She

 was afraid of them, but she was  more afraid of the dark, far reaching

 tunnels. At least she would not get lost if she hid near the guards.

      Aimee wandered up and down  the passages, looking into rooms, but

 never letting  the lit corridor fall  out of her sight.  She heard the

 physician leave and  cowered in the corner of a  side corridor, afraid

 to breathe,  while a pair of  guards replaced the dying  torches along

 the corridor. After they had all  left, she again checked the corridor

 and her stash of stolen food, to make sure nothing had happened to it,

 but she was still afraid of going to look in the room where the guards

 watched Captain Koren's body.

      She was very  tired now and, taking her food,  Aimee retreated to

 one of  the rooms  in a  dark corridor  and fell  asleep in  a corner,

 wishing she had  a blanket or a  sheet to wrap herself in  on the cold

 stone floor.

      Kalen closed the  door to Captain Koren's office and  took a seat

 in  the chair  before  the desk.  Across from  him  sat Ilona  Milnor,

 surrounded by piles of paper.

      "It's my shift," he said when she looked up.

      She nodded. "We need to talk."

      They had  not seen  each other  for almost a  full day  now, ever

 since the last shift  change between them. There was a  lot of work to

 be  done, perhaps  too much.  In  the last  day alone  there were  two

 murders, one  of a man  suspected of being  an employee of  Liriss and

 another of a now dead merchant who  ventured out a day before the rest

 of his caravan was due to leave. His two horses, wagon, goods and even

 clothes had  disappeared and his  body was simply  left to lie  in the

 road, not a quarter league from the guard gate.

      There was also  the usual rash of fights and  thefts and a priest

 who showed  up early in  the morning, saying he  had found a  dead rat

 floating in  his pool of golden  water. Above all, Aimee  Taishent was

 still missing  and after so  much time,  foul play was  suspected. The

 guards, who  were already on extra  long shifts, were forced  to spend

 more time looking for the girl. Jerid himself had not slept at all and

 did  nothing but  continue to  question people  who had  seen her  and

 dispatching guards to check all possible leads.

      Ilona brushed  her hair back,  looking through the papers  on the

 desk. "It's  been a  busy day,"  she then  got up  and walked  over to

 Kalen. "You look like you haven't slept."

      "I did," he answered, "a  little. Sergeant Griebel and I searched

 the outside of the town wall earlier."

      "Kalen! That's a couple of leagues!"

      "I know,"  he agreed, "but  Jerid will  kill himself if  we don't

 help. I also  spoke with Dyann and  he has an idea that  he said he'll

 try tonight."

      Ilona sat  down in Kalen's  lap and put  her arms around  him. "I

 don't think Aimee was kidnapped."

      "What?" Kalen tried to look at her, but Ilona did not release the

 embrace.

      "I saw Liriss  last night," she said, "right  after I transferred

 the shift to Caisy.  Liriss asked me to help him.  He said he suspects

 one of his  lieutenants of trying to  ruin him, by setting  him up. He

 claims he never gave the order to kill Koren, nor did he send the note

 or the gem."

      "Do you believe him?" Kalen  asked, again putting his arms around

 Ilona.

      "I don't know...he was surprised when I mentioned the gem and the

 note. I think there might be something here."

      "But if that's true, all it means is that he didn't kidnap Aimee.

 Someone else could have."

      "I just  have the gut  feeling that she wasn't  kidnapped," Ilona

 said. "Other things would have happened by now if she had been..."

      "Who  would  be  setting  Liriss up?"  Kalen  tried  a  different

 approach to the problem.

      "Just about any  living being in Dargon. It's not  like he's well

 liked."

      "I'd suspect there's someone on  his side," Kalen said. "He can't

 be so desperate as to run to us!"

      "Well, a woman delivered the message to me," Ilona said. "I guess

 she's one of  his whores, so Madam Tillipanary is  probably still with

 him. I  would guess Kesrin is  also loyal, even though  Liriss doesn't

 want to believe that."

      "You're probably  right," Kalen said.  "Maybe we can use  this to

 our advantage."

      "How?" Ilona asked. "I'm in good with Liriss. I'd rather not have

 to start this over."

      "If we could only bring them all down..." Kalen thought out loud.

      Ilona hugged him tightly. "What if we help him now...?"

      "I knew  I saw him here,"  the maid smiled, picking  Karl up from

 where he slept in  the alcove by the heavy oak  door leading down into

 the castle  dungeons. She brushed  off the  dust the puppy  managed to

 pick  up off  the  spotlessly  clean floor  and  handed  him to  Dyann

 Taishent.

      "Thank you, my girl," the mage accepted the puppy.

      "I sure  hope you find  your granddaughter, sir," the  maid bowed

 and left to resume her duties.

      Dyann looked Karl, who licked his  nose, over and took him to the

 kitchen where Corambis  and Thuna were preparing  for the enchantment.

 It was late  already, but Aimee had  gone missing for well  over a day

 and Dyann was  not going to lose  more time while the  guards beat all

 the bushes around town.

      Although it was  almost midnight, there were still  people in the

 kitchen, cleaning up  from the previous day, preparing  things for the

 next.

      "Blast it,  woman," Corambis snapped.  "I know it's late  and you

 just washed it, but I want that pot!"

      "Sage, I warn you," the elderly  matron declared, "if I come down

 tomorrow and the pot is dirty, I'll have your hide!"

      "You will be more than welcome to try," Corambis said, taking the

 clay pot from the woman. "Thuna, get me those herbs and some water."

      Dyann  submerged Karl  in a  prepared bath  while looking  at the

 exchange and smiled.

      "Goodness, what are  you doing to that dog?"  the cook exclaimed,

 having finished with Corambis.

      "We shall be  cooking him, madam," the sage snapped  and held the

 clay pot out for Thuna to fill with water.

      "You  will do  no such  thing!"  the woman  declared. She  looked

 around, then picked up a large roller and looked menacingly at the two

 men. "I will not have the two of you cooking dogs in my kitchen!"

      "Relax, madam," Dyann  said firmly. "The dog will  not be harmed.

 He is the  subject of our enchantment to find  my granddaughter." With

 those words  he wrapped  Karl in  a towel  to dry  him off.  The puppy

 struggled,  but soon  settled down  to the  rubbing and  scratching he

 received and produced a yawn.

      "Here are the herbs," Thuna put a bag before Corambis.

      "Very good," the sage approved. "Dyann?"

      "Thuna, would you  hold Karl?" the mage asked and  as soon as she

 took the dog from him, stepped past the cook to help Corambis with the

 preparations. "Be careful not to let him leave the towel," he added as

 Thuna adjusted Karl in the bundle.

      The two  elderly men carefully  measured a batch of  herbs, mixed

 them in  a clay  pot with some  water, then filtered  the brew  into a

 shallow  dish and  offered  it to  Karl, who  started  lapping at  the

 liquid.

      "Am I glad I'm not a dog!"  Corambis sniffed the pot with the wet

 herbs.

      Dyann also took a sniff. "We made it a little strong."

      "So much  the better," Corambis  muttered. "It will make  the dog

 more sensitive."

      The  two men  waited until  Karl  finished the  brew and  stopped

 licking the dish. Dyann  took out a tunic Aimee had  left lying on the

 floor of her  room and let the  puppy sniff it. Karl  was already very

 familiar with Aimee's scent, but the tunic and the potion were used to

 reinforce the smell and make him more sensitive.

      Dyann took the dog from Thuna and went into the corridor.

      "Wash the equipment," Corambis  instructed Thuna and followed his

 friend out.

      Dyann put  Karl on  the ground  and the two  men stood  over him,

 looking down. "Karl, go find Aimee," Dyann finally said.

      The puppy looked up at him and yawned.

      "Karl!" Dyann  warned. He rubbed  the tunic in Karl's  face again

 and gave him a push. "Go find Aimee!"

      Karl stood up, but did not budge.

      "He's not a bloodhound," Corambis  sighed, "and he's too young to

 understand what we want."

      "He's stubborn just  like Aimee," Dyann said,  slapping the dog's

 behind. "Get going!"

      Karl  let out  a yelp  and took  off down  the corridor,  quickly

 outdistancing the two elderly men.

      "Well, now you've done it,"  Corambis sighed. "He'll find her and

 lose us."

      The two men hurried down the corridor after the puppy. After some

 twists and turns they reached the  great hall and stood there, looking

 puzzled.

      "Which way?" the mage muttered to himself.

      Corambis pointed in the direction of the exit. "He might have ran

 out."

      "Or  back to  the kitchen,"  Dyann pointed  down the  great hall,

 where it forked.

      "Let's check with  the guards first," Corambis  suggested and the

 two men went to the castle entrance to question the men.

      The two sleepy soldiers on duty  could do little more than shrug.

 If there was a puppy that ran out past them, they had not seen it.

      "...but the gates are closed," one of the men assured Dyann. "The

 dog won't be able to leave the castle."

      "Great," the mage worded and the two men went back inside.

      "We should  have tagged him,"  Corambis said, "or at  least found

 some rope to put him on."

      Dyann nodded.  "Let's check  the kitchen and  if he's  not there,

 we'll get some torches and look outside."

      "Let's do that," Corambis agreed.

      The two  men walked up  the steps leading  out of the  great hall

 when the maid who had helped Dyann find Karl earlier stopped them.

      "Sirs, did that lazy mutt help?"

      Dyann shook  his head.  "That lazy  mutt ran  off soon  after you

 found him."

      "Oh,  sir, I'm  sorry," the  woman apologized.  "I had  sincerely

 hopped you'd be able  to find the girl. The puppy  I just saw sleeping

 by the dungeon door, just like  earlier. He probably just found a cool

 spot on the stone, where the draft is."

      "Who is it?" Ilona asked over  the sound of the rapid knocking on

 the door of her apartment.

      "Ovink," a male voice coughed. "Lord Liriss wishes to see you."

      It was a  voice familiar to Ilona  -- she had brought  him in for

 questioning a  number of times  -- but it was  also the middle  of the

 night. "Do you realize how late it is?" she asked.

      "Yes, but I was told not to return alone."

      "All right, then. Wait."

      Ilona quickly dressed, strapped on her  belt and sword and left a

 note on her table for Kalen. It read:

        `Ovink came for me.  I will return by mid-day.'

      She folded the note and left it  on the desk, right under the ink

 bottle.

      "All right, let's go," Ilona opened the door.

      Instantly  two men  rushed  in, knocking  her  off balance.  They

 wrestled her down to the floor and  tied her arms behind her. From the

 other room  Ilona could  hear sounds  of a  struggle and  Tara yelling

 something at the men.

      "Let her go!" Ilona struggled  against her attackers, forcing one

 man to  lose his  grip on her.  She swung her  legs, knocking  him off

 balance and he crashed down to the floor.

      Ovink appeared above  Ilona, holding a dagger. "I'd  hate to have

 to cut you  prematurely, Lieutenant," he smiled  viciously in warning.

 Ovink  was well  known  for his  bad temper  and  sadistic streak,  in

 contrast  to Cissell's  cool  arrogance and  Kesrin's politeness.  She

 stopped struggling as he brought the knife a little closer to her neck

 and his smile deepened.

      "Good. Tie her  legs." The dagger did not leave  Ilona's neck. It

 slid slowly up to  her jaw and then along it to the  back of her head.

 The blade  left behind a cold  trail that Ilona could  not identify --

 was it blood or just her imagination? The men continued to fumble with

 the rope  and Ilona did  not dare breath so  long as Ovink  stood over

 her.

      "That's a  good soldier,"  the brigand  chuckled, getting  up and

 hiding the dagger before Ilona could see if it was stained with blood.

 She could still feel  the lingering chill on her jaw  and neck. A drop

 ran down her throat and dripped off  to the floor. Sweat or blood? She

 could not  tell by  Ovink's reaction,  but guessed that  it had  to be

 sweat. If he  drew blood, he would  do more than just  stand and watch

 the men tie her.

      "What do you want?" Ilona asked. "Why did Liriss send you?"

      "To be honest," Ovink's smile grew wider, "Liriss didn't send me.

 You see, Liriss needs your help. On the other hand, many of us want to

 see him hang...and you're a good device to get the wind blowing."

      Two more men brought out Tara, tied and wide eyed.

      "Let her go, Ovink," Ilona insisted. "She's just a girl."

      "Don't worry about her," the  cutthroat fingered his dagger. "She

 won't be joining  you. She's young enough  to get a good  price on the

 market. Perhaps even in Beinison, as soon as they win the war."

      Ilona kicked her tied legs at him,  but did not have the reach to

 hit.

      "Take her  to the blocks," Ovink  ordered. "And take the  girl to

 the pits."

      One of  the men  stuffed a  rag into  Ilona's mouth,  managing to

 avoid getting bit. A bag was placed  over her head and she was wrapped

 in a blanket.

      There was little Ilona could do  in the way of struggling against

 two full grown men while tied and  blind and for the time being had to

 accept her fate  of being loaded onto  a wagon. She was  glad that she

 left the note for Kalen and that she directed it at Ovink, not Liriss.

 If need be, it would save a lot of time and perhaps her life.

      She hoped she would live through Ovink's plans, anyway.

      "Where's Aimee?" Dyann demanded of  Karl. The puppy lay stretched

 out on  the floor  by the  heavy oak  door leading  to the  old castle

 dungeon, his black eyes looking up at the mage.

      "I know you know what I want!"

      Karl buried his face under his paw.

      "Oh, for Sevelin's sake!" Dyann stood up. "This will never work!"

      "We'll find  her," Corambis assured  Dyann. "We just have  to use

 better methods."

      "What  better methods?"  the mage  grumbled. "This  was the  best

 one!"

      "Well," Corambis  thought, "you know,  I did a  casting yesterday

 while waiting for  Madam Labin to come for her  second casting and the

 future showed no  change. I did the same casting  on Clifton and again

 on Koren. I had Clifton on fire and Koren on water. And that's wrong!"

      "That could  be interpreted either  way," Dyann said.  "It's easy

 going for Koren --  he's dead now -- and Clifton's in  the middle of a

 war."

      "But that's now, not down the road!" Corambis protested.

      "For  all we  know  the  war will  last  years," Dyann  retorted.

 "That's not a problem with castings."

      "But that's  wrong," Corambis stressed.  "You know how  the table

 works."

      "It has a mind of its own, you said so yourself."

      "Through three castings?"

      "Well..." Dyann  scratched his  head. "It could  be a  minor mana

 shift."

      "In Dargon? Goodness, no," Corambis  said. "There hasn't been one

 for ages, not since the Fretheod ruled!"

      "Then we're probably due for one."

      "That  and Stevene's  return,"  the sage  grumbled.  "I tell  you

 there's  nothing  wrong  with  the   casting.  What's  wrong  is  that

 something's going on that we don't know about."

      "Perhaps," Dyann  agreed, "but  what worries me  now is  that the

 potion didn't work. We made it together. It wasn't wrong."

      "Well, we had a clay pot," Corambis  said. "If it was made of red

 clay..."

      "It  wasn't," Dyann  interrupted.  "You yourself  looked. It  was

 brown as mud."

      "What then? What are we missing?"

      "We're becoming senile, my friend," Dyann laughed.

      "Indeed," Corambis said.

      Dyann shook his head, "and when looking for Aimee of all people!"

      "Come," Corambis  pulled his friend  away from the  puppy. "Let's

 try something else. Let's try some real magic."

      Tara fought  the ropes that  bound her  hands. If she  could only

 free them, she could  untie her feet and run. The  window of this room

 was on  the second floor, but  it overlooked the docks  and that meant

 that  she could  be helped  by  the sailors.  She hoped  she could  be

 helped, anyway. The rope that bound  her delicate hands was coarse and

 thick, good for  holding a large man  or an animal, but  not enough to

 hold someone as small as she. At the same time, the rope was extremely

 tough, scratching her hands and making it hard for her to work herself

 free.

      She had no idea what she would  do if she could get away from the

 men that  kidnapped her. Run to  Rish? Tara knew she  could only trust

 him in  this war  between the mob  and the town  guard, but  could she

 really safely stay in the  castle? Obviously the mob's infiltration of

 the guard was great and one would have to believe that the inverse was

 true as well, but who could  be trusted? More importantly, why had the

 mob turned on one of their own?

      When being transported,  bound and gagged, Tara heard  one of the

 men say that Ilona was no longer something that Liriss could afford to

 be gentle with and  that she was a weight he should  no longer have to

 carry, whatever that  meant. It sounded like she did  something he did

 not like and  would now have to  pay for it. Tara  always liked Ilona,

 since that day  she met her when  she had finally found  her uncle. It

 was she who would  go shopping with Tara and talk  to her about things

 Uncle Glenn tried to avoid. What did Ilona do to make Liriss so upset?

 Whatever it  was, it had  to be the right  thing. She always  said how

 much she wanted  to rid Dargon of crime. Tara  struggled with the rope

 more furiously than  before. If Ilona were to die  before she could go

 for help,  it would  be her fault.  She did not  want to  see anything

 happen to the Lieutenant, no matter what she had done.

      Tara ground her  teeth into the leather gag securely  tied in her

 mouth as one coarse loop of rope slipped off her hand. `One more,' she

 thought, `one more loop and I'm free.'

      It was obvious  to Tara why she  was taken. She was  a witness to

 Ilona's kidnapping, but having had a  chance to sort things out in her

 head, Tara  could not believe that  Ilona had sold out  to Liriss. Why

 then did  she plead  for Tara's  release and  did not  once ask  to be

 released herself? What good would it do her if Tara could identify her

 as a  member of the mob?  Perhaps Rish was  right when he said  not to

 trust anybody, but Tara could not bring herself to believe that such a

 good friend was responsible for the death of her uncle.

      With one last effort, Tara pulled her right hand out of the ropes

 and having brushed the lose coils off her left arm, proceeded to untie

 her legs. She still did not know  where she would go. All she knew was

 that Rish was suspicious of everyone and that Ilona knew more than she

 let on,  but there  were others  in town  who might  be able  to help.

 Lieutenants  Darklen  and Taishent  could  be  helpful, as  could  her

 uncle's neighbors,  Doctor Savitt or  Madam Labin. They were  of noble

 birth and could not possibly be involved in any sort of crime.

      The rope  on her legs  was off and Tara  was quick to  remove the

 gag. It skipped across  the room and hit the opposite  wall with a wet

 squishing noise.

      The dirty window, covered with soot and tar on the edges where it

 was sealed against the elements, was very small, but not too small for

 Tara. She looked out through the  torn waxed paper for the sailors she

 had seen before, when first brought  into the room. She carefully tore

 away more of  the paper covering the window and  looked down. All that

 was in her line of sight was  a sleeping drunk, up against the wall of

 the building.  Tara hesitated, then  tore the remaining paper  off and

 started climbing through the window. Just  then she heard the sound of

 a key being inserted into the lock.

      Leaning back in his chair, Kesrin set his jaw, listening to Ovink

 tell his  story. He was contemplating  his new plan, made  when Liriss

 received the  intercepted note from  the chronicler to the  Captain of

 the Ducal forces. Kesrin's ascent to the top had started, but it would

 have to be a  slow process, one step at a time. Ovink  was going to be

 today's step.

      "...so I thought  we'd keep the girl for the  next time Lord Isom

 is in town...  If you don't mind, of course,  my Lord," Ovink finished

 his report.

      "That will be fine," Kesrin  approved. "Liriss will be happy with

 the extra profit."

      Ovink smiled.  "Yes, Sir.  I'll bet he  will." Ovink  appeared so

 happy with his success, that Kesrin had no doubt the man would not see

 the wool being pulled over his eyes.

      "You did  the right thing by  bringing the girl. I  had hopped we

 could take the Lieutenant alone, but it's just as well. Her death will

 give us an entrance and we can put  the girl to good use as well. Just

 be sure to have her out of here tomorrow. By tomorrow night this place

 will be filled with guardsmen."

      Ovink's smile changed to a laugh. "I like your idea."

      Kesrin chuckled as well. He told  Ovink that a dead member of the

 town guard,  and especially a high  ranking member, would be  a strong

 incentive for the  authorities to take action -- her  home was already

 filled with clues  that would lead the guard to  Liriss -- things like

 the gem  and the  note. What  he neglected to  mention was  that Ovink

 would  not have  the  time  to leave  town.  "Everything  is set  now.

 Tomorrow take the girl  and your men and take a trip  to Tench to sell

 her. I shall abandon Liriss for a few days myself and soon we will all

 be a step closer to the top."

      "With  your  leave, Sir,"  Ovink  stood  up,  "I will  begin  the

 preparations."

      "Just be sure to leave by  way of the pier first thing tomorrow,"

 Kesrin reminded  him. "I don't  want the guard to  stop you if  you go

 through the main gate."

      Ilona stirred as cold water licked at her side. She had been well

 aware of  her unfavorable position,  chained to a large  rock sticking

 out of  the water under  a pier,  with a gag  in her mouth.  She tried

 struggling against the chains, but they were far too strong for her to

 escape. At  first she believed she  was only being held  here, but the

 incoming tide made her acutely aware of the danger of drowning.

      Now, as the  water level slowly rose, a lot  of things started to

 make  sense. All  those unexplained  drownings, sometimes  one or  two

 every night,  made sense.  People whom everyone  knew could  swim well

 being fished out  of the ocean early in the  morning as sailors loaded

 and unloaded  their ships along the  docks. At times the  dead men and

 women had  unexplained bruises on  their wrists and ankles.  Now those

 could be explained as well.

      Ilona wondered if she would live long enough to tell others about

 this method of execution,  or if she would die when  the tide came in.

 She tried working  on the gag, hoping  that she would be  able to call

 out for  help, but she  had little hope of  that working. The  gag was

 tied tightly  around her head and  refused to budge. Besides,  she was

 probably right beneath Liriss' personal  pier. No one would come, even

 if they heard.

      Perhaps if Liriss  came down, Ilona mused, but she  knew it was a

 slim chance. He  had no reason to  be here. When he  killed people, he

 more than  likely sent others to  do it for  him. No one at  all would

 find her tonight and by tomorrow it would be far too late.

      As the door to the room she  was in opened, Tara exerted the last

 bit of  effort, knowing  full well  that once she  is out  through the

 window, her only path would be an uncontrolled downward plunge.

      "Stop!" she heard a male voice shout. She increased her efforts.

      A second  later she was falling  to the ground, not  far from the

 sleeping drunk  she saw previously. She  wished it had been  the drunk

 she had fallen on -- that way the landing would have been much softer.

      "You! Stop  her!" Tara heard  the same  voice from above  her and

 looked around. Except for the drunk, she was alone in the street.

      "Get up!"

      She looked at the man yelling down  at the drunk. "Shut up and do

 it yourself, you  bastard!" She slowly got up off  the ground, holding

 on to her  skinned arm. Blood dripped to the  ground. To her surprise,

 the brigand started climbing out the window.

      Tara slowly backed away, watching him,  then picked up a rock and

 threw it at the man. It hit the wall, but was close enough to make him

 take notice and give what he was doing a second thought.

      Tara turned and bolted.

      As Ovink left, Kesrin took out  his dagger and balanced it on his

 desk, the tip of  the blade cutting into the fine  wood grain. Soon he

 would not  need this  desk anyway --  his fist came  down hard  on the

 hilt, making the  blade sink into the  wood -- he would  soon be using

 Liriss' office.  Kesrin stood up  and walked  over to the  window. The

 view. It would also change. Instead  of seeing the docks and the dirty

 sailors burning tar  and frying fish, he would look  out at the market

 place. One step at a time. Today Ovink, tomorrow Liriss. In a month he

 would be  no less than  the undisputed lord of  the city. Lord  of all

 that his  window would let him  see and finally, after  so many years,

 his heart could finally rest for having kept the promise he made years

 ago.

      "Stop!" he suddenly heard Ovink's  voice come through the window,

 followed  by a  dull  thud  of something  falling  onto the  boardwalk

 outside.

      Kesrin stepped  closer to the  window and looked down.  A teenage

 girl lay  on the ground by  the wall of  the building, not far  from a

 sleeping bum. She clutched her arm as if she had hurt it in a fall.

      "You! Stop her!" Ovink appeared in  a window of the second floor.

 "Get up!"

      Kesrin chuckled  sadly. This was a  man Liriss trusted to  do his

 work?

      "Shut up and do it yourself,  you bastard!" the girl yelled back,

 getting  up to  her feet.  Kesrin  suspected she  was Captain  Koren's

 niece. She looked around, picked up a rock and threw it at the wall of

 the building, then, with another  moment of hesitation, turned and ran

 down  the  boardwalk.  Another  moment passed  and  a  crashing  sound

 signified Ovink  falling out the window.  The man quickly got  up and,

 limping, ran after the girl.

      With a soft chuckle Kesrin turned  from the window and walked out

 of the  room. The plan was  slowly coming together. Now  the last step

 needed to be set into motion.

      Ilona desperately fought  the chain cuffs that held  her arms and

 legs to the stone  block now submerged in the water.  In the course of

 the last hour  the level of the  ocean had risen high  enough to cover

 the rock completely and the water continued to rise. She knew it would

 cover her  soon as well.  The shackles on her  refused to come  off as

 they had  for countless other  people who must  have died here  in the

 last few years. They  were too well made and too  strong to even think

 about tearing them free.

      Ilona looked up  at the wooden walk of the  pier above her, where

 occasionally a  person or two  would walk by.  She wanted to  yell for

 help, but the  gag in her mouth  would only make her choke  on her own

 spit. Nothing.  There was nothing she  could do, but at  the same time

 she refused  to wait to  let death come and  take her. She  had always

 fought and this time would be no exception.

      Uneven splashing of water alerted  Ilona. The noises sounded like

 someone walking  towards her,  disturbing the  rhythmic motion  of the

 waves. She tried to  raise her head to look, but  a strong wave forced

 her back down, making her swallow the salty ocean water.

      A  shadow paused  over her,  looking. Waiting.  Ilona blinked  to

 clear the  ocean water  from her  eyes. Kesrin.  He looked  somber and

 tired, as a man ten years his senior.

      "You know, it's  strange what twists fate puts on  our lives," he

 sighed. "Just yesterday  I wanted you dead, out of  my way. I would've

 killed you with my own bare  hands, if necessary, because you were bad

 for my business, but now I have to come to you for help."

      Ilona continued  to look at  him, listening, unable to  speak and

 well  aware of  the quickly  rising level  of the  tide. Another  wave

 passed over her head and lifted Kesrin off his feet.

      "Something changed  last night," he  sighed. "I realized  my life

 was in danger and I could do little to help myself. What I want..." he

 paced  to the  other  side of  the  rock in  the  stomach deep  water,

 "...what I need is  for you to help me. In exchange I  will let you go

 and give you evidence against Liriss. Is that fair?"

      Ilona had  little choice now.  She was willing to  promise almost

 anything, including this. She nodded.

      "Good," Kesrin said. "You already  know it was Liriss who ordered

 Koren's death.  It was Ovink  who kidnapped  you on his  orders. Ovink

 will be  heading out of town  early tomorrow by the  East Gate, taking

 some men and Koren's  niece to sell to slave traders  in Tench. If you

 capture him, he'll  sell his own mother, not just  Liriss." With those

 words Kesrin took a  chain with a key from around  his neck and placed

 it in Ilona's hand, leaving her to fend for herself.

      "Don't  forget I  did  this for  you when  the  day of  reckoning

 comes."

      He disappeared from sight, leaving  behind the sound of splashing

 water as he waded towards the stairs.

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

1     "Can you see anything ahead?" the merchant called up to the lanky

 guard in the  lead. His voice fell  dead amid the damp  moss and still

 water. "Do you see the castle? Ragan?"

      "No, Burgamy,  I can't  see the castle  yet," Ragan  replied with

 exaggerated  patience. It  wouldn't do  to aggravate  the man  who was

 paying  him, no  matter what  he thought  of the  heavy-set fool.  "Be

 careful," he  warned after  a minute.  "There's a  fallen tree  in the

 path. Goddam swamp."

      The sound of dull splashing in the thin veneer of water fell dead

 amid the dangling vines and moss. The usual tenants of the marshy area

 were silent as the intruders noisily made their way through. Ragan led

 his horse around the green  and brown obstacle, leather armor creaking

 softly over his cursing. Behind him, rich vermillion cloak dragging in

 the scummy  water, paced Burgamy.  He paused briefly and  glanced over

 his shoulder at his companions.

      "Are you  all right,  Sister Moya?" he  asked solicitiously  as a

 woman, clad in  what surely used to  be a white robe,  appeared out of

 the  ragged mist.  He  offered a  plump fingered  hand  to assist  her

 forward.

      "I  am well,  thank  you, Burgamy,"  replied  Moya, avoiding  the

 merchant's grasp. She paused to allow her mount, also white, to steady

 its footing, then continued around the tree.

      Burgamy made a  disappointed sound deep in his  throat and turned

 to follow.

      "She won't have you, merchant,"  laughed a voice from behind him.

 A rakish figure in gaudy red and  blue appeared beside him, a globe of

 bright green trailing  along like a puppy behind. "You  know how those

 *devout* Stevenic women are. You won't  see her outside of chapel, let

 alone out of her robes."

      "Silence, juggler. I didn't ask your opinion."

      "That's High Mage Tagir to  you," admonished the mage cheerfully.

 "Coming, oh  great Sir  Knight?" he  called over  his shoulder  as the

 merchant moved off after Moya.

      "Coming, High Mage,"  a voice, followed by a large  man clad in a

 remarkably shiny  breast plate and  a green  surcoat. He was  the only

 traveller not leading a horse. He paused beside Tagir. "Move it, boy."

      Bringing up  the rear  was a  fourteen or  fifteen year  old boy,

 leading a heavy horse, a pony, and  two mules. His worn tunic bore the

 same crest that blazoned the shield slung over the knight's back.

      "Yes, Sir Ceneham." Gindar, the squire, picked his sodden feet up

 a little faster.

      The motly party  had been tracking around this swamp  for days in

 search of a  lost keep that Burgamy claimed was  filled with treasure.

 The merchant  had hired his  companions for half of  whatever treasure

 was found, to be divided among the five as they chose. Following a few

 obscure references in  a an old diary he'd found,  they made their way

 into the  marshy tracts  upriver of  Quiron Keep.  Each had  their own

 reasons for coming,  be they honor, adventure, or  holy quest. Burgamy

 didn't much  care why  they were  there, only  that they  followed his

 orders and  abided by their half  of the agreement. There  hadn't been

 any difficulties as yet.

      "I've hit solid ground," declared Ragan out of the mist. "And the

 fog clears up once you get here."

      "About damned time," Burgamy muttered. "Can you see the keep?" He

 laboriously climbed the little rise that elevated him a few feet above

 the water line to stand beside the  thin man. Behind them, the rest of

 the party straggled up.

      Ragan pointed to a large, shadowy lump in the growing dusk. "That

 looks to be it."

      Burgamy's  hungry  eyes devoured  every  curve  in the  indicated

 direction before turning reluctantly back to his companions. "Since it

 will soon be too dark to investigate, we'll camp here for the night."

      The  squire promptly  dropped the  reins  of the  animals he  was

 leading and stared pulling dry fire  wood out of the oiled canvas pack

 on one  of the mules.  Ragan's muttered "First intellegent  order he's

 given all week," was lost in the  general bustle to set up camp before

 sunset.

      Following traditions set from the first day of their journey, the

 squire laid out  the fire, and went  to tend the horses.  The fire was

 always lit  by Tagir, as  the wood was too  damp to respond  easily to

 normal  flames. Ragan  staked out  a perimeter  while Burgamy  and Sir

 Ceneham rested  by the  dancing fire.  Sister Moya  had taken  care of

 providing fresh drinking  water, since their own stores ran  out a few

 days ago.

      She  carried an  iron  pot down  to  the edge  of  the swamp  and

 collected as  much water as she  could. Bringing it back  to camp, she

 knelt beside the fire, leaning over the pot.

      "We have drinking water yet,  Sister?" demanded Sir Ceneham a few

 minutes later, coming closer and looming over the woman.

      "In God's time, Sir Knight,"  replied Moya placidly, not stopping

 her prayers.

      "I just  wish God  would hurry," muttered  the man,  pacing away,

 around  the fire  and back  behind the  priestess. Realizing  that his

 glaring was having no effect, Ceneham went over to harass his squire.

      This too  was a ritual,  and no one  bothered to take  notice any

 more.

      The boy took the berating  in stoic silence. When you're finished

 with this,  do that. When you  finish with that, polish  my armor, and

 make sure there's not a single speck  of rust on it. Since coming into

 the  swamp, rust  was  Ceneham's  biggest concern.  By  the time  he'd

 finished his  list of orders,  the water  was already being  made into

 soup.

      The ruins were silent. A coat of dampened dust layered everything

 and tainted sunlight  crept down the holes in the  ceiling through the

 remains of  the second floor.  The musty  scent of wet  stones mingled

 with the  smell of  rotting plants. Torchlight  caused the  shadows to

 dance against the worn stone floor and unsteady walls.

      "This way," said Sir Ceneham,  voice rolling out from beneath the

 heavy torch. The  sound of cascading chainmail echoed  slightly in the

 crumbling hall. He'd decided that  since there might be wild creatures

 holed up in  the keep's remains, that he should  be better armored, so

 he could better protect the party.  He cut an impressive figure in the

 full armor; it was the first time  he was able to wear the entire suit

 on this  little expedition without the  fear of sinking into  the muck

 and was enjoying preening in front of  the group. No one paid him much

 attention.

      "Are you certain, Sir Ceneham?"  was the return query from behind

 the  light. Burgamy,  with Tagir  at his  side, moved  up next  to the

 knight.

      "Quite certain," was the sharp reply. Because his back was to the

 merchant, Burgamy couldn't see the look of contempt on his face. "I've

 walked through many hallways in many keeps. This one is no different."

      "Unless they changed the floor plans  from the last time you were

 here," teased Tagir,  his magelight making him  look faintly sinister.

 "If you get lost, call. I'll be happy to help you out."

      "Thank you, magician," said  Sir Ceneham through clentched teeth.

 He had to force himself to be polite to the cocksure mage. Considering

 the man could kill  him with a single spell or two,  it was well worth

 the effort.

      "Can we get  on with this?" Burgamy  demanded peevishly. "Where's

 the rest of the party?"

      "Listening  to  you  argue,"  said Ragan  bitingly.  "If  there's

 anything around, it's sure to know where we are."

      "We  haven't  seen  a  living   creature  since  we  crossed  the

 drawbridge,"  scoffed  Ceneham. "And  that  includes  the gods  cursed

 insects."

      "Except that squirrel Gindar tossed rocks at," observed Tagir.

      "Don't swear, Sir Knight," said Moya  softly. She held her robe a

 few inches off the keep floor out  of habit, despite the fact that the

 hem was nearly  black with mud. "Taking the Lord's  name in vain isn't

 necessary."

      "I'll decide what's necessary, Sister. Where's my damned squire?"

      While Gindar rejoined the party  from gathering more rocks, Ragan

 and Tagir started investigating deeper down the corridor. They found a

 door which Ragan  was busily investigating when the rest  of the party

 joined them.

      "There seems  to have been a  trap set on the  lock," he observed

 professionally, pulling a bit of metal  out of his pouch. "Opening the

 door sets the  trigger off. Somebody was obviously  paranoid about his

 privacy. It's a pretty good lock to have lasted all this time."

      "Just how  old is  it?" asked Tagir,  curiously peering  over his

 shoulder.

      "How should I know? It's not new,  that much I can tell you. Now,

 if someone  will push the  door open,  this should keep  the mechanism

 from triggering."

      "Be  careful.  There  might  be something  dangerous  in  there,"

 whimpered Gindar. Moya put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

      Cautiously, torch  held high, sword  drawn in in his  other hand,

 Ceneham kicked the door open. The  worn wood crashed back on its green

 brass  hinges.  Silence  rolled  in  after  the  echo  and  torchlight

 illuminated the damp, dusty bedroom. Off  in a corner a pair of bright

 black eyes watched the group enter.

      "Well, there's your dangerous  monster," laughed Tagir, pointing.

 The creature twitched  its bushy tail and cocked its  head to one side

 for a better view.

      "A  gods  be  damned  squirrel!" swore  the  knight  angrily.  He

 brandished his sword  in the animal's general  direction. The squirrel

 sat up on its hind legs and stuffed another seed into its mouth.

      "Oh, allow  me to deal with  it," Tagir said gleefully,  making a

 few  slight  gestures.  "Wouldn't  want  you  to  strain  yourself  on

 something so deadly."

      A thin jet  of fire leapt out from the  mage's finger towards the

 squirrel. With a surprised noise, the animal jumped and bolted for the

 door, past the kneeling Ragan.

      The mage laughed again, and  beneath his half helm Ceneham smiled

 grimly. His squire  giggled. Burgamy started to search  the room while

 Sister Moya looked on disapprovingly.

      The  merchant  was soon  joined  by  Ceneham  and his  squire  in

 ransacking the remains of the room.  Ever helpful, Tagir lit his light

 and centered himself so that  he could illuminate every corner. Sister

 Moya waited  patiently for them to  finish. It didn't take  long. Four

 pieces  of tarnished  jewelry  and a  pile of  dead  moths later  they

 grouped back together by the white clad woman.

      "This was a bit of  a disappointment," commented Tagir. "I wonder

 why the former occupant wasted so much  time on a trap for such paltry

 remains."  He glanced  casually about  the  room as  though trying  to

 determine something of the former occupant from the wreackage.

      "Let's try and  find the real treasure,"  Burgamy said, pocketing

 the dirty bits of gold. "We'll divide this later."

      "Yes, we will," growled Ceneham darkly as the merchant walked out

 past the still kneeling Ragan. "Come  on, man," he added, slapping the

 mercenary on the shoulder as he went by.

      Ragan fell flat when Ceneham touched him.

      Moya stifled a surprised scream.

      "Oh, yuk," added the squire.

      A short, thick bolt protruded from the back of Ragan's neck.

      Quickly pulling herself together, Moya stepped up to the body.

      "High Mage Tagir, if you please."

      Obligingly the magician allowed his light to fall over the wound,

 turning the  blood a  sickly shade  of purple. The  rest of  the party

 grouped  around the  priestess  as  she probed  around  the bolt  with

 skillful fingers.

      "There is nothing  I can do for him," she  pronounced finally. "I

 assume  that the  trap he  discovered  was set  off, as  there was  no

 indication of  someone about to shoot  him. The wound was  poisoned as

 soon as he was hit. Even if  I could have gotten to him immediately, I

 don't think I could have negated the poison."

      The party  was silent while  the nun  prayed over the  body, then

 Burgamy shrugged. "Means  a larger share of the treasure  for the rest

 of you. Let's go."

      Moya's  head snapped  around  at the  merchant's statement,  real

 anger in her  usually peaceful eyes. The rest of  the group walked out

 of the room  before she could say anything. Rather  than be left alone

 in the darkness, she completed her prayers and rose to leave.

      "Oh,  Lord, this  is a  difficult  path You  have set  for me  to

 follow. But follow it I shall, and bite my tongue about my companions,

 because I  need them to complete  Your holy task, to  Your everlasting

 glory. Go in peace Ragan." Making a gesture of blessing and another of

 reverence, she followed the ragged company down the hall.

      Several hours later  they grouped together in  the crumbling main

 hall. Shafts of  afternoon sunlight dribbled through  the ceiling that

 used to  be the second  story floor. No  sounds beyond that  which the

 party made themselves could be heard.

      Pickings had been  lean throughout the first floor.  A few pieces

 of old fashioned jewelry in questionable condition and a small pile of

 coins were all they had found  for many hours of searching. The second

 floor was  in ruins and  the likelyhood  of finding anything  of value

 there without a full salvage company was unlikely. Ragged bits of what

 might  have once  been  tapestries were  piled on  the  floor and  the

 furniture, not  particularly stable to  begin with but  salvageable as

 antiques, had  been all but  dismantled by the searchers.  Burgamy was

 not happy.

      "If you're trying to find  the main treasury," said Ceneham after

 the merchant  finished his stream  of complaints, "then  it's probably

 down with the cellars and the dungeons.

      "Underground?" squeaked the squire.

      "Where else, you twit?" Ceneham  cuffed the boy, sending him into

 a little heap on the moss  covered flagstones. "What's the matter? You

 afraid of the dark?"

      "No, my lord," Gindar mumbled.

      Tagir helped  the boy up. He'd  shut off his light  several hours

 ago,  pleading fatigue,  and now  carried a  torch just  like everyone

 else.

      "We can  give the  place a  cursory look  at least,"  said Tagir.

 "There's enough light for that. We  can investigate further if we find

 something."

      "That sounds like a satisfactory course of action," said Burgamy.

 "All right, Sir Knight, lead the way."

      Ceneham moved off and everyone  fell in behind, the squire taking

 up the rear.

      The passage  that led down  to the  cellars was in  better repair

 than the rest of the first  floor. Dust covered the stairs, where wind

 couldn't reach and  largish rocks were scattered  around like pebbles,

 but the walls were intact and the steps solid. The unsteady torchlight

 caused fungi and moss to glow an eerie pink.

      As they rounded the final corner into a small antechamber, a pile

 of  rubble  taller than  the  mage  loomed  up  to block  their  path.

 Apparently  part of  the roof  had given  way years  ago, choking  the

 corridor with dust and dropping the impressive pile in the path.

      Ceneham looked a little annoyed and the squire turned pale.

      "And  how do  you propose  we get  past that?"  Burgamy demanded,

 glaring at  the knight and  the mage.  "This was your  idea." Although

 ostesibly in charge  of the party, the merchant was  more than willing

 to let someone else  make the decisions so he could  pass the blame of

 failures off later. Ceneham glared back.

      "Allow  me," said  Tagir,  stepping forward  with  a flourish  of

 cloak. He pushed past  the knight and the merchant and  made a show of

 rolling up  his excessively full  sleeves. Muttering softly,  the mage

 made a  few obscure  gestures and started  shifting the  rubble aside,

 into smaller  bundles than  the amount  should have  been able  to fit

 into.

      The rest of the party stepped  as much aside as possible to allow

 him room to work.

      A pair  of heavy, jagged  boulders became visible as  the smaller

 loose debris was cleared away. Tagir  ended his first spell and took a

 deep breath. Moya observed him closely, out of professional curiosity.

      "I'll have  to shift the  rock straight up to  get it out  of the

 way," he declared. "You'll all have to move into the hall on the other

 side, so I'll have someplace to put it."

      "But how will we get back out?" asked Gindar, white faced.

      "There will  be room enough  to move  around the boulders  once I

 shift them  away from one another,"  said the mage smugly.  "Now stand

 back,  but be  ready to  run through  after I  move it."  He began  to

 gesture  and mutter  again.  After  a long  pause  one  of the  stones

 shuddered and began to rise. To  get it clear of the intended walkway,

 Tagir had to  levitate the rock over  his own head, which  he did with

 agonizing slowness.

      He nodded significantly  to the party as the  boulder reached the

 designated threshold  and watched  as they passed,  one by  one beyond

 him. Turning his his attention to the  place he wanted to put his rock

 in, he prepared to muster more power to do it.

      Then his eyes went wide as he spotted something on the stairs.

      It smiled at him, winked, then flickered into something else. And

 in that brief instant of Tagir's  shock, he lost control of the spell.

 The rock landed with heavy finality, tiny plumes of dust rising to the

 ceiling. The mage's four companions stared in silent horror and shock.

      Moya fell slowly to her knees and started offering the prayer for

 the dead.

      "What do  you think  went wrong?"  whispered Burgamy,  staring, a

 little glassy eyed at the dusty stone.

      "Perhaps it  got too  heavy," Ceneham said.  "He did  indicate it

 would be  difficult." He  didn't sound very  confident. Both  men knew

 that keeping the rock in the air was well within Tagir's powers.

      "The damned squirrel is back," declared the squire abruptly.

      The two  men looked to  where the  boy pointed. Atop  the boulder

 that had crushed  Tagir, the dark brown squirrel stared  down at them.

 Its tail twitched and it turned, vanishing into the shadows.

      Ceneham cuffed his squire again .

      "It wasn't important," he said sharply.

      "I think it would  be a good idea to go back up  and camp for the

 rest  of the  day," offered  Burgamy hesitantly.  To his  surprise the

 knight  nodded  in  agreement.  Ceneham touched  the  nun's  arm  with

 uncharateristic  gentleness  to get  her  attention  and repeated  the

 suggestion.

      Sister Moya started, looked up, then stood.

      "I think open air would be a good idea," she said quietly. "And I

 feel the need for purification."

      Strangely, the knight made none of his usual caustic remarks. The

 four  made  their  way  back  up the  narrow  stairway  and  into  the

 over-grown courtyard. By unspoken agreement,  no one wanted to shelter

 in the great hall. Their horses  and pack mules were still tethered by

 the remains of the fire.

      "If  nothing else,"  commented Burgamy  while Moya  purified more

 water for  the evening meal  and the squire polished  Ceneham's armor,

 "you'll get a larger share of the treasure."

      Moya actually stopped in the middle  of her prayers and turned to

 glare at  the merchant. "That  is the second  time that you  have said

 that," she said angrily. "There are two men dead and all you can think

 of is gold?"

      "Sister, I  don't know why  you came  along, but the  others were

 just treasure  hunters and  adventure addicts," said  Burgamy frankly,

 looking steadily at Moya's face for the first time during the journey.

 "They knew  the risks, just like  they knew the rewards,  so save your

 recriminations for the sinners and your pity for the masses. Ragan and

 Tagir knew  full well what  they were  getting into and  don't deserve

 your sympathy."

      "And  do you  feel  the same  way, Sir  Knight?"  Moya turned  to

 Ceneham, trying with  only moderate success to hide her  horror at the

 merchant's coldness.

      Ceneham looked  up from  peering over  his squire's  shoulder. "I

 agree with the merchant, Sister,"  he said calmly. "They were seasoned

 professionals. They  knew the potential consequences.  Save your worry

 and your prayers for the people who can benefit from them."

      Moya stared at the two men  for a minute more before turning back

 to her  pot of marsh  water. Anger smoldered  in her eyes.  She hadn't

 been prepared for such callousness when she undertook her holy journey

 and joined with these companions. Some of Moya's faith faltered as she

 listened to the camp sounds and knelt beside the pot.

      It took longer then usual to get fresh water that night.

      With  two of  their  party  members dead,  it  was necessary  for

 everyone, including Burgamy and Sister Moya,  to take a turn on guard.

 Gindar woke the merchant just after moon rise for the second watch. At

 the  knight's insistence,  he  carried the  squire's  short sword  for

 defense, and Ceneham's shield was leaned  against a log so it could be

 banged in case of an emergency.

      Barely  an hour  had passed  and  already Burgamy  was bored  and

 sleepy. Resolutely  he started wandering  around the perimeter  of the

 camp with a torch trying to stay  awake. He allowed his mind to wander

 a little with  thoughts of himself, Sister Moya, a  few common objects

 he kept around  his shop in town, and the  wonderful things they could

 do together.

      As he  made another  circle around  the tiny camp  a motion  by a

 boulder   caught  his   distracted  attention.   Burgamy  stopped   in

 mid-fantasy and mid-turn, gripping the short sword a little tighter in

 his sweaty palm.

      "Who's there?" he demanded hoarsely. As  far as he had seen, none

 of his companions had  gotten up or even moved since  the start of his

 watch.

      There was a  soft rustling of dry tipped marsh  grass and a woman

 stepped around the shadowed rock.

      She  was tall  and slender,  wearing nothing  except the  mane of

 red-brown hair that spilled over her  forehead and down her back. Pale

 moonlight silvered  her limbs from  behind and the  torches flickering

 yellow glow caused  shadows to dance on her taut  stomach and breasts.

 Her eyes were  fathomless black in the uncertain light.  She smiled at

 the merchant, revealing long, even teeth in the yellow torchlight.

      "How did you get here?"  Burgamy asked, cautiously moving closer.

 He wondered  if he had  dozed off during his  watch after all  and was

 having a better dream than chaste Moya could ever provide.

      The woman's smile deepened and she slipped around the rock with a

 ripple of heavy hair.

      "Hey! Come back here!"  Abruptly more confidant, Burgamy followed

 the elusive figure back into the first floor ruins.

      They found Burgamy's body laying in the middle of the great hall,

 stark naked,  without a mark  on him. His  clothing was nowhere  to be

 found and  no reason could be  found for him  to have come out  to the

 great hall.

      Sister Moya dropped her cloak over the body then blessed the dead

 man while the squire triumphantly declared; "I told you I woke him up.

 I didn't shirk my duty!"

      "Silence,  boy," growled  Ceneham, adding  another bruise  to the

 morning's set.  Gindar accepted the  cuff silently, and glared  at the

 knight after he turned away.

      "We'll need  to bury  him," said Moya  finally, gathering  up her

 skirts and standing.

      "We don't have the time," Ceneham  told her. "We need to find out

 what killed him."

      "We can't just leave him here!"

      "We don't  have a choice, Sister.  And you didn't seem  to have a

 problem with  leaving High  Mage Tagir  or Ragan, so  I don't  see the

 trouble now." Ceneham  turned away. "Now come on, if  you're coming. I

 want to check out that corridor where we lost the mage. The last thing

 we  need is  something trying  to  kill us  before we  can finish  our

 business here."  He marched off, calling  for his squire to  come help

 him with his armor.

      In the  silence of the great  hall, Moya again knelt  and settled

 herself to pray.

      "Highest," she whispered  softly. "I have erred. I did  not do my

 duty by my companions and thereby to  You in their hour of need. I beg

 Your  forgiveness. Whatever  they were  in life,  they are  Yours now,

 either cleansed  or damned.  Aid me  then, in granting  a last  bit of

 decency to their bodies, along with my prayers for their souls."

      A soft  white glow  grew around  Moya after  a few  seconds, then

 spread towards  the body  of Burgamy.  It touched  it and  leapt away,

 dividing itself to go to the lower level and Tagir's resting place and

 along the wall to where Ragan lay.

      For  an instant  the  glow became  incandescent,  then it  faded,

 leaving behind only Moya's dingy white cloak. The priestess opened her

 eyes and sighed deeply with fatigue. Only rarely did she try spells of

 such complexity, for just this reason. She spent a few more minutes in

 contemplation and prayer before getting up to join her companions.

      The dust  had settled in little  swirls around the rock  that had

 killed Tagir and the footprints  from yesterday were wiped clean away.

 Ceneham strode past without so much as  a glance down, but Moya made a

 gesture of blessing and warding and the squire went pale again.

      They edged past the offset boulders and down another short flight

 of stairs  to a  heavy door.  Time, in conjunction  with the  damp had

 warped the wood and turned the  brass binding a sickly shade of green.

 Cobwebs choked the corners of the frame and the ancient keyhole.

      Ceneham made a  quick survey of the barrier, then  held his torch

 back for  the squire  to take.  With several  powerful thrusts  of his

 mailed shoulder,  the door bent back  on its hinges, then  fell to the

 cobbled floor with a dull boom,  ripping the now useless crossbow trap

 out of the wall. Stale, musky air whispered up the corridor.

      Gindar jumped at the quick succession of sounds, and Moya winced.

 The knight took the torch back and stepped over the ruined planks into

 the  cellar. Pale  torchfire trebled  as  Moya and  the squire  joined

 Ceneham, reflecting  off dank  walls covered in  something flourescent

 and yellow. The  mold gathered the light and aided  in brightening the

 dim chamber.

      Chests were stacked along the walls, with tatterd, moldy bolts of

 cloth leaning against them. Something long  and wide lay in the center

 of the room, covered in oiled canvas.

      Gindar gasped softly.

      "I'd say that  we found the treasury,"  rumbled Ceneham, flipping

 open one of  the tattered lids. Leather bags, some  with holes worn in

 them, lay piled inside, and bits of gold and silver glinted through in

 the wan light.

      "I thought  we were looking  for what killed Burgamy,"  said Moya

 sharply.

      "You  thought wrong,  sister." Ceneham's  voice was  harsh. "He's

 dead, just  like the others.  If what came  after him comes  after us,

 I'll kill it. But until then,  it's stupid to go looking for trouble."

 He turned back  to opening the chests. Gindar joined  him, raising his

 torch high.

      Furious,  Moya  glared at  the  knight's  back, then  turned  and

 marched out of  the cellar. He was  a lost cause, and  she was worldly

 enough to realize this, but she didn't have to stay in his company.

      Ceneham didn't acknowledge the  nun's leave-taking except to note

 absently that there  was a little less light to  see by. He considered

 the holy woman to be little  more than a nuisince, useful only because

 with  her on  the expedition  they would  neither starve,  nor die  of

 wounds taken in  combat. As a result of the  sudden lessening of light

 and his slight preoccupation, Ceneham misjudged the composition of the

 next thing he  picked up. The little  box shattered in his  hand as he

 grasped it like one of the heavy leather bags.

      Marsh nuts scattered over the damp floor.

      "Ridiculous!"  Ceneham stared  at  his fistful  of splinters  and

 nuts. "Who the hell is stupid enough to keep nuts in boxes! Boy!"

      "Sir?" Gindar  appeared by  his elbow, trying  hard to  conceal a

 smile.

      "Leave that torch and go get some more. And that lantern the mage

 toted about with him. And make sure that damned nun didn't stray." The

 knight dusted  his hands  off and  his feet crunched  on shells  as he

 wandered around the cellar searching idly.

      Gindar quickly found two rusty  scones to deposit the torches in,

 then hurried  back up  the stairs  and into open  air. His  relief was

 indescribable.  He didn't  like  the  way the  shadows  moved in  that

 cellar. He'd never  really liked cellars in general, but  this one was

 worse than any of the others he'd been in.

      He trotted through the remains of  the great hall and back out to

 the  campsite where  Moya  knelt in  prayer. The  torch  she had  been

 carrying was stuck in the ground beside her, burning fitfully.

      "Run off, indeed," sniffed the  squire to himself. "She can't run

 off any more  than I can." In  her case, she didn't  have the survival

 skills, in his, Ceneham would find him,  no matter where he ran to and

 make him wish he'd died. "Soon," Gindar thought, grabbing a handful of

 unlit  torches, then  turning to  root though  the dead  mage's packs.

 "Soon, I'll know everything  he does and I'll be able  to do more than

 run." But  until that mythical time,  he would follow and  obey to the

 best of his ability.

      Arms filled with the lit and unlit torches and the battered metal

 lantern, Gindar made his reluctant way back down to the cellar.

      Moya was  started out  of her meditative  prayer by  the squire's

 paniced screaming, echoing from the guts  of the keep. She started up,

 stood uncertainly for  a second trying to place  the disturbance, then

 ran into the great hall.

      Gindar nearly ran  her down in his haste to  escape the crumbling

 walls. In his panic, he didn't recognize the hands that reached out to

 try and halt  his headlong flight. He struggled wildly  as Moya pulled

 him around and forced his back to a crumbling wall.

      "What is it?" she demanded, giving the boy a brisk shake. "What's

 happened?"

      It took a sharp slap to get anything coherent out of the boy.

      "C--C--Ceneham!" he stuttered out  finally. "He's dead! Ripped to

 pieces!"

      "Lord  above grant  us mercy,"  breathed Moya.  For a  second she

 wondered  what could  have been  big enough  to kill  the knight,  but

 silent enough not to disturb her or the squire. Keeping a firm hand on

 Gindar's  skinny wrists,  she  pulled  him back  down  to the  cellar,

 repeating like a litany that "God will protect us...God *will* protect

 us..."

      Sir Ceneham was  indeed dead, although he was not,  as Gindar had

 said, ripped to pieces.

      His breast  plate was  rent open,  not with the  clean cuts  of a

 sword, but by four jagged gashes, as though some other-planer creature

 had  tried seeking  his heart.  Beneath his  helm, Ceneham's  face was

 twisted into a mixture of fear and  surprise. His heavy sword lay in a

 far corner of the cellar--in two pieces.

      The only  other thing in the  room besides Moya, the  squire, the

 piles of  boxes, and the  cloth wrapped  bundle was a  squirrel busily

 stuffing  marsh nuts  into its  mouth. There  weren't any  signs of  a

 struggle.

      Gindar whimpered from where Moya had  left him by the door, then,

 with a  strangled sob, bolted  back up  the stairs. Moya  jumped after

 him,  clentching her  will against  the sickness  in her  stomach. The

 thought  uppermost in  her mind  was that  the boy  could not  survive

 alone. And neither could she.

      "Wait!"  she  shouted after  the  squire.  "If we  separate  were

 doomed!"

      But Gindar,  frightened and sickened beyond  hearing, didn't even

 slow down. Doggedly Moya followed him  through the great hall and past

 their camp. She hiked up her robes  as he charged blindly off into the

 swamp, continuing to call after him to wait.

      Branches and vines  tangled in her way, and the  smell of rotting

 leaves was kicked  up more strongly for the  pairs passing. Strangely,

 no  animals  were disturbed  by  their  charging blindly  through  the

 undergrowth.

      Moya lost the squire briefly in  the growing mist, and only found

 him again after he shouted in  surprise. She reoriented herself in the

 general direction the sound had emanated from, and ran after.

      She  came  upon him  suddenly.  Moya  stumbled  to a  halt,  then

 scrambled back a few steps as  her worn boots began sinking into black

 mud.

      Gindar  floundered  in a  mud  pit,  his paniced  thrashing  only

 drawing him  deeper under the  sticky mud.  His screaming was  all but

 incoherent from  terror. Moya  cast about for  something to  throw the

 boy, calling platitudes  all the while, but by the  time she turned up

 with a branch long enough to  reach him, Gindar's head was beneath the

 mud's slick  surface. A hand  grasped briefly, futilely at  the knobby

 root Moya  extended, but despite the  nun's impassioned encouragement,

 he was never able to catch hold.

      The last of  Sister Moya's companions sank out  of sight, without

 so much as a bubble to show where he'd gone under.

      For several long minutes the nun  stared at the patch of mud that

 now looked no  more dangerous than any other patch  of cleared ground.

 Then she dropped the root and went to her knees.

      "How could You do this to  me, oh Lord," she moaned, rocking back

 and forth  without even realizing it.  "How could You do  this to Your

 faithful, on Your holy quest? How? Was I unworthy? How? Why? How did I

 fail You? How?"

      Moya  kept repeating  this, and  variations until  it was  nearly

 dark. Night sounds and something hitting  the back of her head finally

 roused her to partial reality.

      She coughed, voice raw from her prayers and tears, then jerked as

 another nut  bounced off her  arm and landed  in the moss  beside her.

 Bemused, the nun stumbled to her  feet. "Must get back to camp..." she

 mumbled. "Complete  holy service...keep vow...at the  keep..." And she

 tottered off, deeper into the dusky, glowing swamp.

                           To Be Continued

                                 by

                          Michelle Brothers

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              **

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      (C)   Copyright   October,   1992,  DargonZine,   Editor   Dafydd

 <White@DUVM>. All rights revert to  the authors. These stories may not

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