From: "Avid Reader - Fledgling Writer" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 12 May 92 10:31:22 EDT

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   D     D A  A R  R G    O  O N N N     Z   I N N N E     || Volume 3
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   D    D  AAAA RRR  G GG O  O N N N   Z     I N N N E     ||  Issue 6
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 --   DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 6        05/04/90          Cir 984    --
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 --                            Contents                                --
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  DAG                          Dafydd Cyhoeddwr       Editor
  Materia Medica IV            Max Khaytsus and
                               Michelle Brothers      Yuli 24-30, 1013
  Hunting of the Red Tiger I   Wendy Hennequin        Neber 1013
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1                         Dafydd's Amber Glow
                   by Ye Olde Editor, Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
                  (b.c.k.a. <[email-masked]>)

      This editorial will be brief. I just wanted to make you all aware
 that there is (finally!) a source  for back issues of DargonZine other
 than myself. I had wanted to test out the access method before telling
 you all about it, and just received the results of that test today. In
 the interest of getting an issue out  (it has been over a month, after
 all), I  decided not to  put a lengthy  description about this  here -
 look for a longer DAG next  issue (out next Friday, if everything goes
 well)  which will  describe everything  you  need to  know about  this
 archive service  (or at least  as much as I  know). If you  are really
 anxious to know,  you can send me  a mail message at  either the above
 address  or the  one in  the  copyright notice  at the  end (they  are
 equivalent in every respect) about it  and I will send you the updated
 DargonZine Info file which has this information in it.
      Thanks for waiting and Enjoy!

                       Dafydd Cyhoeddwr

 P.S. Wish me happy birthday - I break three decades on Sunday!
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1                            Materia Medica
                                Part 4
                             by Max Khaytsus
               <b.c.k.a. [email-masked]>
                          and Michelle Brothers
               <b.c.k.a. [email-masked]>

      "I just  don't understand  why he didn't  come back  last night,"
 repeated  Kera for  the fifth  time since  they had  started out  from
 Connall Keep, less than two hours ago. "Or at least send a message. If
 he was going to be late he would have sent a messenger back...wouldn't
 he?" The nagging  feeling that something dire had  happened crept into
 her worried commentary.
      "I am certain he is all  right," said Ittosai patiently, also for
 the fifth time. "Merely detained."
      Dawn had just  broken when Kera went to Myrande  to tell her that
 Rien hadn't made it back during  the night, declaring her intention to
 go after him  as soon as her  horse was saddled. Sable  had managed to
 convince her to wait long enough to have Ittosai go with her as both a
 companion and  an escort in case  of trouble. Not for  the first time,
 Myrande thanked god that the Castellan rose early.
      As the pair came within sight  of Dargon's walls, Kera pulled the
 hood of her heavy cloak up so  that her face was hidden in its shadowy
 folds. Ittosai gave her a questioning look.
      "There are some  people in Dargon who would be  happy to know I'm
 back," Kera explained  evasively. "I don't have the time  to be making
 social calls."
      Hiding a faint smile, Ittosai inclined his head in understanding.
 A few minutes later they rode through the main gates of Dargon.
      Kera was able to get them to the inn that she and Rien had stayed
 at in  record time. With  the strong, comforting presense  of Ittosai,
 she felt  safe enough to take  a few short-cuts and  her companion did
 not feel the need to ask how  she knew the routes, for which the thief
 gave silent thanks.
      "Have you seen  my companion?" Kera demanded  breathlessly of the
 innkeeper, as soon  as she was inside the inn,  while Ittosai tethered
 the horses.
      The man  started and  looked quickly  up from  the ledger  he was
 leafing  through. "Your  companion,  miss?" he  said,  looking at  her
 blankly.
      "He was supposed to be here last night," continued Kera. "To pick
 up our belongings. We were staying  in room three," she added when the
 man continued to look questioningly at her.
      "Ah, yes, that  gentleman. Taller than him," the  innkeep waved a
 hand  at Ittosai  as he  was  coming through  the door  to join  Kera.
 "Blond, slender,  long blue  cloak?" Kera  nodded eagerly.  "Showed up
 yesterday evening with plans to move out.  Asked me to get him a horse
 and went upstairs, but  never came back down. I managed  to find him a
 good horse, too," he hinted, but  before he finished, Kera was halfway
 up the stairs with Ittosai hot on her heels.
      The door to the room she and Rien had shared was closed, but when
 Kera tried to  push it open, it was unlocked.  Suspicious, because the
 caution  she  and her  mentor  habitually  practiced included  locking
 doors, Kera  pushed the  door open. Behind  her, Ittosai  loosened his
 sword in its scabbard, anticipating trouble.
      The door opened with a low groan.
      Light peeked through  the cracks in the shutters and  Kera took a
 second to  allow her eyes to  adjust to the dimness  before cautiously
 entering  the  room. She  glanced  hastily  around, seeking  intruders
1before her gaze was caught by a figure lying sprawled on the bed.
      With a  soft curse, Kera  stepped over  and rolled the  body onto
 it's back.  Rien's hand,  the fingertips stained  a dull  red, flopped
 over the edge of the mattress.
      "How is  he?" asked Ittosai softly  as Kera checked to  see if he
 was breathing.
      "Alive,"  she replied  after  a  moment. She  shook  Rien, in  an
 attempt to revive  him, but got no reaction. She  tried again, harder,
 with the  same result.  "He's alive," Kera  repeated grimly.  "But not
 much else. We should get him back to Marcellon as soon as we can." She
 pulled her pouch off of her belt and offered it to Ittosai. "Would you
 please pay for the room and that horse? I'll get him ready to go."
      Ittosai accepted the money with a slight bow and a look of gentle
 sympathy and disappeared down the hall. Kera stared at Rien's immobile
 form and bit her lip to keep  the tears back. `This is hardly the time
 to be losing control,' she thought  to herself firmly. `You said you'd
 get him ready, so do it.'
      She gathered their possessions  together first and carefully tied
 them into as compact bundles as she could, hoping that Rien would wake
 up while she  worked. Yet, when she finished, he  still hadn't stirred
 at all.
      With  a sigh,  Kera grabbed  Rien's arm  to attempt  to haul  him
 upright so that when it came time to carry him downstairs, he would be
 easier to pick  up. With a great  deal of effort, she was  able to get
 him upright -- Rien was not nearly so light as he appeared -- and then
 dropped  him as  a  low scraping  noise caused  her  to turn  quickly,
 reaching for her daggers.
      Rien hit the  rough wood floor with a loud  crash, Kera's attempt
 at grabbing him  coming too late. Ittosai, who had  startled Kera with
 his return, ducked inside and joined  her at her mentor's side. Rien's
 eyelids flickered and he slowly opened them to look up at the pair.
      "Rien...Rien! Are you all right?"  Kera asked, helping him into a
 sitting position from behind.
      "I'm fine," Rien said  after a moment. He put a  hand to the back
 of his head,  where it had hit the  floor. "Or rather, I will  be in a
 bit."  His glance  was caught  by  the red  on his  fingertips and  he
 studied them curiously as Kera let loose a flood of questions.
      "Why didn't you send back  a message?" she demanded. "Who knocked
 you out? Why couldn't  I wake you up, what happened  to your horse and
 are you sure you're all right?"
      Ittosai  simply  knelt opposite  him  and  observed him  quietly,
 prepared to offer Kera a hand should Rien collapse again.
      "I didn't send a message because I hadn't planned on being late,"
 Rien said sharply,  pulling his gaze away from his  fingers. "That's a
 foolish question  to ask." Kera  flushed and Rien  continued. "Someone
 stole my horse, just after I got into town," he said slowly. "I'm sure
 I'll recall the  circumstances later. Did the innkeep  find me another
 horse?" he asked suddenly, as though just remembering that he had made
 the request.
      Ittosai nodded. "It is a fine animal," he said. "Light cavalry. I
 have paid for  it and your room."  He offered Kera back  her pouch and
 she absently took it back.
      `Cavalry?' Rien thought.  `I just wanted a  horse...' "Thank you,
 Castellan," he said  aloud. Ittosai bowed and Rien looked  down at his
 hands again. "You couldn't wake me, Kera, because I forced myself into
 a jashch," -- she wondered how he  managed to get all those sounds out
 without damaging his tongue -- "it's a trance like state that isolates
 me from  normal bodily  control. I  assume I  was poisoned,"  he said,
 looking up once again. "My senses failed me completely."
      "Are you all  right? Who would do something like  that? Where did
1it happen?" Kera burst into a string of questions again.
      "I told you already,  I'm fine. I don't know who  did it or where
 or how. It just happened."
      "Could  it...could  it  have   been  the  disease?"  asked  Kera,
 swallowing hard.
      "Possibly," Rien said, frowning. "I'm not sure..." He looked back
 to his hand. "I'm sure this is somehow involved," he indicated the red
 stain.
      "We need to  return to Lord Marcellon,"  said Ittosai decisively.
 "He will know. Are you well enough to travel?"
      "Yes."
      "Then let's get moving!" declared Kera, grabbing the bundles that
 contained her's and Rien's possessions. She headed for the door.
      With Ittosai's help,  Rien walked out of the inn  and mounted his
 newly purchased horse. They left for Connall Keep immediately.

      "That  was indeed  nightshade," Marcellon  said putting  away the
 beakers after pouring out the solutions he used. "You say your race is
 immune to the effects of the plant?"
      Rien nodded. "They are. I am surprised it had this effect on me."
      "Have you tried it before? Was there a reaction?"
      "No, I  never tried it  before," Rien said.  "At least not  to my
 knowledge and not deliberately."
      "But you are half human..."  Marcellon stroked his chin absently,
 staring at nothing in particular. "You could have a different reaction
 to it, especially  now that you have the disease  to worry about. This
 is the most positive proof that some changes have taken place. Do your
 people respond to it as a narcotic?"
      "No. It's a simple forest grass."
      "None the  less," the wizard went  on, "it was nightshade  and it
 did affect you as a hallucinogen."
      "At  least it's  not  the  disease," Kera  sighed.  She had  been
 seriously concerned  the entire morning, even  after Marcellon assured
 her that it  could not be the  disease, and only now  was beginning to
 relax.
      "Young lady," Marcellon looked over  at her. "What happened today
 stressed the one  factor which we all should be  concerned about. Rien
 is  neither human,  nor Ljosalfar.  In him  the disease  may take  any
 course  imaginable. For  all  I  know, he  may  display more  symptoms
 tomorrow morning than you will in the next month. He is one of a kind.
 There is no precedent for what we are dealing with."
      Kera shuddered at  the images the wizard invoked  with his words,
 as he  turned back to Rien.  Visions of Rien mutating  into a wolfling
 were fore-most  in her mind as  the wizard continued talking  with her
 mentor.
      "This still leave the question of who poisoned you."
      "Over all, I see Dargon as a friendly town..."
      "Any  people  in town  who  may  for  some reason  dislike  you?"
 Marcellon persisted.
      "None that I could think of, sir," Rien answered.
      "Even the men you rescued Kera from?"
      Damn, he  had a good memory!  "I would imagine they  are still in
 custody of  the guard. Penalties  for armed assault are  stiff...and I
 doubt  they had  the knowledge  to  make the  poison or  the money  to
 purchase it."
      "Very well," Marcellon  nodded. "One last question.  You said you
 forced yourself to pass out. Could you elaborate on that?"
      Rien  gave the  question some  thought. To  him it  was something
 natural, but  equating it to  human norms  would be a  difficult task.
 "Sometimes after  sustaining injuries humans  go into shock,"  he said
1finally. "This reflex  is triggered by pain or perhaps  loss of blood.
 Jashch is similar  to that. It protects from  unwanted sensations, but
 it can be triggered by a conscious  effort. It is in a way opposite of
 going into  shock. The action  is controlled  at the start,  but while
 humans recover  on their own,  I would have  to be `removed'  from the
 condition forcibly."
      Kera lowered her eyes as Marcellon looked at her.
      "And you dropped him. On his head."
      She nodded. "It was an accident..."
      "Otherwise  I would  probably still  be unconscious,"  Rien said,
 feeling the lump on the back of his head, and grinning as Kera flushed
 a deeper shade of red.
      "The condition isn't permanent, is  it?" the wizard asked. "There
 must be other ways to regain consciousness."
      "Hunger would have woken me up,"  Rien said, "but that could take
 a while."
      "Very  well,"  Marcellon stood  up.  "That  satisfies all  of  my
 curiosity for  the moment. Let  me return to my  work and I  shall see
 both of you at dinner."
      Rien and Kera stood up as well.
      "By  the way,"  Marcellon stopped  them before  they reached  the
 door. "Rien, an old friend of  mine, someone I attended the University
 in Magnus  with, will be stopping  by here in a  day or two. He  is an
 archivist. I am sure he would be interested in meeting with you. Would
 you object?"
      "Not at all," Rien answered and  promptly left with Kera. "I hope
 his friend isn't as  strange as he is," Rien said  as they walked down
 the hall. "He asks far too many questions."
      "You lied to him, you know," Kera said. "You said you didn't have
 enemies in town."
      "Morality from  you? Is  profession of thievery  becoming moral?"
 Rien jested.  "I did not lie.  I stretched the truth,  emphasized some
 misleading facts,  but it  was not  a lie.  He suspected  someone from
 Dargon attempted to  poison me. I believe it was  someone from outside
 of Dargon."
      "Huh?"
      "I told him it was not an individual from Dargon who did this."
      "You know who it was?"
      "No, but I  suspect. The innkeeper told me an  elderly woman came
 around  asking for  me. The  lock to  the room  was jammed.  Marcellon
 established beyond doubt that the  poison was administered through the
 hand." He  displayed for Kera the  still visible red stain.  "I assume
 that  the old  woman, very  likely a  witch from  Maari's coven,  came
 around and set up the `trap'  for me, most likely expecting the poison
 to kill  me. It would  have to be  left on a  surface that I  would be
 guaranteed to touch...such  as the door. The lock  was probably jammed
 so that my exposure would increase."
      "Very convincing," Kera said.
      "So, as you can see, I did not lie. I simply did not tell him the
 whole truth. If he  or the Baron were to learn  the truth about Liriss
 or Maari, our position could  become compromised. In either case, this
 convinced me  that Dargon is far  too dangerous for us.  The sooner we
 can leave, the better it will be."
      "Could it have been Liriss's assassin?"
      "I doubt  Liriss would  hire someone's  grandmother to  kill us,"
 Rien smiled. "Usually grandmothers are self-motivated."
      A laugh escaped from Kera's mouth.
      "I would imagine that the assassin  is looking for us in Tench by
 now. He will track us here eventually, but we will be gone by the time
 he figures out where we went...I hope."
1     They walked in silence  to the door of one of  the rooms given to
 them, considering all  the dangers that waited  to present themselves,
 then Rien  turned to Kera  once again. "I do  have a question  for you
 about Liriss. When I made it to Dargon yesterday, I went by the docks,
 including Liriss's pier. Three men were  trying to drown a girl there.
 She was your age, perhaps a bit younger. About five foot, light frame,
 light brown hair, amber eyes... She's  the reason my horse was stolen.
 I stopped  to help her out  and I think  she took it. Does  that sound
 familiar?"
      "Sorry. I never had a horse stolen like that." Kera grinned. "And
 no one  I know is into  horse theft. It's too  hard to get rid  of the
 goods."
      Rien glared down at her. "It's not funny. Do you know the girl?"
      Kera shook her head. "I was the youngest one. His ward, in fact,"
 she added bitterly.
      Rien  continued,  not really  hearing  the  last part  of  Kera's
 comment.
      "I've seen those eyes before..."

      "I'm very glad that you were willing to make this record with me,
 Rien. It  will be invaluable  for future generations. Perhaps  we will
 even stop fearing your people because of this."
      Rish Vogel  made himself  comfortable in  the Baron's  chair and,
 placing an ink well with a goose  quill on the desk, pulled out a long
 rolled up sheet of parchment.
      Rien watched  as the old  chronicaler set everything  up, opening
 pots of ink, pulling out extra pens from a small box engraved with the
 quill and  scroll of the Archivist  Guild, laying out a  blotter and a
 large pile of  clean parchment. Vogel came across as  a man completely
 dedicated to  his profession;  perhaps so  much so  that he  seemed to
 forget  everything else,  although  he never  forgot information  that
 applied  to  his craft.  He  even,  to  Rien's  mind, dressed  like  a
 historian should --  long brown robe with the crumbs  of his last meal
 clinging to the front, worn belt  with additional quills, a jar of ink
 and several small rolls of parchment  dangling from it. Rien had asked
 the reason for the extra equipment and had been told flatly that after
 being caught without paper and having to record a very important event
 on a napkin in wine, Rish had  vowed to never be caught without proper
 tools again.  Hanging the items  from his belt  was his way  of making
 sure that they were on hand at all times. Rien found this to be highly
 amusing.
      He had  agreed to the interview  only because he believed  in the
 chronicler's desire to have the unknown recorded for later generations
 of  people. And  he  hoped,  like Rish,  that  this information  would
 someday lead to friendly contact between the two races.
      "Now," Rish dipped the quill in  the ink well and poised his hand
 over the page. "Your name?"
      "Could  we  set  a  few   `house  rules'  first?"  Rien  remained
 motionless in the middle of the room.
      Rish looked  up, without  actually moving  his head,  then jotted
 down a  few words.  The chronicaler was  actually writing  every word!
 Rien frowned.
      "If  you insist,"  Rish said,  "but I  intend on  making this  an
 accurate record."
      "First of all, this record is  for your and the Duke's reference.
 No one else is to see it."
      Rish nodded and set his pen to the paper again.
      "You will not use my name  or make any specific descriptions that
 relate directly  to me. After  today, you do not  know me. Nor  will I
 make any specific references to names,  places, or dates to protect my
1tribe."
      Rish  mouthed the  last few  words as  finished writing  them and
 looked up. "Understood. How old are you?"
      Rien hesitated. That was a very personal question, but it was not
 something  that could  compromise him  in  the long  run. The  bookish
 chronicaler was not breaking `the rules' and was still getting as much
 information as he could. Rien could see why Rish was able to make such
 complete  records --  he  knew  which questions  to  ask. Still,  Rien
 temporized. "Over  a century," was  all he permitted the  historian to
 write down.
      Rish  began writing  again. "I  understand that  your people  are
 immortal," he said,  his pen scratching over the  paper, recording his
 own question.
      "We are not  immortal," Rien said. "Not in the  true sense of the
 word, anyway. We do have long lifespans and in our recorded history no
 Ljosalfar  has died  of old  age,  but we  do die."  Rien's voice  was
 somber. "We suffer from disease and accidents just like humans. And we
 can be slain just as easily."
      Rish paused  to dip the  quill in to the  ink again. "How  do you
 live?"
      "I personally?"
      Rish looked  up, irritated  that Rien could  not handle  a simple
 question. "How does the society function?"
      "We  function  as  a  tribe  with  a  central  leader,  but  each
 individual, once they come of age, has a voice in making the decisions
 that effect the tribe as a whole. For example, the leader might settle
 a dispute  between two people, but  if there is a  question of whether
 the  tribe  should  move  elsewhere  to winter,  it  is  discussed  by
 everyone." Rien  drew a deep  breath and continued as  the chronicaler
 finished  writing his  last sentence.  "We  don't have  a money  based
 economy. Barter is the usual  method of distributing goods and skills.
 There are no  social classes. Everyone helps to take  care of everyone
 else and no one goes hungry. We have no crime and--"
      "No crime?" Rish interrupted Rien, looking up sharply. From years
 of ingrained habit he used the opportunity to get more ink on his pen.
      "There are very few of my race left," Rien said. "We can't afford
 to hurt each other. There are plenty of outsiders who do that for us."
      "No crime at  all," Rish repeated musingly, jotting  down a quick
 notation on  the bottom of the  page so that he  could cross-reference
 the statement with other records at a later date.
      "Practically none,"  Rien conceded. "There are  recorded cases of
 individuals being cast out, but they are few and far between, and none
 of them recent.  The idea of consciously stealing from  your sister or
 harming your  brother is as  foreign to us as  the concept of  lack of
 crime is to you."
      Rish pulled  the ink  well closer, not  quite satisfied  with the
 response, but knowing  that he would get nothing else  on the subject.
 "From what you said, I assume your tribe is very closely knit...?"
      "Yes."
      "Were you cast out?"
      That hit a sensitive nerve.  "No," Rien said, forcing himself not
 to snap. "My father was human. I wanted to explore his world."
      Rish  kept  scribbling  along, not  noticing  Rien's  discomfort.
 "`Keegan' is a human name. Was that the surname of your father?"
      Rien did not answer and the  chronicaler looked up. "I am sorry."
 he said,  looking a little abashed.  "We did have an  agreement..." He
 was about to say something else, but Rien spoke.
      "It's the name  of the man who trained me.  He recommended I take
 it as  two names are  expected in your society.  I was honored  by his
 offer, so I accepted the name."
1     Rish nodded and bent his head to the page again. "Can you tell me
 the early history of  your people? And do sit down.  This won't go any
 faster if you stand!"

      Kera sat up  in bed with a  ear piercing scream. She  was in cold
 sweat and  out of instinct  she tried to  dodge the arms  reaching for
 her. She slammed into  Rien who was lying next to  her, to avoid being
 grabbed.
      "A dream..." she muttered to  herself, realizing no one was after
 her. She  tossed her hair back  over her shoulder and  wiped the sweat
 from her face.  It was chilly in  the room, cooler than  usual for the
 summer and  Kera pulled the blanket  up. It was strange,  she thought,
 that Rien hadn't responded when she hit him. Usually he was more alert
 than that...
      She turned to look at her  companion, expecting to find him still
 asleep, but instead  found herself staring into  unfamiliar eyes. Next
 to her lay a beast -- she could think of no better word to describe it
 -- with grey-white  fur, extended dog-like jaws and large  ears at the
 top of  the skull. The  jaws were  partially open, displaying  rows of
 snow-white teeth, four  of which stood prominently at  the front, each
 half the length of her index finger. The creature stared hungrily into
 her eyes  and she realized that  one of its hands  was clamped tightly
 around her wrist.
      Kera tried to  pull her arm back, but the  creature prevented her
 from withdrawing.  Instead the grip  tightened further and,  using her
 for leverage, it  sat up. Kera tried to scream,  but her voice refused
 to obey her. Instead of a  shout, a small whimpering noise escaped her
 throat. The  creature's lips  pulled back in  a viscous  smile, tongue
 lolling out of it's mouth.
      "Let me go..." she managed to whisper.
      The creature responded by forcing her onto her back, its strength
 so  great  that Kera  found  herself  unable to  struggle  effectively
 against it.
      "You will be  like me," she heard Rien's voice,  issuing from the
 creature's throat without accompanying jaw movement. "You will be like
 me," she heard again and this time  the mouth moved, the voice a rough
 parody of Rien's usually gentle voice.
      She felt its fur against her chest  as it moved to loom over her.
 "No..." she screamed, fear finally forcing the words out.
      "Like me..." the phrase was  repeated again, the words distorted,
 barely recognizable. The claws on the arms that held her dug deep into
 her wrists, piercing the skin and  bringing up trickles of blood, even
 as her hands went numb.
      "I don't want to be like you!" Kera shouted out at the top of her
 lungs, twisting beneath the heavy body with a last burst of strength.
      "Be like who?" the form above her asked. The voice was strict and
 concerned -- Rien's.
      "Like you!" she shouted again and continued to struggle. She felt
 cold and wet  and angry at being restrained, but  above all lurked the
 fear of the creature above her. She bit into the arm holding her right
 wrist and it  was released immediately. Her next thought  was to punch
 up and  she did.  The figure  over her  swayed from  the blow  and she
 continued to  hit at it, to  drive it away.  "I don't want to  be like
 you!"
      "Stop it!" Rien's voice sounded again, this time a lot closer and
 a hand locked around her free wrist once more. "Kera! Wake up!"
      She stopped the struggle long enough to look up. Rien was leaning
 over  her, holding  on to  her arms.  "It's only  a dream.  Relax." He
 pulled  her up  to a  sitting position  and cradled  her protectively.
 "It's going to be all right."
1     Kera stared to cry softly.
      "I wouldn't want you to be like me," she heard him say. "You'd be
 boring."
      The door burst open and two  guards rushed in. One held a readied
 sword and the  other a burning torch.  "Let go of her!"  the first man
 ordered Rien.
      "She had a nightmare," Rien  responded, drawing one of the sheets
 around Kera's shoulders. She was  cold, covered with sweat and shaking
 from the dream she just had and on top of all that, clammy. It was the
 last that Rien objected to the most, as he held her.
      "Let go of her," the guard repeated, not sure what to believe. "I
 want to hear that she is fine from her."
      Rien  sat up  straight, holding  onto Kera's  shoulders. She  was
 still sobbing. "Are you all right?" he asked softly.
      "I'm fine," she said, wiping the  tears from her eyes. "Really, I
 am," she finished, turning to face the two guards.
      "We'll be  in the hall if  you need anything," said  the man with
 the  torch while  the  other  glared at  Rien  and  they stepped  back
 outside, pulling the door closed.
      Rien turned back to Kera who was still shivering.
      "Are you  sure that you're all  right?" he asked, holding  her by
 the shoulders and staring intently into her eyes.
      "I'll be  fine," Kera replied.  She wiped  the last of  the tears
 from her cheeks. "It was just a nightmare...I dreamed...I dreamed that
 you had changed into a..." She choked on the last part of the sentence
 and Rien pulled her close again.
      "It's all right," he said,  stroking her hair. "I haven't changed
 into anything yet and Marcellon will find  a cure so see that I don't,
 ever."
      "I hope he can," whispered Kera.
      Rien held  her until she finally  fell asleep, and stared  at the
 wall for a long time afterwards.

      "Sir Keegan?  The High Mage  wishes to  see you right  away." The
 summons came right  after a quick knock on the  partially open door to
 Baron Connall's study.
      Rien frowned.  Rish must have already  let it slip that  he was a
 knight. At least he hadn't tell the chronicler much more than that. He
 closed the  book he was  reading and stood up.  "Thank you. I  will be
 right there."
      The guard left  the room and Rien  got up to replace  the book on
 the shelf.  Baron Connall,  it seemed, was  very preoccupied  with the
 `art'  of war,  but then  again so  were most  other Humans.  For some
 reason  the  society was  more  interested  in perfecting  methods  of
 fighting, claiming all  the while that those preparations  did more to
 insure  peace  than  any  other   occupation.  It  struck  Rien  as  a
 hypocritical  view, but  how could  one argue  that a  whole race  was
 misinformed?
      Rien  made his  way  to Marcellon's  laboratory.  The wizard  was
 talking with Myrande  and Kera and there was some  sense of excitement
 about. Rien closed the door and came  up to the group. He noticed Kera
 trying to hold back a smile.
      "I believe that I have solved it," Marcellon told Rien and Kera's
 smile finally burst free.
      "You did it?" Rien asked, just to make sure he heard it right, in
 spite of Kera's  expression indicating the question  was useless. "You
 found a cure?"
      "I  believe   I  did,"   Marcellon  said  again.   "Believe,"  he
 re-emphasized the  word as Rein started  to develop a smile  much like
 his apprentice's.  "Kera is still capable  of seeing in the  dark, but
1there is  no other  evidence of  the disease in  her body.  The change
 appears to  be a permanent  physical alteration,  but just in  case it
 decides to reverse itself, I would like  to observe her for a few more
 days."
      Kera jumped  off the stool  she was sitting  on with a  laugh and
 embraced Rien, eyes shining.
      "Ah!"  Marcellon grabbed  hold of  her arm  and pulled  her back.
 "Stay away from him.  He's still sick. I want to  be positive that you
 don't become ill again through contact with him."
      Reluctantly Kera returned  to the stool, the  happy sparkle still
 in her eyes. Rien found her good  humor to be contagious and was still
 smiling as Marcellon turned back to him.
      "Now," said the  wizard, leaning up against the  table's edge. "I
 have a good idea what the cure is. We will definitely know tomorrow if
 it is a hundred percent effective.  Meanwhile I would like to begin on
 you."
      The High Mage began his work. Kera remained in her seat, watching
 the  now familiar  procedure, until  Marcellon told  her to  leave the
 laboratory, as contests  were the only spectator activity  of which he
 approved.
      Annoyed, Kera left the laboratory  and wandered around the public
 areas of the keep, trying to find  something to do. After five days in
 the laboratory, wistfully thinking of all the things she would like to
 do, she had no idea of what should actually be done with the free time
 she  suddenly  gained.  If  nothing  else,  she  could  use  the  time
 productively,  Kera decided  finally.  She  went up  to  her room  and
 unpacked the bow that Rien had purchased  for her a week ago. Going to
 the stables Kera told the servant she  was going for a ride and, after
 saddling her horse, left the keep.
      She followed  the road as it  passed by the keep's  wall, turning
 south-west,  then took  the road  that turned  sharply north,  heading
 towards the coast line. In an hour  the evergreens gave way to a broad
 leaf forest and  Kera turned off the  road to a small  side trail. She
 dismounted a fair  distance from the trail, strung her  bow and, after
 securing the horse, went in search of game.
      The  day was  warm and  sunny and  Kera had  no problems  finding
 something to  shoot at.  She spotted  a fat magpie  perched on  a tree
 branch and after a moment of aiming, released the arrow.
      The missile passed  just over the bird, crashing  into the leaves
 in the  upper branches and finally  fell back to the  ground. The bird
 took the hint  at the first sign of trouble  and flew away. Retrieving
 the arrow  with a  muttered curse,  Kera went  further down  the path,
 hoping the next shot she took would be more effective.
      Scrambling up  a small hill, she  sat down and looked  around the
 forest. It was filled with life. Up above birds flew back and forth at
 the tops of  the trees, but Kera  would not even dare  shooting one in
 mid-flight. She spotted a squirrel and took aim, but immediately began
 to  feel sorry  for the  little  animal, peacefully  nibbling on  some
 forest fruit. What if she were to get lucky and hit it? She sighed and
 replaced the  arrow she held in  the quiver on her  back. The squirrel
 happily snapped  its tail and  kept on eating.  Kera smiled at  it and
 climbed down the other side of the hill.
      The slope here was much rockier and steeper and it took Kera much
 longer to  go the same  distance to the  forest floor. The  woods here
 took a  darker appearance, the  broad leafed trees once  again merging
 with pines.
      Kera looked around. On a second glance the forest wasn't all that
 different. The birds were still high above  in the trees and a pair of
 squirrels chased each other around a particularly large stump.
      Kera wandered  a little deeper  into the  forest. One pine  had a
1natural discoloration that looked like  a rabbit and Kera drew another
 arrow, thinking  that an inanimate target  would be as good  as a live
 one. She drew the  string back to her ear, as Rien  had taught her and
 let the  arrow fly. Missing  its intended  target, the arrow  struck a
 tree a few feet back.
      Kera threw the bow down in anger and marched over the the tree to
 get the arrow  back. Rien ordered these arrows after  they returned to
 Dargon a  week ago.  They were  normal except  for the  fletching that
 permitted  the  arrow to  fly  straighter  and different  color  rings
 painted around the shaft, each two finger breadth apart.
      The arrow was  stuck in the trunk  up to the third  ring and Kera
 quickly realized that the arrow was  stuck in there for good, at least
 as far as her strength was  concerned. She kicked the tree and stomped
 off in anger. After some time of  pacing Kera once again picked up the
 bow and  tried shooting  the tree  again. This  time the  arrow lodged
 itself just  above the  target and  did not  go in  far enough  to get
 stuck.
      Kera  practiced for  an hour  longer and  finally felt  competent
 enough to shoot at reasonably large, stationary target.
      She  returned  to her  horse  and  continued north,  towards  the
 Akmeron Ocean, in  search of large game. By  mid-afternoon she reached
 the north shore without seeing anything  larger than a raccoon. It was
 as if the  whole forest knew she  was ready to shoot  and was avoiding
 her. Broadleaf  trees gave  way to  pale yellow  sand and  crisp waves
 making their  way towards shore.  A faint  hint of salt  permeated the
 air, distinct from the cool, earthy smells of the wood.
      She hopped off the horse and  lead it west along the sandy shore.
 At first  the animal complained at  its hooves sinking into  the sand,
 but soon got used to it and followed her obediently.
      Off in the distance  Kera noticed a man on top  of a horse coming
 towards her. She  slowed her pace, moving closer to  the water line to
 give  him room  to pass.  As  they got  closer, she  got the  dreadful
 feeling that she knew the man approaching  her and drew up the hood of
 the cloak, hoping she was not recognized.
      As  the  two  got  closer,  the man  jumped  off  his  horse  and
 approached Kera. "Haven't seen you in a long while," he greeted.
      "Yeah,  a  long while,"  Kera  stopped,  her fears  of  discovery
 realized.
      The man left his horse behind and walked over to her. "Where have
 you been for the last two months?"
      "Tench."
      "Kera, don't give me that look. Liriss is really mad about you!"
      Kera did not expect any less. "That's his problem, isn't it?"
      "You're going to come back with me and tell him that yourself."
      "Keep dreaming, Garold,"  said Kera coldly. "I'm not  going to do
 anything to further your career!"
      "You're coming back with me, whether  you want to or not! Even if
 I have to knock you cold." Garold grabbed Kera's arms.
      Kera jerked an  arm free and punched Garold in  the chest. He did
 not even flinch, but backhanded her as she tried to pull her other arm
 free and permitted her to fall back into the water.
      Kera stood  up, wet  and angry.  In her hand  she held  a dagger.
 Garold grabbed her arm and twisted until Kera dropped her weapon, then
 started trying to pull her tunic  up. "Before we go..." Kera struggled
 more furiously, forcing Garold to use both hands to hold her still and
 preventing him from doing anything more with her clothing.
      "What's the matter?  It's not like we haven't  done this before."
 He dragged  Kera back to  the bank and shoved  her down. As  he leaned
 over  her, a  glimmer of  steel shone  in Kera's  hand and  sharp pain
 engulfed his arm. Kera rolled out of the way as Garold hit the sand in
1anger and  bolted for her  horse. Garold got  up slowly, his  left arm
 dripping blood  and drew his  sword. "You're dead, bitch!  Liriss will
 take you either way."
      As Liriss' thug  advanced Kera grabbed the bow and  off her horse
 -- she had kept the bow strung, since she was hunting and did not want
 to  take the  time to  restring  it each  time an  animal appeared  --
 notched an arrow, and drew back  the string. "Stay back!" she ordered,
 aiming at his chest. "Or I'll kill you!"
      Garold either  did not hear  her or was  so taken with  his anger
 that he did not  even pause at her words and  Kera released the arrow.
 It struck its target in the stomach and he gasped, bending forward, as
 if the wind had been knocked out of him.
      Kera quickly prepared  another arrow and as soon  as Garold moved
 forward again,  fired. This arrow  took him  square in the  chest. His
 legs buckled  and he sank to  his knees. Kera hesitated  with the next
 arrow. Garold  tried to  speak, but  blood foamed at  his lips  and he
 collapsed forward, the two arrow shafts breaking beneath him.
      Afraid that  the man hadn't been  alone, Kera looked up  and down
 the beach and, not seeing anyone, quickly remounted and encouraged her
 horse towards  the forest. The animal  started out at a  lazy walk and
 Kera kicked  it as  hard as  she could with  her heels.  "Faster!" The
 horse lunged into the forest, leaving  behind the body, with its blood
 being slowly washed away by the tide.

      The sun  was just  sinking below the  horizon when  Kera galloped
 through the  gates to Connall Keep,  eyes straining behind in  fear of
 pursuit. She nearly  jerked the horse around and bolted  when the gate
 guards came out to see what the racket was, but managed a bright smile
 and a wave as they realized who she was and called polite greetings.
      Shivering with a  combination of chill and fear,  Kera guided the
 horse to  the main stable  doors and  dismounted. As she  gathered the
 reins to lead  the animal inside to rub down,  voices floated out into
 the courtyard.
      "..prentice indeed. If'n  he's a knight, she should  be a squire,
 not an  apprentice," The rough voice  of the stable master  was easily
 identifiable. Kera  froze where she  stood, unable to  stop listening.
 "Bet he jus'  gives the title t'  make it sound good, and  t' make her
 believe she's more'n just a bedwarmer."
      Kera flushed angrily at the implication the man made, but decided
 that a  confrontation would be  a bad idea.  Drawing her daggers  on a
 servant of  a baron could be  almost as dangerous as  leaving Liriss's
 employ. The thief  glanced sharply around the  courtyard, expecting to
 see yet another of her former  master's men lurking about. Feeling far
 too exposed outside, she called for a stablehand to come deal with her
 horse and  ducked off towards the  main keep before the  child made it
 out of the stable to follow her orders.
      Praying that  she would  meet no one  until tomorrow,  she pulled
 open the keep door and nearly ran Myrande down on her way inside. Only
 luck prevented Kera from going for her remaining dagger.
      "Kera!" exclaimed the  senechal in surprise. "I  was just looking
 for you. Dinner's ready and -- my goodness! What happened to you? Your
 shirt's all bloody!" Her dark eyes  lingered on the deep maroon stains
 on the other woman's tunic.
      "I  decided to  go  out hunting,"  began  Kera, honestly  enough,
 trying very  hard to sound  normal. "After  being cooped up  with High
 Mage Marcellon in his  laboratory for so long, I needed  to get out. I
 tried to shoot a rabbit while I  was out and it wasn't quite dead when
 I picked it up." She pulled at the shirt ruefully, hoping that the lie
 didn't  sound as  transparent as  she thought  it did.  "This was  the
 result. Ruined a  perfectly good tunic because of  the darned creature
1and couldn't even bring it back in with me to show for the trouble."
      Myrande smiled sympathetically.
      "Go ahead and change then," she said. "I'll have them hold dinner
 and send someone to clean the shirt."
      "I don't feel very hungry, my  lady," said Kera quickly. "I think
 I'll just go to bed. If you don't object."
      "No, I don't mind. I'll see  you in the morning then. Goodnight,"
 and she continued out into the courtyard.
      Kera  breathed a  sigh  of relief  and hurried  up  to her  room,
 bolting the door behind her as soon as she got inside.

      "I'm simply  not sure," said  Marcellon, setting the  half filled
 vial down on the table in annoyance and looking over at Rien and Kera.
 "I wish  I could tell  you something more  definite, but I  can't. The
 infection appears to  have been halted, but there are  still traces of
 it  in Kera's  body. Another  day, at  least, will  be required  to be
 absolutely positive that she will not relapse."
      Kera sighed deeply and Rien's eyes narrowed in concern.
      "I  don't  believe that  there  is  any chance  of  reinfection,"
 continued the mage. "If you two  wish to associate, you may. But don't
 DO anything,  understand?" He looked  sharply from one patient  to the
 other.
      At any other time, an admonition  like that would have brought an
 amused smile to Rien's lips and a giggle from Kera, but now their only
 response was, "Understood."
      "Good," harumped Marcellon. "Now go,  Kera. I need to continue my
 treatment of Rien. Come by again tomorrow morning and we'll see if the
 disease is cleared from your body."
      "All  right," said  Kera.  She  gave Rien's  hand  a squeeze  and
 slipped out  the door.  Resignedly, Rien seated  himself on  the stool
 that Marcellon indicated with a preemetory gesture.

      Two days later,  Rien found Kera in the  courtyard, stretched out
 on the grass with a cup of mead and a book. "I hope this isn't the way
 you spent the last two days," he smiled, sitting down beside her.
      "You're just  jealous that I've  been able  to do this  while you
 were cooped up  with the mage," Kera retorted with  an answering grin.
 "Not that it took a long  time," she added pensively. "I expected that
 it would  take weeks  and weeks to  get cured, but  it didn't.  We had
 better luck in this one place in  a shorter amount of time than all of
 the months of travelling combined."
      "Sometimes it works out that way," said Rien with a slight smile.
 "Our luck's finally turned."
      "Gods I'm glad  of that," said Kera forcefully.  "We deserve some
 good luck for a change."
      They traded the mead back and  forth a few more times, watching a
 pair of birds fly in dizzy circles in the sunlight.
      "I  was  wondering if  you  want  to  leave tonight  or  tomorrow
 morning," said Rien abruptly.
      Kera sat up, surprised. "You're cured?"
      "According to the High Mage himself."
      Kera embraced him  with a strength he didn't think  she had. "I'm
 glad it's over, but how can he know so quickly? He didn't pronounce me
 healthy until last night."
      "I  was his  second patient,"  Rien  said. "He  already knew  the
 disease and the cure."
      "Where do you want to go?" Kera asked.
      "Not Dargon. I want to take  care of matters that were brought to
 my attention two weeks ago."
      "The messenger? What was it all about?"
1     "Have a seat,"  Rien indicated. "Two months ago  a brigand showed
 up in  the Duchy of Quinnat.  I was asked  to go there and  remedy the
 problem. That's really all there is to it."
      Kera offered  him the  cup and  he took a  sip. "Can't  the local
 constable handle it?" she asked.
      "I'm  afraid  not," Rien  said,  returning  the cup.  "The  local
 constable, it  is reported, made  a very valiant effort  before dying.
 It's  really not  his job  to control  renegade knights  in the  first
 place."
      "So you're going to do it?"
      "That's why the job was offered to me," Rien said.
      "I really  would like to  leave right now," Kera  said, tactfully
 refraining from  commenting about his  confidance. "This place  is too
 stuffy for me. Everyone is always so proper."
      "Lady Myrande," Rien said, using a stiff and somber tone of voice
 on purpose, "has asked us to stay  for a special dinner tonight, as we
 are finally able to return to a normal life in society now."
      "I guess since she asked, we  should stay," Kera agreed. Over the
 last week and  a half she had  gotten to know Myrande  rather well and
 could not  personally object to such  a request. "We can  leave in the
 evening, I suppose. It would be safer to travel by night anyway."
      "Safer?" Rien asked.
      "Who'd be  able to see  us? I guess since  I am stuck  with being
 able to see in the dark, I might as well make the most of it."
      Rien embraced her and they both  fell back in the grass. "Tonight
 it is."

      "Dinner  was just  wonderful," Kera  said with  a smile.  "I have
 never eaten this well before in my life."
      Myrande  smiled back  at  her as  they walked  out  of the  hall,
 towards the outer doors.
      "It's too bad that you can't stay longer," said Luthias.
      "Yes, well...Rien thinks it's about time we leave," replied Kera,
 stealing a glance behind her. "So..."
      "Are you  sure that leaving at  night is a wise?"  asked Myrande.
 "Travelling it night isn't the safest way to go."
      "Between the pair of us, Rien and I should be able to spot anyone
 or anything coming at us before it sees us," Kera reassured. "We'll be
 all right. Really."
      "And are you certain that you have enough supplies?"
      "Yes, my  lady," said Kera  patiently. "What you've  provided was
 more than  generous and we  plan to supplement  it with our  road kill
 anyway, so I'm sure we'll be fine."
      Rien  and  Marcellon  slowly  followed  everyone  down  the  main
 corridor of the keep. "I am  positive the disease has been cured," the
 wizard was telling his patient, "but should you suspect that you still
 have it or that any side effects appear, seek me immediately. I expect
 to be here for a few more months.  If you will be unable to locate me,
 my daughter, Lauren, the Duke's wife, will be able to direct you."
      "That's very kind of you, sir. And about our arrangement...?"
      "Don't bother  with our  agreement," Marcellon answered.  "When I
 will need you,  I will find you.  I suspect you will outlive  me as it
 is."
      "And..." Rien began,  but Marcellon interrupted him  again, as if
 reading his mind.
      "I have promised you and I never  go back on my word. Your morals
 will not be compromised."
      They caught  up to the  others waiting  for them under  the entry
 arch to the great hall.
      "...welcome here, Kera," Myrande was saying as Rien and Marcellon
1joined them.  "That goes  for you  also, Sir  Keegan. Should  you ever
 travel back to Dargon in your adventuring, please come by."
      "Yes," seconded  Luthias. "And  perhaps next time  you and  I can
 have that bout I mentioned."
      "Perhaps, lord," said Rien noncommittally. "I would like to thank
 you for your hospitality. I  and my apprentice greatly appreciate it."
 He  inclined his  head respectfully  to Luthias  and Myrande  and Kera
 followed with a quick bow to each. The pair smiled.
      "Good journey to you," said Myrande as they stepped outside.
      "I certainly hope it will be," muttered Kera, and they headed for
 the stables.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                       Hunting of the Red Tiger
                                 Part 1
                         by M. Wendy Hennequin
                     (b.c.k.a. <Hennequi@CTStateU>)

      Donegal na Valenfaer  had never thought he'd live to  be bored in
 the Port  of the Sun, but  it had happened. He  told Captain Fynystere
 this, and the captain laughed.
      "Well,  after seven  years  of wintering,  anything would  pale,"
 Fynystere supposed, "even a city on the coast of Duparyn." The captain
 considered. "I once thought as you did--that there were so many things
 to do in the Port of the Sun that I could never do it all. But I did,"
 Fynystere concluded  with a smile,  and Donegal shouted  his laughter.
 "Richard's borrowing my  sailboat for a trip to the  Isles of the Sun;
 why don't you ask if you can go along with him?"
      And so  Donegal had sought  Richard just Richard, a  shipmate who
 had served--and wintered--with Captain  Fynystere nearly twice as long
 as Donegal  had. After quickly  scouring the house, the  surgeon found
 the man  he sought in a  work shed set  up to make and  repair arrows.
 This was  hardly surprising. Richard  was the Eclipse's  bowmaster, or
 chief archer; besides expertly shooting a long bow, he manned the huge
 crossbow and tended the hellfire in battle.
      Richard looked up at Donegal and smiled when the surgeon entered.
 "Come in," the archer invited amiably. "I'm almost done."
      Donegal  watched   Richard  glue  an  arrowhead   onto  a  shaft,
 reflecting as he did so how different he and the archer were. Oh, they
 were about  the same height and  build, and they were  both reasonably
 good-looking, but there  was no other likeness. Richard  was bright as
 Braigh, his skin bronzed  and his hair gilded by sea  and sun, and his
 eyes  as blue  as the  water he  sailed. As  for Donegal,  the surgeon
 doubted that even the night goddess could have been as dark as he was.
 His curly hair was raven black; his  eyes were a deep, warm ebony; and
 his skin was  the color of the smooth, dark  chocolates with which his
 former master,  the kind leech,  had often treated  him when he  was a
 child. Night and day, Fynystere called them sometimes, night and day.
      And  Donegal  laughed.  Richard  looked at  the  surgeon,  smiled
 through his neat  beard, and continued repairing  arrows. "The captain
 says you're sailing to the  Isles," Donegal began, leaning comfortably
 against a wall. "Want some company?"
      "Certainly," Richard  accepted quickly,  picking up  a half-dozen
 newly mended arrows and depositing  them in his quiver. "I'll probably
 be in need of your skill, Donegal."
      "What're  you  doing?"  the surgeon  wondered  eagerly,  standing
 straight.
      "I  am going  to  do something  I've wanted  to  do for  thirteen
 years." Richard  lifted his long  bow from a  shelf behind him.  "I am
 going to hunt the Lowenrote."

      Now Donegal had heard of the  Red Tiger--or Lowenrote, as the Sun
 People called him--that  roamed and ravaged the Isles of  the Sun, but
 he had never  thought anyone would be crazy enough  to chase the beast
 down. Well, Richard  was strange, all right, but he  wasn't boring. So
 despite  the madness  of the  scheme, Donegal  sailed at  dawn to  the
 island of Grian  with Richard. The trip was calm  and quiet--for which
 Donegal offered brief thanks to  Moire--and by mid-day, Richard pulled
 the sailboat onto the beach.
      After  several determined  attempts, the  archer and  the surgeon
 managed to yank the small ship past  the high tide line, and then took
 the extra  precaution of  tying the  boat to a  stout palm  tree. That
 done, Richard leaned past the sail for his bow and quiver, and Donegal
1recovered his Bichanese sword, his knife, and his surgical pouch. "How
 long're we going  to be here?" Donegal wondered as  Richard strung his
 bow.
      "I don't  know," Richard answered  simply. He reached  beyond the
 surgeon for  a small bundle.  Unwrapping it, he  put a piece  of flint
 into a pouch, hung his spying glass on his belt, and slipped two large
 wine skins' baldrics over his shoulders. "We'll leave tomorrow noon at
 latest."
      "I  don't  know,"  Donegal   hedged,  hefting  a  small  backpack
 containing  some  food,  cloaks,  and extra  medical  supplies.  Well,
 Richard couldn't very  well carry it with that quiver  on his back. "I
 hear they sacrifice people here."
      "That's over  in the  Siopi Islands," Richard  corrected swiftly.
 "We'll leave before  nightfall, if you like," the  archer offered, but
 Donegal could tell that Richard would  prefer to stay and hunt the Red
 Tiger.
      Well, that's  what they were here  to do, and as  Richard reached
 for his short sword and knife,  Donegal asked him, "Where do we start,
 Rich?"
      The archer  straightened and smiled  as he placed the  weapons in
 their sheaths. "I honestly don't  know--" Suddenly, Richard stared and
 grabbed the surgeon's arm. "There! Look!"
      Donegal whirled and caught a  brief glimpse of blurred, fiery red
 on the dark, tropical green.
      "It's  the Lowenrote,"  Richard concluded,  sprinting toward  it.
 "Come on, Donegal!"
      And slightly surprised, the surgeon followed the gold streak that
 was  Richard's long  hair. Donegal  could  hear the  swiftness of  the
 chase, the crashing  of the brush, and the cry  that could only belong
 to a creature of such ferocity  as the Red Tiger. The surgeon followed
 the haphazard trail of broken brush  and broken noise that Richard had
 left in his wake with confident  speed. Oh, Richard was strong enough,
 stronger than Donegal on any day of the year, and that was his nature;
 but Donegal was swifter by far, the best runner and the quickest, most
 limber fighter on the Eclipse.
      Within moments, the surgeon  compacted violently with the archer,
 whose drawn  shot sprung,  spoilt, from the  long bow.  Over Richard's
 shoulder, Donegal could  see the Lowenrote rear its head  and cry out,
 as if laughing, in triumph and invitation. Donegal heard Richard speak
 a foul word--yeah, he and Donegal  knew them all--and then, the archer
 drew another colorful arrow.
      Laughing, the Red Tiger sprang into the jungle.
      Without hesitation, Richard relaxed his  draw and raced after it,
 and  Donegal  effortlessly ran  after  him.  "Let me  track,"  Donegal
 begged. "I'm faster."
      "I have the bow," Richard reminded him through slight panting.
      "And I can't shoot," Donegal  finished. It was something that the
 surgeon considered a fault. Yes, once they returned to the Port of the
 Sun, Donegal would ask Richard to teach him to shoot a bow.
      They stumbled  through the  jungle, always just  in sight  of the
 scarlet flash that was the Lowenrote. Only once did they lose sight of
 the animal,  and then, suddenly, there  is was, twenty yards  ahead of
 them, as if  it had waited for them. Richard  paused, drew his readied
 arrow, aimed, and--
      The arrow followed  the Red Tiger into the  dense jungle. Richard
 cursed again, and Donegal followed his companion and the beast.
      The  tiger suddenly  and conveniently  chose a  broken, well-used
 path. Donegal had slight misgivings; the People of the Sun weren't all
 that  far  from  barbarians.  Richard sprinted  without  concern,  and
 Donegal knew that  running a cleared path would be  easier for Richard
1anyway, so the surgeon left his fear in the jungle and followed.
      And  abruptly, the  pathway stopped.  Well, not  exactly stopped,
 Donegal  amended  hastily,  just  veered right  and  left  instead  of
 straight.  A quick  glance  assured  Donegal that  the  Red Tiger  was
 nowhere nearby.
      "What now, Rich?" Donegal wondered.
      The archer grimaced, then reached for  the spy glass on his belt.
 Gently, Richard took both ends and  pulled; the six inch tube expanded
 to twelve inches. Richard  put it up to his eye  and glanced down both
 trails. "Nothing," he concluded with disgust.
      "What *does* that thing do?" Donegal asked, reaching for it.
      Richard looked  over at  him abruptly. "Seven  years on  a pirate
 ship,  and you've  never  looked through  one,  Donegal?" The  surgeon
 smiled brightly but shook his  head. Richard handed the contraption to
 him. "Here."
      Slightly dubious,  Donegal took the thing  and held it up  to his
 eye. Richard's beard became gigantic. "By Sanar," Donegal swore with a
 smile. "It makes things bigger."
      "No, it only makes them appear so," Richard explained. "Marcellon
 told  me that  it has  something to  do with  the shape  of the  glass
 inside."
      "Who's   Marcellon?"   Donegal  inquired   automatically,   gaily
 examining treetops and  the far edges of the paths  through the spying
 glass.
      "An old friend," Richard replied evenly.
      Abashed, Donegal quickly  looked away. He had just  broken one of
 the two  sacred rules of the  Eclipse: "Ask no questions."  (The other
 was, "Tell no lies.") Whatever happened  before a man came aboard, the
 captain had  explained to Donegal when  he signed on seven  years ago,
 was  that man's  business, and  his alone.  Anyone might  disclose his
 history--Donegal's, for  instance, was well-known--but, as  a point of
 honor, the  entire crew,  Fynystere included,  avoided interrogations.
 "Sorry, Rich," the surgeon mumbled, handing back the spy glass.
      Richard smiled and clapped his friend's shoulder. "Let's go catch
 a  tiger," the  archer suggested,  and Donegal  knew that  Richard had
 forgiven  him, if,  indeed, the  man had  taken offense  in the  first
 place.
      "Lead on," Donegal agreed.
      Richard  looked left  and right,  considering, when  both he  and
 Donegal were startled by voices. Richard again raised the spying glass
 and looked  toward the  jungle directly  in front  of him.  The archer
 stepped forward, parted the growth in front of him, and peered through
 the glass  again. "There you are,"  he said with satisfaction,  and he
 handed the glass to Donegal and pointed. "There she is."
      Donegal took  the spying glass  and gazed at the  indicated spot.
 Graceful and  patient, the half-hidden  Lowenrote stood across  a huge
 clearing filled  with about a  hundred People of the  Sun, twenty-five
 sailors, a  great pile of  palm nuts,  palm fruits, and  filled botas.
 "We'd better go around, Rich," Donegal advised as he handed the archer
 the device. Richard folded it and replaced it on his belt. "I hear the
 Sun People  worship the  Red Tiger as  some sort of  god, and  I don't
 think they'll take kindly to us hunting it."
      "You're right," Richard concurred, lowering his voice. He readied
 another arrow and turned to the left footpath. "Let's go, and quietly,
 Donegal."
      Listening  to  the  Sun  People's  chatter,  Donegal  nodded  and
 followed silently. Someone replied--no,  translated, for he said, "The
 chief demands two iron swords for the fruit and oil."
      All feeling left Donegal's limbs, and he stopped dead. "Rich!" he
 choked.
1     "What? What is it?" came the quick, concerned reply. When Donegal
 couldn't answer, Richard turned back and joined him. "What is it?" the
 archer asked again.
      "We have to  leave," Donegal finally managed to  rasp. The leader
 of the sailors gave into the demand for two swords.
      "Beinisonian,"   Richard  realized,   listening.  "Don't   worry,
 Donegal. They haven't seen us."
      "If we go  after that tiger, they will,"  the surgeon, terrified,
 pointed out. "They'll take me back. I won't go back, Rich."
      "You've  covered the  brand,"  Richard  reasoned, indicating  the
 bright, Bichanese  band that  covered Donegal's forehead.  "They won't
 have  any idea  you were  a slave,  unless," the  bowmaster continued,
 another thought  dawning, "there's  some other  sign. Were  all slaves
 like you?"
      "Like me?" Donegal questioned, confused out of his fright.
      "I don't know--curly-haired, maybe, or dark-skinnned."
      Donegal, with much effort, managed  to curtail his urge to laugh.
 "Do you  think my  skin-tone matters to  the Beinisons,  Rich? They'll
 enslave anyone--dark as  me or light as you, tall,  short, men, women,
 children, Stevenics, criminals,  whatever. If slavery was  as plain as
 the skin on my face, do you think they'd bother to *brand* us?"
      Richard  bowed his  head. "Sorry."  He  raised his  head to  peer
 through the trees. "Then you should be safe."
      "I'll never be  safe, and I'm not going  back," Donegal insisted.
 "I won't risk it."
      "And how much  will you ask for the twenty  girls?" Donegal heard
 the Beinisonian ask. "I can assure  them all good marriages, for there
 are few women in our land."
      Donegal gasped  and parted  the bush  in front  of him.  "No," he
 breathed.  But  there they  were,  twenty  lovely, half-dressed  young
 women, excited and eager to be sold.
      "He's a liar," Donegal said,  more to himself than Richard. "He's
 buying them as slaves."
      "What do  you mean, he's  a liar?" Richard demanded.  Richard, as
 far as Donegal knew, only  understood his native Baranurian, which was
 also the  language of communication  aboard the Eclipse, and  a little
 Bichanese. "What's going on?"
      "Twelve pounds  of gold, and  twelve pounds of silver,"  said the
 interpreter. "More  than that we will  not ask, for you  have promised
 them honorable marriages."
      "That's a  lie," Donegal protested  in whispers. "He  won't marry
 them  off;  he'll sell  them  as  slaves.  Rich," he  began  suddenly,
 grasping his friend's arms, "we've got to stop them!"
      "What?" Richard  ejaculated, looking at  Donegal as if he  were a
 madman. "Stop them?"
      "They're   buying  those   girls,"  Donegal   explained  hastily,
 indicating the women. "They'll sell them  as slaves. We've got to stop
 them!"
      "Stop them!" Richard, shocked, echoed. "Donegal, they are twenty;
 we are two. We can't do anything. Let's hunt the Lowenrote."
      "Rich,  listen!" Donegal  commanded, pounding  the soft,  fertile
 earth. "I know  what it's like. They'll take those  girls, and they'll
 brand them,  burn slavery into  their foreheads  so they can  never be
 free--And then they take them across the ocean--no beating or rape, of
 course, for it  lessens the value--but half of them  won't survive the
 journey. Then, in Beinison, they'll  be sold like animals--then beaten
 and raped and--"
      "I thought you were treated kindly," Richard argued seriously.
      "*I* was. Millions weren't. But I know how bad it is, Rich; I saw
 it.  I talked  to them.  I  helped my  master treat  beaten and  raped
1slaves. Many *died*, Rich. We've got to stop them!"
      "You can't stop it," Richard  insisted. Donegal opened his mouth.
 "No, hear me  out. We know there are twenty,  and probably more aboard
 their ship--wherever  that is. And  even if  we could stop  these men,
 there will be more coming, Donegal,  always more coming. We can't stop
 Beinison." Donegal frowned. "Let's go hunt."
      The surgeon  scowled at his  friend. "Go ahead," he  sneered. "Go
 and  chase your  cat, Rich.  I'm going  to do  something about  this."
 Donegal rose and dashed the way they had come.
      After a few  minutes, he crouched behind the  brush and listened.
 "Done," said the interpreter.
      "Very  well," the  sailor  replied. "Tell  the  girls to  prepare
 themselves. We'll leave soon. Mon-Arnor, take the oil, nuts, and fruit
 to the ship. I'll follow after the feast with the--the brides."
      Nervously, Donegal drew  his knife and pondered. What  to do, how
 to do it...
      There was  a rustling to his  left; with all his  swift reflexes,
 Donegal whirled and  presented the knife boldly. He heard  a tear, and
 Richard,  his  blousy  shirt  ripped,  collapsed  onto  his  backside.
 "Damnation!"
      "What, did the cat come this way?" Donegal snapped.
      "Don't be an  ass, Donegal. You'll never do  this alone." Richard
 sat up  and squinted through the  trees. "What happened? Some  of them
 are leaving."
      "Yeah, they're  taking palm fruits and  palm nuts and oil  to the
 ship. The women will follow after they eat, with some of the sailors."
      "Looks like five are staying  behind. Good." Richard rose. "Well,
 let's  go,"  Richard  directed  expectantly. Donegal  stared  at  him.
 "Donegal, trust  me. The best  bet is to  let those fifteen  return to
 their ship and  then sink it before  the women and the  other five get
 there. We  can pick off  the others later.  Otherwise, it will  be too
 messy--and  the women  will be  killed." Donegal  was still  confused.
 "Trust me," Richard  repeated, holding out a hand to  help the surgeon
 to  his feet.  "Believe me,  Donegal. I  was trained  to run  military
 campaigns. And," the Baranurian added,  his blue eyes twinkling like a
 sunny sea, "I have a wonderful idea."
      Desperately wondering  why Richard  had been so  trained, Donegal
 rose. "Lead on."
      Richard nodded and  began to follow the  circular footpath around
 the  clearing.  "We'll  come  to  their  outlet  eventually,"  Richard
 whispered. "We'll follow them to their ship."
      "Then what?" Donegal rasped, crouching close to the archer.
      Before answering,  Richard unfolded  his spy glass  and carefully
 peered through it  at the Beinisonian slavers. "They're  taking a path
 not far from  this one; look, Donegal." He handed  the spying glass to
 the surgeon,  who dutifully  raised it. Fifteen  Beinisonians, hefting
 the oil-filled  botas and  fruit-filled sacks,  were making  their way
 along an eastward path. "We've got to get ahead of them."
      "I thought you said to follow them."
      "It'll be  easier if you get  there first. How well  do you swim,
 Donegal?"
      "Better than some fish; I use to live on a river."
      "Underwater?"
      "Yeah, some."
      "Good.  I have  an idea  for disposing  of most  of these  men at
 once."
      "Let's hear it."
      "No time," Richard countermanded. He reached across his shoulders
 and  divested himself  of one  of the  wine skins.  Handing it  to the
 physician, he instructed,  "Take this, and get ahead of  them. Swim up
1to their ship, and..." The archer grinned. "You'll know what to do."
      "What is  it?" Donegal wondered,  sniffing the packet.  He nearly
 dropped the  bota when  he smelled the  sulfur and  pitch. "Hellfire?"
 Donegal  smiled wickedly.  Hellfire was  just the  thing they  needed.
 But.. "What did you bring hellfire on a hunting trip for?"
      "I  had-- We  don't have  time for  this," Richard  reminded him,
 rummaging in  the backpack that  Donegal wore. He  retrieved something
 and put it in  his belt purse. "You know what to do.  I'll meet you at
 the beach. And be careful that no one sees you."
      Donegal  nodded  once and  stealthily  ran  toward the  path.  As
 Richard had  conjectured, it  wasn't far, and  Donegal, after  a quick
 look either way  and a hurried prayer to the  Masked God, sprinted out
 upon it.
      After a five  minute run--thank the Masked God  that the clearing
 wasn't far from the coastal beach  and that the captain's sailboat was
 in another  cove!--, Donegal  came to  the edge  of a  deserted beach.
 Hiding  behind a  funny-looking plant,  Donegal observed  a long  boat
 resting upon  the tranquil  sand. In  the calm  lagoon was  anchored a
 small   ship--forty  man,   Donegal  guessed   with  a   grimace--with
 Beinisonian flags and markings.
      Behind the  bush, the  surgeon shrugged out  of the  backpack and
 removed the  surgical pack from his  belt. He took off  his high boots
 and  his shirt  and used  them to  cover the  pack and  the pouch.  He
 secured the skin of hellfire over his shoulder, checked his katana and
 knife, and snuck silently to  the water. Without waiting--every second
 he could be  observed, killed, or worse--Donegal  slid lengthwise into
 the shallow lagoon. He smiled, for the lagoon was as warm and soothing
 as a bath, and stroked quietly toward the ship.
      While taking a breath, Donegal heard  the first of the men coming
 close to the beach. They were singing a bawdy song and having, Donegal
 suspected, the time of their  lives. Well, the surgeon thought grimly,
 they had  better enjoy the time  while they had it.  Once the hellfire
 was in place, the Beinisonians' pleasures would be over.
      But he would have to move quickly, lest they see him. Keeping his
 strokes as quiet as possible, Donegal approached the ship's bow. For a
 moment, he paused, unsure; on the Eclipse, they spread the hellfire on
 the water with small catapults, not swimmers.
      A little  on the ship, then  a ring of hellfire,  Donegal decided
 after the short  consideration. And best to start here  at the bow, he
 reasoned, before they get  to the beach and can see me.  And if I stay
 reasonably close to the ship, its  curves should hide me from those on
 board.
      Donegal chose what he deemed a good spot and began treading water
 with his legs. With  his arms thus free, it was easy  to open the wine
 skin and  begin pressing the jelly-like  hellfire onto the bow  of the
 ship and then onto surface of the water.
      Watching the greasy hellfire float, Donegal remembered how he and
 Richard had discovered the stuff five years ago. They had been looking
 for some way to  fuel the Eclipse's lamps; the pirates  had run out of
 oil on the latest attack, when they had used it to ignite the victims'
 ship. So  Donegal, who knew  a little  about alchemy from  his medical
 training,  and Richard,  who knew  a little  about alchemy  from Sanar
 knows where,  volunteered to try  to make  something to tide  the ship
 over until they reached port.
      The surgeon and the archer started mixing all manner of flammable
 stuff--exotic  oils,  the yellow  sand  which  Richard called  sulfur,
 incense, tar,  pitch, potatoes, wine,  ink, whatever they  could find.
 They found that an excellent, bright,  long burning fuel could be made
 of  a neutral  jelly- grease,  sulphur,  pitch, and  a few  other--now
 secret--ingredients.
1     The hellfire had burned so brightly, Donegal recalled, continuing
 his deployment,  and had kept  the ship  so well and  economically lit
 that  the  captain  insisted  upon  buying  the  ingredients  for  the
 yet-unnamed  hellfire instead  of oil  when they  reached port.  While
 testing the  second batch, Donegal  accidentally splattered some  in a
 filled bucket,  and he  and Richard  realized how  extraordinary their
 invention was.
      Soon the Eclipse became the  most famous--and feared--ship on the
 Valenfaer Ocean.
      Donegal finished his circle of  death by placing some hellfire on
 the slaver ship's stern for  good measure. Pleased, the surgeon looked
 toward shore and frowned; the Beinisonians had arrived.
      Donegal cursed  internally. He  couldn't stay  by the  ship; only
 Sanar knew  where they  would bring  the long boat.  If he  struck for
 shore now,  they might  see him,  and that would  be his  undoing. The
 Beinisonians would hardly think Donegal a native--a Man of the Sun, in
 Bichanese clothes?--and if they removed the headband--
      No, he  would kill  himself--and some of  them--first. And  if he
 couldn't, well, then Richard and the hellfire would take care of it.
      The Beinisonians  pushed the long  boat into the balmy  water and
 rowed toward their mother ship.
      Without thinking,  Donegal sank  himself and  swam away  from the
 slaving vessel. It will be a long swim, especially as he was taking an
 indirect path to  avoid the long boat. A shot  of panic seared Donegal
 like lightning. He hadn't swum beneath the waves in so long--
      But  Donegal had  mastered  water and  fear as  a  child, and  he
 refused to let them conquer him  now. Was he not Donegal, the surgeon,
 the pirate, and the runner? A  brief lack of air could hardly vanquish
 him. Determined  and again secure,  Donegal pulled himself  toward the
 shores of Grian.
      He reached  the shore  only a  little short of  breath. Am  I not
 Donegal, he repeated, laughing silently at himself, the runner and the
 pirate?  Aye, and  a good  thing  too. Richard,  though strong,  could
 hardly survive  so long beneath  the waves. Satisfied,  Donegal pulled
 himself onto a shady  spot of the sand, and after  only a brief glance
 at  the Beinisonians,  he dashed  behind the  funny-looking plant  and
 recovered the  rest of his  belongings. Richard would be  coming soon,
 and Donegal  would have  to be  ready to  dispose of  the rest  of the
 slavers once Richard had disposed of their vessel.
      Donegal idly replaced his boots on his feet and carefully watched
 the  Beinisonians.  The   long  boat,  which  had   just  reached  its
 destination, was filled to its capacity, but a large, somewhat sloppy,
 pile  of palm  fruit, palm  nuts, and  oil skins  still dominated  the
 lagoon's shady beach. Four trips at least, the surgeon decided. He and
 Richard had plenty of time.
      "Donegal," a whisper rasped behind  him. Donegal waved the archer
 forward. Richard  crawled out of  the jungle  to sit beside  him. "All
 ready?"
      The surgeon grinned. "Whenever you are."
      Richard took  out his spy glass  and watched the long  boat. "How
 far away is the hellfire circle?"
      "Not more than ten feet, and I put some on the bow and stern."
      "I  can see  it. Good  job."  The Baranurian  archer lowered  the
 spying glass and considered. "Ten  feet...we'll wait for them to start
 the return trip," Richard decided, "which is just as well." He reached
 into his quiver  and pulled out five arrows swathed  in Donegal's best
 bandages. The surgeon grimaced at the ill use of his medical supplies,
 but  Richard sent  him  an  ironic glance  that  silenced the  leech's
 protests and  handed his  friend a  piece of flint.  "When I  give the
 word, light the arrow."
1     "Just like  on board,"  Donegal finished,  grinning. He  drew his
 sword and experimented upon it with  the flint. The water on the steel
 prevented a  spark. The surgeon frowned  and dried the blade  with his
 shirt. "We've  been through this  a thousand  times, Rich; I  know the
 routine."
      "They  have  a  sweet  little  cargo  there,"  Richard  remarked,
 glancing  again through  the spy  glass at  the sailors  unloading the
 fruit, nuts, and oil. "It'll be a shame to torch it."
      "Better it burns than the women."
      Richard nodded, but didn't lower the spying glass. "Freedom never
 comes cheaply," he agreed; then abruptly, a shadow of pain crossed his
 face. "I'm still paying for mine."
      Then the  archer set  the spy  glass on the  sand and  readied an
 arrow. "Get  ready," he  warned, watching. He  stood, looked  over the
 distance once more, drew the arrow, and aimed. "Now."
      Donegal struck the  flint against the katana, and  an eager spark
 leapt  to the  loose  end  of the  maligned  bandage. Richard  allowed
 himself a  fractioned second to check  his aim and let  the shaft fly.
 With eerie beauty, the blazing arrow soared across the sky like a lazy
 comet  and landed  upon the  bow of  the ship.  Another flaming  shaft
 followed it closely and struck the  water just as the long boat pulled
 ten feet from her mother ship.
      The lagoon,  the long  boat, and the  ship erupted  into demonic,
 blue- white flame.
      "Good shot!"  Donegal declared, elated  with the inferno  and the
 screams of the damned. Well was their concoction named hellfire.
      "Get back," Richard  warned sharply as he  readied another arrow.
 "There'll be stragglers."
      "They won't make it through the hellfire," Donegal protested, but
 he drew his Bichanese sword anyway.
      "Don't count  on it," Richard  advised. "It's been  done before."
 The Baranurian archer smiled with sinister glee. "But it won't be easy
 or painless; freedom never comes cheaply."
      Donegal chuckled. "If Jilana wills, they  won't be able to buy it
 at all."
      "I'm so  glad I  was raised  to believe in  one God,"  the archer
 muttered. "I'd never keep track of so many."
      "But monotheism is so dull," Donegal reminded him with a grin.
      "Don't make me laugh," Richard  commanded sternly. "I'm trying to
 concentrate."
      Richard often was  like that, Donegal noted with  a smile, joking
 one moment and ordering people  around the next. Yet Richard commanded
 well,  Donegal  admitted.  Perhaps,  since he  had  been  trained  for
 military strategy, Richard had also been trained in leadership. In any
 case, the leech obeyed.
      "Take my  spying glass,"  the Baranurian said,  "and look  at the
 water. Is anyone swimming toward shore? Check all directions."
      Once again, Donegal did as he Richard bade him. "Two, coming from
 the long boat.  I doubt anyone made it off  the mother ship alive--no,
 wait. Two more, heading toward us!"
      Richard squinted. "Four! Damnation!"  Re-aiming, he let his arrow
 loose. The  archer re-loaded  his bow without  waiting for  the scream
 that confirmed  his accuracy, and  he shot again.  Richard immediately
 loaded his bow.
      Donegal concentrated his spying glass  on the ones heading toward
 Richard and himself; those two  were, after all, the immediate danger.
 No, not two, one; a slick of blood was rapidly forming on the lagoon's
 surface. "Got  him, Rich!" Donegal  cried as Richard fired  the second
 arrow. In the spying glass, Richard's arrow was seemingly swallowed by
 the other.  "Right in  the throat!"  Donegal exulted  gleefully. "Well
1done!"
      "Two on shore!" Richard cried, turning. He drew another arrow and
 shot.
      Donegal whirled to the pile  of tropical produce. Two were indeed
 on shore; they  were badly burned, but well-armed. One,  whose arm had
 been nicked and bloodied by  Richard's swift arrow, had a mean-looking
 cutlass; the other had a bow and--
      "Get down!"  the physician screamed, collapsing  heavily onto the
 sand. But Donegal heard the shot release--or was it Rich's shaft?--and
 heard it  dully contact with a  tree. A dull twang  sounded; Richard's
 arrow had misfired, and he cursed.
      Brandishing  his Bichurian  sword, Donegal  shouted a  Highlander
 war-cry learned  from the mate,  Cedric of Gallows' Lane,  and charged
 the intruders. Aye, intruders, for they had invaded this peaceful isle
 to take advantage of its serenity.  Donegal? He only came with Richard
 to hunt  the Lowenrote, but Erida  could take his soul  and devour his
 body  before  he would  just  allow  these  serpents to  destroy  this
 island's women.
      The Beinisonian archer clumsily prepared a new arrow, and Donegal
 didn't bother to suppress a  contemptuous grin. Richard would have had
 another shot  off by now--why *didn't*  Rich have another shot  off by
 now? Donegal dived  at the archer, spoiling his shot  and breaking his
 shaft. One  swift stab--right  to the  heart, Donegal  thought--and it
 would be over for this one.
      The archer  twisted with  a bestial cry,  and Donegal  managed to
 plunge the tip of the katana  in the man's stomach. The leech withdrew
 the blade, held it high--
      "Donegal!" Richard shouted with alarm.
      The katana fell, and the surgeon heard an arrow make a *thunking*
 sound behind  him as  it penetrated the  swordsman's flesh.  A *thump*
 followed as the dead man hit the ground. The now-harmless cutlass fell
 simultaneously  off Donegal's  back. The  archer's blood  spurted onto
 Donegal's chest.
      And  Richard was  beside him,  helping him  up. "You  were almost
 dead," the Baranurian  explained. "He had the cutlass  ready for you."
 Swiftly waxing angry, Richard violently jostled his friend. "Damn you,
 don't do stupid  things like that! I could have  picked them off where
 we were,  but I couldn't  risk shooting you!"  The archer took  a deep
 breath and smiled. "You stupid surgeon. Are you all right?"
      Donegal nodded. "You?"
      "That arrow  sailed right  past my ear;  God protects  archers, I
 guess," Richard  laughed. He retrieved  the cutlass from the  sand and
 inspected  it. "A  very nice  blade," he  complimented the  corpse and
 slipped the  blade into  his belt.  "Thank you."  He took  his hunting
 knife from its sheath and began cutting his arrow from the swordsman's
 flesh. "Would  you please  run back  to our little  niche and  get our
 things? We're going to need the spying  glass. I want to see if anyone
 got off of that ship."
      "I think  we got them  all, Rich,"  the leech speculated,  but he
 returned to the funny-looking plant anyway. Quickly, Donegal slung the
 backpack over his shoulder, slipped  the surgical pouch onto his belt,
 tied  his shirt  around his  waist,  and retrieved  the spying  glass.
 Polishing it gently on his shirt, he returned to Richard.
      "Can't be wasting arrows."  Richard sighed as Donegal approached.
 He looked seriously at his friend  as he cleaned the bloodied head and
 replaced the shaft in his quiver. "We still have much work to do."
      "Aye, that we do," Donegal agreed, offering Richard the glass.
      The archer took the spying glass from his friend and examined the
 blazing  ship.  It was  a  glorious  sight,  Donegal decided,  and  he
 laughed. The purifying blue-white flames  of the hellfire were awesome
1and  beautiful,  aye,  an  apt  agent  of  just  death  and  essential
 purgation. Donegal, satisfied, turned to Richard.
      "Yes,  we got  them all,"  the Baranurian  declared, folding  the
 spying glass. Snatching his bow, he  rose and smiled at his old friend
 as he hung the device on his belt. "Shall we get the rest, Donegal?"
      "Let's," grinned the leech.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
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              A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion
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 Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction.
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1------------------------------------------------------------------------
  (C) Copyright May, 1990, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd <[email-masked]>.
 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.