From: "Avid Reader - Fledgling Writer" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 12 May 92 10:31:33 EDT

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 --   DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 8        05/18/90          Cir 965    --
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 --                            Contents                                --
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  Campaign for the Laraka I    John Doucette          10 Naia-1 Yule, '14
  My Father's Curse            M. Wendy Hennequin     18 Naia, 1014
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1                       Campaign for the Laraka: Part I
                            An Unpleasant Surprise
                               by John Doucette

 Castle Pentamorlo, Duchy Dargon, Baranur
 10 Naia, 1014 B.Y.

      "You're right, Kimme, I don't understand," Morion said.
      "I am  not sure  I fully  understand either,  my love,"  the Araf
 commented. "All I know is what I saw  in the vision. I do not know why
 this vision  came to me. But  I do know I  must find the cause.  And I
 must know which ending is to be."
      "But do you have  to go now?" Morion asked, coming  to sit on the
 bed beside the woman who so recently came into his life.
      "Yes," she said, stroking his cheek.
      "But, Kimme,  there is a  war! I have  to leave for  Shark's Cove
 tomorrow to  meet with  this Sir  Ailean. I'd feel  much more  at ease
 knowing you were here, safe. Kimme,  I have to see to the preparations
 for leaving.  If you leave today,  we won't have time  to say good-bye
 properly."
      Kimmentari smiled. "Then I shall have to delay my departure."
      "I'll go and hurry my students along. The faster things get done,
 the  faster I  can get  back.  Then we  can...discuss things."  Morion
 quickly kissed Kimmentari and then departed.
      When he left the room,  Kimme shuddered. She'd felt the nightmare
 coming on  all the while  they were talking and  it had taken  all her
 control not to let anything show.
      Haltingly, she crossed the room  to the door and barely succeeded
 in locking it with her shaking hands before the nightmare came in full
 force. Kimmentari collapsed in a heap as the now-familiar scene danced
 and  swam  in her  sight.  Once  more,  the gore-splattered  room  was
 revealed in all  its horror. Once more, the cries  of innocents echoed
 in Kimmentari's ears. Once more, she  threw back her head and screamed
 a silent scream as a face of pure evil turned to stare into hers. Once
 more,  she heard  the  silent  promise on  the  dead  lips. And  then,
 mercifully,   the   darkness   welled   up  and   she   drifted   into
 unconsciousness.

 Castle Pentamorlo, Duchy Dargon, Baranur
 11 Naia, 1014 B.Y.

      "Kimme, please?" Morion asked as he prepared to mount his horse.
      Kimmentari  laughed, a  musical-sounding laugh.  "My love,  no. I
 shall be fine."
      "But what about the--"
      "The hoftanau  will not take  me while you  are gone. It  may not
 take me at all."
      "But  you  said  that  when  one  of  your  race  falls  in  love
 with...with a..." Morion searched for the correct expression.
      "Fast-liver," Kimmentari supplied.
      "A fast-liver. That  the fire-love comes over you.  And that it's
 usually fatal."
      "True," the blue-skinned, ruby-eyed Araf  said. "But in the Dance
 I saw  that our strands continued  after the Dance was  done. That may
 mean the hoftanau will not take me."
      "I would still feel better if you remained here."
      "No. I must find out the meaning of this vision."
      Morion put his hands on her shoulders. "Can't you tell me what it
 is?"
      "I can't  remember it clearly,"  she lied. "Perhaps  this journey
 will help  me determine  what the  vision means and  which of  the two
 endings is destined to come to pass."
      "You're sure?"
      "Yes."
      Just  as Morion  was about  to continue  the conversation,  a man
 wearing an  unimaginably polished breastplate interrupted.  "Sair," he
 said, back ramrod-straight, "tha Battalion is ready tae march."
      "Thank  you,  Colour Sergeant.  Start  them  off. I'll  be  along
 presently."  The  Colour  Sergeant  saluted, did  an  about-turn,  and
 marched away. Morion  turned to Kimmentari. He made to  speak, but she
 silenced him with a finger.
      "You must go," she said.
      Morion gathered her in his arms and kissed her lovingly. "I'll be
 back as soon as I can," he said as he mounted his steed.
      "Be careful," she said anxiously.
      "I intend  to be, Kimme." Morion  paused, unsure what to  say. He
 and Kimme stared at each other for a long time. Finally, Morion leaned
 over and kissed his lover a long, thorough kiss.
      "I love you," he said.
      "I know," Kimme replied, smiling. "I love you also."
      "I know. Good-bye." Morion put his  helm on and rode out the gate
 after his men. He was riding to war.
      Kimmentari  watched  him go,  the  ache  in her  heart  painfully
 present even before he rode out of sight. She turned to go to the room
 she and  Morion shared  to finish  packing for  her journey  to Dargon
 City.
      She  had just  entered the  room when  the waking  nightmare came
 again. This time, however, she saw a man dressed in black running down
 corridors filled  with death  and the  dead and she  saw the  same man
 enter the room  where cowered the innocents caught up  in the struggle
 for power.  Except this time,  the man in  black rescued those  in the
 room.
      As  had  happened many  times  over  the  months just  past,  the
 nightmare had  had two endings; one  for ill, one for  good. Just what
 part she had to play, only Thyerin knew. And He wasn't telling.

 War galley HUNTRESS, flagship Beinisonian Expeditionary Force
 Valenfaer Ocean, 150 leagues southwest of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat,
    Baranur
 2 Melrin, 1014 B.Y.

      Field Marshal Joachim Vasquez leaned  on the railing near the bow
 of the  HUNTRESS and  gazed out  over the moonlit  sea at  the vessels
 carrying  the thirty-five  thousand  soldiers under  his command.  One
 hundred forty transports, escorted by one hundred warships, fully half
 of Beinison's  complement of men-of-war,  sailed slowly north.  In the
 morning,  the armada  would  split, fifteen  thousand  men and  twenty
 escorts continuing north to Dargon,  the remaining twenty thousand men
 and eighty  warships diverting  to Shark's  Cove at  the mouth  of the
 Laraka River, Magnus' lifeline.
      The  war was  now  in its  sixth month.  The  offensive begun  by
 Beinison in  early Naia was  showing results even the  most optimistic
 strategists had only dreamed of. After only two weeks of fighting, the
 Baranurian front  in Pyridain collapsed. Even  now, Beinisonian forces
 were  racing  north,   hoping  to  reach  Pyridain   City  before  the
 demoralized enemy was able to mount an effective defense.
      Vasquez was  unaware of  the success of  the main  offensive. His
 force had  set sail as  soon as the  weather allowed. Vasquez  was not
 overly  concerned about  the success  or  failure of  the main  attack
 anyway.  If things  went as  planned, or  even moderately  so, Vasquez
 would be in Magnus inside three weeks.
      His  thoughts were  interrupted by  a young  Marine. "Pardon  the
 interruption, sir,"  the young man  said. "General Collanti  sends his
 complements and asks you join him in the Admiral's quarters, sir."
      "Good," the tall, black-haired man replied. "See to it we are not
 disturbed unless there is an emergency."
      The Marine saluted  and stepped aside to allow  the Field Marshal
 to take  the lead. Vasquez  made his way  below deck to  Fleet Admiral
 Grieg Talens' cabin. Although Talens  and Vasquez shared joint command
 of the B.E.F.,  until Vasquez and his troops were  ashore, Talens held
 authority due to his thirty years of experience at sea.
      In three  days, Talens  would put Vasquez  and the  B.E.F.'s Main
 Body ashore at Shark's Cove, whereupon  it would be his task to ensure
 the lines of supply and communication remained open to what would then
 be  known  as the  Shark's  Cove  Staging Area.  Talens'  subordinate,
 Commodore Alexi Tormana,  would have the responsibility  of seeing the
 B.E.F.'s Northern Force safely to  Dargon, upon which his post-landing
 task would then be identical to that of his commander.
      Vasquez entered the warm, spacious, brightly lit cabin due one of
 Admiral  Talens'  rank and  experience.  Seven  men were  waiting  for
 Vasquez's  arrival.  Admiral  Talens,   Commodore  Tormana  and  their
 deputies, Captains Danridge and  Gromiko respectively, represented the
 Navy. General  Collanti, Vasquez's second-in-command,  Collanti's aide
 and deputy Colonel Jackson, and Vasquez's aide and new deputy, Colonel
 Conti, represented the Army.
      "Now that  you're here,  Vasquez, we can  get down  to business,"
 Talens remarked.
      Collanti stiffened  at the  tone Talens  had taken  in addressing
 Vasquez. He was  about to make an oral protest  when Vasquez waved the
 comment aside.  There had always been  bad blood between the  Army and
 the Navy,  but the current  venture was  too important for  Vasquez to
 risk offending the man who would be his lifeline once ashore.
      There was another reason Vasquez  chose to disregard the comment.
 In the four  weeks spent aboard ship, Vasquez and  Talens had grown to
 respect each other's abilities. Though  neither had developed a liking
 for the other, neither had they developed a dislike. Both recognized a
 soldier  when they  saw one.  Still,  that didn't  mean the  Army-Navy
 rivalry had to be put on hold.
      "Good evening, gentlemen," Vasquez said as he strode to the chart
 table covered  not by naval charts,  but by a map  of the northwestern
 part of Baranur. "You all know  the general outline for the invasion,"
 Vasquez said, dispensing with preliminaries. "Now, I shall outline the
 specifics." Vasquez  picked up a  pointer and began his  briefing. "In
 three days, Main Body will commence landing here," he said, indicating
 a spot on the map, "at Shark's Cove. Once Shark's Cove is secure, Main
 Body  will advance  down  the  Laraka, laying  siege  to Port  Sevlyn.
 Shark's Cove and Port Sevlyn will each be garrisoned by a Regiment. In
 addition, two Regiments will hold the border with Kiliaen."
      "After  securing  Port Sevlyn,"  he  continued,  "Main Body  will
 advance on Gateway Keep in the  Royal Duchy. That, gentlemen, is Phase
 One. It  should take no longer  than sixteen days." There  was stunned
 silence around the table. The Army officers were shocked; Gateway Keep
 was four hundred thirty leagues from Shark's Cove. A long way to go in
 sixteen days  through hostile territory.  They were not  confident the
 task could be completed. The Navy officers, for their part, considered
 the scheme to be that much more proof of the Army's incompetence.
      Vasquez let  the silence continue  a little longer,  enjoying the
 reaction from his officers. Never one to let pleasure intrude on duty,
 he continued with  the briefing. "General Collanti  and Northern Force
 will land at Dargon in thirty-seven days' time."
      "Enrico," he said, speaking directly  to his long-time friend and
 former deputy,  "your task is to  seize and hold all  of Duchy Dargon.
 The details  I leave to you  with one exception: you  must subdue Lord
 Morion's holding at Tench. One more thing, Enrico. You'll have to hold
 Dargon on your  own. Expect no help  from me. I simply  don't have the
 men."
      "Don't worry,  sir," Collanti said  in his booming  voice. "We'll
 hold."
      "I'm sure  you will, Enrico. To  continue, Phase Two will  be the
 siege of  Magnus itself. After taking  Gateway Keep, I will  pause for
 three days before advancing on the enemy's capital."
      Vasquez paused to gather his  thoughts. Once ready, he continued,
 looking each of those assembled in the eyes as he spoke. "Phase Two is
 vital to the entire operation. Magnus is the key to Baranur."
      "If we  succeed," he said, hitting  the map with the  pointer for
 emphasis,  "the war  is over.  If  we fail,  Baranur has  a chance  to
 recover. Questions?"  he asked.  Seeing none, he  said, "Then  you had
 best get to your ships. Tomorrow, we begin a new era for Beinison."

 Shandayma Bay shore, 16 leagues north of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat,
    Baranur
 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y.

      Sir  Ailean of  Bivar, Knight  Captain of  the Northern  Marches,
 watched in  grim silence the column  of thick black smoke  that marked
 the grave of  the last of the war galleys  from Baranur's Laraka River
 Flotilla. Scout vessels had spotted  the armada two days ago, somewhat
 earlier than expected, and Sir Ailean had immediately moved his troops
 to the most  likely landing point. The fact that  he guessed correctly
 was small consolation. Ailean had five thousand five hundred to oppose
 four times  that if the  scouts' reports  were accurate. From  what he
 saw,  the  scouts were  indeed  accurate.  Too damned  accurate.  "Why
 couldn't they  overestimate just  this once?"  he asked  to no  one in
 particular.
      Ailean was  nervous. The young  man with  the pale blue  eyes and
 honey-blond  hair had  only recently  been knighted  after serving  as
 squire to Sir Edward Sothos for two years. Ailean had found his former
 master to be a stern, but  fair, teacher and disciplinarian. He deeply
 admired Sir Edward but was afraid  that the older warrior never really
 liked him. He had desperately wanted Edward to like him.
      And then,  just three  months previous,  Ailean had  received his
 Knighthood and  appointment to the  position of Knight Captain  of the
 Northern  Marches on  the recommendation  of Sir  Edward. When  Ailean
 heard that the  Knight Commander had pushed  for Ailean's appointment,
 he  was overjoyed.  He vowed  then and  there that  he would  give his
 former teacher no cause for disappointment.
      Now, here  he stood facing a  very real enemy for  the first time
 and he  felt fear at  the sight of  the armada anchored  off-shore. He
 knew that  all he  could do was  hurt the enemy,  delay him  until the
 Knight Commander could find the men to reinforce him. Ailean moved his
 line closer to the water's edge.
      Already, the  enemy transports had  released their boats  and the
 first wave of  Beinisonian troops were headed for  shore. Ailean could
 do  little  more   than  watch  as  the   Beinisonian  light  infantry
 disembarked and fought their way  through the waist-deep water; Ailean
 had  no archers,  and  of  his infantry,  three  Regiments were  heavy
 infantry  and  the  other  two were  medium  infantry.  Lord  Morion's
 Battalion, in  reserve, was composed  of the  best of his  current and
 former students.  While a group  of Morion's students was  equipped as
 light infantry,  their numbers were far  too few for Ailean  to commit
 them to engaging their Beinisonian opposites.
      The  Beinisonian  officers shouted  and  cajoled  their men  into
 formation in  knee-deep water perhaps  twenty yards from  the armoured
 ranks  of their  enemy. These  were some  of Beinison's  finest, elite
 soldiers  hardened to  the  ways  of war.  At  a  shouted signal  they
 charged, splashing through the water towards their enemy, screaming at
 the top of their lungs.
      They collided with the  Baranurian line, sabre against longsword,
 leather cuirass against chainmail and scalemail.
      The Baranurians  outnumbered the Beinisonians  five-to-four. More
 importantly, the  Baranurians far out-classed their  opponents both in
 terms  of  weaponry  and  weight  of  armour.  However,  most  of  the
 Baranurian troops  had never seen  combat before and  the Beinisonians
 fought like men possessed.  The inexperienced Baranurians began taking
 a step  backward here, two there  as they fought to  defend themselves
 from the foe.
      Ailean saw what was happening  and sent runners with instructions
 to hold the line,  to stand fast, to drive the  enemy back. Ailean saw
 and heard his  Captains and Sergeants hitting,  shoving, shouting, and
 cursing the men into immobility.
      The bodies began piling up all  along the beach as Baranurian and
 Beinisonian struggled to  kill one another. And always  there were the
 shouts of the sergeants, "Close up! Close up!", as they ordered men up
 from the rear ranks to replace those in the front who had fallen.
      The Beinisonians  had succeeded  in pushing the  Baranurians back
 ten yards and were forcing the  flanks, where the two forces were more
 evenly matched in terms of armour, back even farther. While his centre
 was holding firm, Ailean knew that if he could not bring the situation
 on the flanks under control he would  be forced to pull back even more
 than he already had to avoid  encirclement, thus allowing the enemy to
 bring  heavier troops  ashore.  And  that, he  knew,  would spell  his
 force's doom.
      Ailean wracked his  brain for a solution as the  battle raged on,
 but he  saw no way to  prevent catastrophe. Perhaps, he  thought, if I
 threw  Lord Morion's  Battalion in  to reinforce  the centre,  I could
 split them.  Possible, he thought. But  do I have the  time? He looked
 towards his flanks for the answer.  The left flank had finally managed
 to hold the enemy advance and was even pushing them back slightly. The
 right flank, however, had fallen back  even more and was now bent back
 thirty more yards from the water's edge.
      And then, in  a flash of inspiration, Ailean saw  his chance. The
 very success  of the Beinisonians  on the  right flank was  also their
 greatest danger. In pressing their  advantage, they too were now forty
 yards from the water's edge.  Being outnumbered, they could not afford
 to hold back a reserve. If Ailean could take his reserves into the gap
 between the Beinisonians and the water's  edge, he could roll up their
 left flank and fall upon their centre.
      Throughout history, it has long been taught that the last general
 to commit his reserves usually wins the battle, all other things being
 equal. Sir Ailean of Bivar was about to prove that maxim once more.

 Shandayma Bay shore, 16 leagues north of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat,
    Baranur
 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y.

      Lord  Morion side-stepped  the Beinisonian's  downward swing  and
 countered with a cut to the  throat. Ailean's plan to attack the enemy
 in the flank  had worked beautifully. Ailean and Morion  had taken the
 five hundred men and women of the reserve Battalion and led them north
 to the  assistance of  the hard-pressed 1st  Regiment of  the Pyridain
 Borderers. By  the time Ailean  and Morion had arrived,  the Borderers
 had been  pushed back sixty  yards from  the water's edge.  The Knight
 Captain led Morion's Battalion against the enemy without delay. Unable
 to  stand  assault  from  two directions  at  once,  the  Beinisonians
 retreated rapidly south.
      Ailean now  had the enemy  compressed into a  horseshoe perimeter
 that was quickly  shrinking. Light troops, no matter  how good, simply
 can not stand  toe-to-toe with heavy infantry and slug  it out. Of the
 one  thousand   bodies  littering   the  beach,  eight   hundred  were
 Beinisonian. And of those eight  hundred, two hundred had been wounded
 but had drowned before the tide went out.
      "On! On!" Morion shouted,  exhorting his students forward. "Press
 on! Drive them hard!"
      Two Beinisonian soldiers ran at  Morion. One stumbled and fell in
 the wet sand  but the other kept on coming.  Morion turned his enemy's
 thrust with his shield and aimed  a slash at his opponent's unarmoured
 head.  The Beinisonian  parried  with  his sabre  and  dropped into  a
 fencer's crouch.
      Morion thrust towards his adversary's  abdomen and was met by his
 opponent's  parry.  The combatants'  blades  never  met, for  Morion's
 initial  thrust  was  a  feint.  His real  thrust  was  aimed  at  the
 Beinisonian's left  side. His blade  slid deep between  his opponent's
 ribs and the man crumpled. Whether he was dead or not, Morion couldn't
 be sure  because the second  Beinisonian had regained his  footing and
 was after Morion once more after finishing one of Morion's students.
      Morion immediately  saw this one  would prove a  tougher opponent
 due to the fact that his enemy was left-handed, making Morion's shield
 useless,  even a  hindrance.  He  threw it  aside  and  leaped at  his
 opponent.
      Though  Morion   was  wearing   much  heavier  armour   than  the
 Beinisonian, his  enemy didn't hesitate about  grappling hand-to-hand.
 Both mens' swords had met at the guards and each had the other's wrist
 locked in a grip of desperate strength.
      Morion pushed  and strained,  trying to  gain enough  leverage to
 throw the younger  man off balance. His opponent  was strong, stronger
 than his size  would indicate. The wet sand under  Morion's right foot
 shifted and  he fell. The Beinisonian  was thrown off balance  as well
 although he managed to keep his footing.
      Morion struggled to  his knees and grasped his sword  just as the
 Beinisonian reached  him. Morion  caught a glint  of sunlight  off his
 opponent's upraised sabre and knew he had time for one last act.
      Desperation  lending him  strength, Morion  stabbed upwards.  His
 sword bit deep into his adversary's neck, severing the carotid artery.
 The Beinisonian fell, his lifeblood rapidly soaking into the sand.
      Morion stood, retrieved his shield  and rested for a moment while
 drinking from his canteen. He looked around; the battle was going well
 for Baranur. The Beinisonian pocket  had shrunk even further. The only
 thing preventing the  Baranurians from enveloping their  enemy was the
 water. Morion sensed that one more good hard push and the Beinisonians
 were finished.
      He replaced his canteen on his belt and was about to re-enter the
 fray when  someone pounded him  on the right shoulder.  Morion whipped
 around, sword poised to strike. It was Ailean.
      Seeing the grim expression on  Ailean's face, Morion asked, "What
 is it? What's wrong?"
      Ailean started to say something then stopped and turned, pointing
 out to sea. A black line of  boats was approaching, each packed to the
 gunwales  with  troops. Morion  could  see  the tell-tale  flashes  of
 sunlight that  meant the  the oncoming  Beinisonians were  armoured in
 something more substantial than boiled leather.
      "By all  the gods!" Morion  exclaimed. "They're sending  in their
 heavy infantry! They're not waiting to clear the beach!"
      "Yes," Ailean said tightly. "It is the end."
      "We're going  to have to  work fast if  we want to  extricate the
 bulk of our force," Morion commented.
      "Yes you will," Ailean said in agreement.
      Morion turned his head sharply to look at the young knight. "What
 did you mean by that?"
      "Sir Edward personally entrusted me with stopping the Beinisonian
 attack on  Shark's Cove.  At all  costs," Ailean  said, gazing  at the
 oncoming enemy.
      "But he couldn't have known the  size of the force that you would
 be facing."
      "It matters little.  We both know what the phrase  'at all costs'
 means."
      "Ailean,  they outnumber  us five-to-one!  We've hurt  them. It's
 time to fall back and delay them as long as possible."
      "I agree."
      "Well what is this talk of me taking command?"
      "You'll need a rear-guard," Ailean  said in a business-like tone.
 "The Borderers  should be  sufficient. That would  leave you  with the
 better part of three-and-a-half Regiments."
      "You don't stand a chance!"
      Ailean turned to speak. When he did, it was with determination in
 his  eyes and  a  note of  finality  in  his voice.  "I  swore to  His
 Excellency--on  my  honour--that   I  would  not  fail   him.  Do  you
 understand,  Lord  Morion?  The  fact  that I  have  failed  means  my
 honour--or my life--is  forfeit. My honour means more to  me than life
 itself. And so, I shall die to preserve it."
      "Ailean, don't be a fool!"
      "Lord  Morion,  you  placed  yourself under  my  command  when  I
 explained to  you the  gravity of  the situation. Do  you now  wish to
 revoke your pledge?"
      "No. Neither do I wish to see you dead."
      "It's decided, Morion. The longer you delay lessens the chance of
 escape."
      Morion stared at Ailean for long moments. Then, uttering a curse,
 he  left the  knight  and  began the  difficult  task  of executing  a
 fighting  withdrawal,  perhaps  the  most  difficult  of  maneuvers  a
 commander has to oversee.

 War galley HUNTRESS, flagship Beinisonian Expeditionary Force
 Shandayma Bay, 16 leagues north of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat,
    Baranur
 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y.

      "Well, Vasquez," Fleet Admiral  Talens asked in irritation, "what
 are they doing?"
      Vasquez  lowered the  spyglass he'd  borrowed and  said, "They've
 spotted the  second wave. They're  retreating." He slammed  the object
 shut. "We  have them! I'm going  ashore. Colonel Conti, see  to it the
 rest of the force is landed."
      "Yes, sir."
      A boat was put over the  side and Vasquez and a six-man bodyguard
 headed  for the  beach  as  fast as  the  oarsmen  could row.  Vasquez
 intended to personally  oversee this battle to its  conclusion. He had
 the chance  to capture  six Colours  in one battle.  That would  be an
 achievement no other Field Marshal could rival.
      Vasquez  was intently  studying  the battle's  flow. He  couldn't
 believe what he was seeing.  The Baranurians were succeeding in making
 their withdrawal,  outnumbered as  they were. Whoever  their commander
 is, thought Vasquez,  he is a worthy opponent. "I  look forward to our
 meeting," he said aloud.

 Shandayma Bay shore, 16 leagues north of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat,
    Baranur
 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y.

      Morion  was  slowly  disengaging  the three  Regiments  of  heavy
 infantry. He  split his own  Battalion into  two groups, one  to cover
 each  flank. The  troops were  holding up  well, considering  this was
 their first battle for most.
      Morion  was  increasingly  dissatisfied  with the  speed  of  the
 withdrawal. Ailean had something less than two thousand men to try and
 hold close  to twenty-five hundred  at bay with another  four thousand
 about  to land.  Morion estimated  he had  another twenty  minutes, at
 best, to get his troops away from the fighting.
      Morion's  force was  about halfway  to the  dunes. He  turned his
 attention from his  soldiers to the battle still  underway. Ailean had
 been forced back but by some miracle was keeping the enemy at bay. But
 at what great cost. Half his men  were dead or wounded and those still
 able to  fight were trying  to hold a  frontage that five  times their
 number  had difficulty  holding  earlier that  morning.  And that  was
 against  the  enemy's  light  infantry.  When  the  Beinisonian  heavy
 infantry landed, Ailean's force would be overwhelmed in seconds.
      Morion knew he had  to act quickly or he would  not even have his
 twenty minutes. He called the Commanders of his three Regiments to him
 and  briefly  explained  what  he  had  in  mind.  There  was  shocked
 disbelief. Morion's plan was dangerous  and if things went awry, there
 would be  no hope of  putting up even a  token resistance. But  as one
 Commander put it, "We'd just be buying ourselves a few minutes more if
 we don't."
      A few minutes  later, Morion, now seated on his  horse, was ready
 to implement  his plan.  Trumpets blew, drums  sounded, and  all three
 Regiments changed from line-of-battle to line-of-march. To be attacked
 now would  spell disaster. At a  signal from Morion, the  Colours were
 unfurled  and the  signal given  to force-march.  All three  Regiments
 moved off at a trot, the fastest pace they could manage in the sand.
      Morion  drove  them  mercilessly, seemingly  uncaring  about  the
 difficulties  the quickness  of  the  pace and  the  heat  of the  sun
 presented to the men and women  under his command. Once they were past
 the dunes and onto better footing, he ordered the pace stepped up even
 further. When  he'd put a league  between his force and  the enemy, he
 slowed the  pace to a  walk. Riding to  his senior Commander  he said,
 "Keep them  headed toward Port Sevlyn.  I'm going back to  see how Sir
 Ailean fares."
      He galloped back to the beach as fast as his horse could make it.
 He arrived just in time to witness the battle's final moments. By this
 time, the enemy had landed his second wave and surrounded the remnants
 of Ailean's force.  Morion looked down on the scene  with a mixture of
 pride  and  grief. Pride  that  both  Regiment's Colours,  King's  and
 Regimental, still flew. Grief that less than fifty men warded them.
      As  he watched,  the  enemy's commander  came  forward and  asked
 Ailean to surrender.
      Ailean refused.
      Again  the  Beinisonian asked,  almost  pleaded,  with Ailean  to
 surrender. "Why  waste your  life? I  shall have  the Colours  with or
 without your surrender."
      Again Ailean refused.
      "So be it," the enemy commander replied and slowly walked back to
 his own lines.
      The end was swift. The Beinisonians charged Ailean's group and it
 was over in minutes. Ailean was among the last to fall, preserving the
 Colours and his honour to the very last.
      "Damn you, Ailean," Morion cursed softly. "Damn you and your Code
 of Conduct. And  damn you, Sir Edward, for accepting  his pledge. Look
 what it's brought."
      Morion turned his  horse and made his way back  to his troops. He
 knew  he could  not stop  the Beinisonians  with his  small force.  He
 probably couldn't  even delay them. But  he must try, for  Baranur was
 lost if he didn't.

 Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y.

      The Melrin festival's going quite  well considering there's a war
 on, the "owner"  of The Tipsy Dragon tavern thought.  Adrea Rainer was
 watching the  tavern while her fellow  trouble shooter (for lack  of a
 better word) Rien was off on business elsewhere.
      At thirty, the blond-haired, brown-eyed  thief still had not lost
 her touch.  She could pilfer  your coin-purse while standing  right in
 front  of  you  and  you  would never  be  the  wiser.  Her  five-foot
 eight-inch frame held her well-muscled  one hundred thirty pounds with
 ease. There  were not many that  made the mistake of  antagonizing her
 that got away without a scar or three for their troubles.
      Adrea  had been  going non-stop  since early  this morning.  On a
 normal day,  she'd be  lucky to get  ten customers  before night-fall.
 Now, late afternoon, The Tipsy Dragon was full to capacity and she was
 hard-pressed to keep up.
      She was  returning yet-again  for a  round of  ale when  a street
 urchin who worked for Gaius  Caligula burst wild-eyed into the tavern.
 "The Beinisonians have landed!" he  shouted. "They're at the north end
 o' town!"
      The  patrons panicked,  trampling each  other in  their haste  to
 reach the door. Adrea vaulted across  the bar just in time and watched
 as the  tide of humanity flowed  out the door. She  could hear screams
 almost immediately. Obviously, the  Beinisonians had moved faster than
 the boy had said. Outside, she could hear the looting begin.
      She  threw off  the apron  she was  wearing and  ran to  her room
 downstairs in  the basement  sub-levels, taking the  steps three  at a
 time. She had prepared for this. Before he had left, Rien had told her
 to be ready  to move at a  moment's notice in case the  Cove should be
 attacked. Adrea  had scoffed at  the notion.  Shark's Cove was  so far
 north of the  Beinison-Baranur border that the  thought of Beinisonian
 soldiers running through the streets had been laughable.
      Adrea burst  into her room  and quickly dressed in  clothing more
 suited for  travel. Next,  she began shoving  her belongings  into her
 pack: food, extra clothing,  everything disappeared into the backpack.
 She secreted a throwing dagger in her right boot. Two more disappeared
 up  her sleeves.  She began  buckling  on her  shortsword but  thought
 better of  it. Wearing  a weapon  so openly  would surely  attract the
 attention  of  any  soldiers  she  might  run  into  on  the  streets.
 Reluctantly, she  stowed the sword  away in her backpack;  her daggers
 would have to serve.
      She ran up  to the common room  and was about to  leave The Tipsy
 Dragon  when she  heard  a  woman scream  just  outside. She  stopped,
 thinking quickly. Obviously she couldn't  leave just now, at least not
 by the  door. Her only  other alternative was  to try leaping  from an
 upstairs window.  Adrea was  on her  way when the  door to  the tavern
 burst open.
      Adrea  turned and  saw  a young  woman,  perhaps eighteen,  being
 pursued by  six soldiers.  The woman's  dress was  ripped and  she had
 bruises on her  face. Apparently, she had escaped  before the soldiers
 could overly harm her. She flung a  chair at one of her tormentors but
 to no avail. The six caught her and forced her to the floor.
      Adrea, at the  back of the room near the  stairs, went un-noticed
 throughout the entire  event. She stood rooted to  the spot, uncertain
 of what to do.  The sensible thing to do would  be to run immediately,
 before the  soldiers noticed her. But  that was not in  Adrea Rainer's
 character. She could not abandon an innocent to such a fate.
      She crept  closer to the soldiers,  who by now were  taking their
 turns with their victim. Adrea closed to within ten feet and drew both
 daggers  from her  sleeves. She  stood and  was noticed  at once  by a
 soldier just finishing  with the now-unresisting woman  lying naked on
 the floor. Adrea threw both  daggers in quick succession, both finding
 their  marks. The  soldier who  noticed  her fell  backward, a  dagger
 sprouting  from his  throat.  A second  Beinisonian  collapsed with  a
 dagger protruding from his back.
      One of the  remaining four shouted something in  a language Adrea
 wasn't familiar  with but  could guess the  meaning of.  Adrea quickly
 drew her last dagger and settled  into a fighting stance. She expected
 the four  to rush her  without regard  for tactics but  they surprised
 her, fanning out in a semi-circle.
      At a given command, all four  rushed her at once. Adrea swept her
 dagger in an arc before her and succeeded in delivering a deep gash to
 one  of  her attacker's  arms.  Before  she  could capitalize  on  her
 accomplishment,  she was  grabbed  roughly from  behind  in a  massive
 embrace. She struggled but could not loosen the hold on her.
      The soldier  she had slashed came  to stand in front  of her, his
 hand clasped  tightly to his  wound. He looked her  in the eyes  for a
 moment before  nodding to one of  his companions who reached  down and
 wrested the dagger from Adrea's hand.
      The  wounded   Beinisonian  said  something--evidently   a  crude
 remark--and the others laughed. Adrea  spit in his face. Surprisingly,
 he  did nothing  except  take Adrea's  dagger from  one  of the  other
 soldiers.
      The wounded man said something in  a low voice, turned and walked
 over to the  young woman sobbing on the floor,  the dagger hidden from
 her sight.  He knelt  between her  legs and  Adrea heard  her begging,
 pleading with the man not to rape her again.
      The  wounded soldier  slowly brought  the dagger  into view.  The
 woman screamed  at the sight  of it  and began struggling  against her
 assailant.  The  soldier  brought  the   blade  down.  Adrea  heard  a
 sickeningly  wet sound  and saw  the woman's  struggling legs  go limp
 except for  a slight  twitching as  her life  gushed from  her severed
 carotid artery.
      The soldier stood  and indifferently tossed the  dagger aside. He
 nodded and Adrea  was forced to the floor. She  kicked and flailed her
 arms  but there  were too  many of  them. Her  tunic was  ripped open,
 exposing her breasts.  She tried to resist but she  was held fast. Her
 trousers were hauled roughly off her and  she felt the cold metal of a
 steel gauntlet touch her thighs.
      Looking around in desperation for  something, anything, to use as
 a weapon,  she spied a heavy  spitoon within arms reach.  She wrestled
 one arm free and grabbed the  spitoon. She swung with all her strength
 and felt it connect with the body  on top of her, sending her attacker
 to the ground.
      Adrea ran for the stairs, hoping  to reach a room upstairs so she
 could escape from  a window. She had just reached  the stairs when she
 felt something heavy hit her  between the shoulder-blades, sending her
 sprawling. Rough hands  dragged her to the middle of  the room and the
 partially  stunned   trouble  shooter  was  held   down  and  violated
 repeatedly.
      After they were  through, Adrea was hauled upright and  held in a
 standing position in front of the  wounded soldier, now sporting a cut
 on his  scalp. He  said something  but Adrea was  aware only  that she
 could feel  a soreness between  her legs. The Beinisonian  slapped her
 and again spoke, this time much  harsher. He saw she was still unaware
 of him and made a noise of  disappointment. He drew his own dagger and
 held  it in  front  of Adrea's  face. Still,  Adrea  did not  respond.
 Deeming  that there  was no  more  pleasure to  be had  from her,  the
 Beinisonian quickly and efficiently disemboweled her.
      Adrea collapsed immediately,  unable even to scream  the pain was
 so intense. The  four soldiers expertly looted  Adrea's belongings and
 left their hacking, naked victim to die slowly in unbearable agony.
      Across the street,  the boy who had shouted his  warning to those
 in The  Tipsy Dragon turned from  the ghastly sight the  tavern's open
 door afforded him and retched against a wall.

 Laraka River, 10 leagues southeast of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat,
    Baranur
 1 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Lord Morion  sat his  horse seemingly  ignoring the  rain pouring
 from the sky. Two thousand eight  hundred men and women marched slowly
 southeast along  the riverbank. The  rain, and the occasional  bolt of
 lightning,  served to  lower  their already-low  morale.  Most of  the
 survivors of the previous day's battle  were numb with shock. They had
 seen friends  die or  horribly wounded  and what  was worse,  they had
 lost. The  few veterans among  them tried  to keep up  their comrades'
 morale, but the veterans themselves were in a somber mood. Not because
 of the deaths--they had seen plenty of death during their service--but
 because they  knew the odds  they faced.  Most wore the  expression of
 soldiers that were going to die and knew it.
      Morion rode at the  head of the column. He was  aware of what his
 soldiers were  thinking; he had  had those same thoughts  himself many
 times in  the past. He  was tempted to  agree with his  veterans. Port
 Sevlyn was only six days away  and had a militia. Morion discarded the
 city immediately. He had too few men and Port Sevlyn was too large for
 him to  adequately defend. The only  other option was Gateway  Keep in
 the Royal Duchy.
      Gateway was built  for the very purpose Morion  required; to stop
 an invader from  reaching Magnus. "Yes," he said  aloud. "Gateway. For
 good or ill, we'll make our stand at Gateway."
      Morion turned in  the saddle and surveyed his men.  They may look
 beaten now, he  thought, but they'll do. They'll do.  He faced forward
 once  more and  settled in  the saddle  for the  long, tense  march to
 Gateway. The Beinisonians would be close behind him all the way.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                             My Father's Curse
                             by Wendy Hennequin
                        (b.c.k.a <Hennequi@CTStateU>)

      The King  was laughing when  Marcellon, Sir Edward, and  I walked
 into his private  audience chamber. There was a chess  board set up in
 the corner;  the red  king was  lying prostrate in  the center  of the
 board, defeated.
      Fine thing,  for a King to  be laughing and playing  chess in the
 middle of the  war. But I am a  Knight, and as Sir Lucan  and my uncle
 Sir Clifton Dargon taught me, I held my peace.
      King Haralan turned from his other advisors when he saw us enter.
 "Greetings,  Mage," the  King  began, slowing  his mirth.  "Greetings,
 Edward.  Welcome,  and  welcome  to  you,  Sir  Knight."  I  bowed  my
 acknoledgement. "What think you?"
      Marcellon advanced and helped himself to  a goblet of wine from a
 tray. Marcellon's often bold before the King, bolder than anyone, even
 me, and I'm fairly  forward, King or no King. "What  think I? Of what,
 your majesty?"
      "That I  take a  Queen--that I  take the  Countess of  Connall to
 wive."
      Marcellon swallowed the wine quickly to avoid choking. Sir Edward
 stared. I  smiled and  bowed to  the King  again. "Your  majesty shows
 excellent taste  in women," I  complimented. "The Countess  of Connall
 would make a fine queen. It's too bad your majesty won't be able to do
 it."
      The  King   raised  his  eyebrows.   Sir  Edward  stared   at  me
 unbelievingly. Marcellon shot me a  friendly glance of admiration. The
 Master Priest, who stood behind the  King, scowled at my boldness. The
 King  recovered  first, blinked,  and  spoke  to  me. "You  think  her
 difficult to court, Sir Knight? In that, I would agree."
      "That's true,  your majesty,"  I answered,  smiling. And  don't I
 know it!
      "That's the  least of your problems,  sire, if you want  to marry
 Lady Myrande," Marcellon interrupted. "For one thing, you'll never get
 the Church to agree to it."
      "You  overstep your  bounds, I  think, Mage,"  the Master  Priest
 replied  scornfully. "The  Church  would  do nothing  to  stop such  a
 marriage. It could bring only good. Although the Countess is far below
 the King in  station--the mere daughter of a Knight--"  I frowned. Sir
 Edward scowled.  "--she is well-liked  and capable. She would  make an
 excellent guardian  of the Princes  Sadron and Kalien should  the King
 fall in battle."
      Sir Edward finally found his  tongue. "You're not going to fight,
 are you, Haralan?" he burst out. "Don't be a fool."
      "No  more  than I  must,"  the  King  promised.  "I am  no  great
 warrior."
      "Besides,"  the Master  Priest continued  as if  he had  not been
 interrupted, "there is no reason to prohibit such a marriage."
      Marcellon looked at  me and I at him. "Forgive  my boldness, your
 holiness," Marcellon began, his voice  deferential, "but I believe the
 Stevene stictly forbade adultery and bigamy."
      "So he  did, Mage,"  the Master Priest  answered darkly.  "But no
 such impediment exists here."
      King Haralan gave Marcellon an odd look. "I don't understand you,
 Marcellon,"  the  King admitted  softly.  "I  am  a widower,  and  the
 Countess is a widow."
      "Not while I'm still breathing!" I ejected finally. Marcellon and
 Sir Edward had wanted me to keep quiet, to see how long it took before
 the King realized  who I was. But  the hell with it.  I wasn't letting
 him think he could marry Sable while I'm still alive. And if he didn't
 recognize me now, he was really dense.
      The King stared at me in disbelief,  much as Sir Edward had a few
 moments ago. "Count Connall," he finally breathed. "My God." He became
 a little calmer, and began again. "Greetings and welcome, Sir Luthias,
 Count of Connall. Forgive my rude assumptions, but I did not recognize
 you  with that  beard--and the  rest of  your body--attatched  to your
 head."
      "I hold  no grudges," I  admitted graciously. I can  be gracious,
 sometimes, if  I want, and  King Haralan  didn't deserve my  wrath. He
 did, after all,  think I was dead,  and he does, after  all, have good
 taste in women.
      "And we are glad to  see," King Haralan continued, switching from
 Normal Person  to Royal Pompous  mode, "that  you are so  difficult to
 suprise."
      "What's so suprising?"  I returned. "I admire my  wife, too." The
 King laughed.
      "This," the  Master Priest  said contemptuously to  King Haralan,
 "is the Count of Connall?"
      "He  is," Sir  Edward  answered for  the  King. "Apparently,  the
 Beinisonains didn't kill him, but rather tortured him."
      "I don't want to talk about it," I said.
      "If your majesty still wishes to  marry with the Countess, I will
 arrange the divorce."
      I glared at  the Master Priest. What a--! "Over  my dead body!" I
 shouted  at him.  Then I  took two  steps forward  and pointed  at him
 angrily. "Better yet, over yours!"
      Marcellon  gave  the Master  Priest  a  cool look.  "The  Stevene
 allowed for  divorce only  in extreme cases,"  the High  Mage reminded
 him.  I  knew that,  somewhere.  But  theology  was one  of  Roisart's
 hobbies. I  like history better.  Marcellon continued in his  dry way,
 "You would do well not to abuse your power."
      "Is that a threat?" demanded the Master Priest.
      "If need be. You are not the only one with power, your holiness."
      "We would recommend that you worry more about the Count Connall's
 threat,"  the King  said light-heartedly.  I gave  him a  wicked grin.
 Sometimes King Haralan and I  understand each other, which is strange,
 for we are so different. But then, Roisart and I understood each other
 perfectly--sometimes,  I think  Roisart  understood me  better than  I
 understand  myself--and  we,  too,  were very  different.  "The  Count
 Connall threatened your very life, Master Priest, and in the matter of
 the Countess, he  rarely stays his hand." The King  paused and waved a
 herald forward. "The Countess Connall cannot  be far; summon her to my
 presence immediately."
      "And the Bichanese lords with her, your majesty?"
      "Bring them," commanded  the King. King Haralan looked  at me and
 Sir  Edward.  "The  gracious  Emperor  of Bichu  has  sent  us  thirty
 knights--what do they call them?"
      "Samurais," I offered.
      "Just so. The Emperor has sent us thrity samurais--" As usual, no
 one in the Kingdom can manage a correct Bichanese pronunciation! "--to
 aid us  in the  war against  the Beinison Empire.  Among them  is your
 Castellan, Count Connall; do you require him for the war?"
      I nodded and began to thank the  King. Michiya was just the man I
 wanted for my chief aide and advisor. He  is one of the few men I know
 whose  military  knowledge I  completely  respect  and whose  military
 prowess I would fear, if we were enemies. But that Master Priest began
 again--damn him!
      "The Count Connall would not be so foolhardy as to raise his hand
 against me, a holy Priest of the Stevene."
      I  was  going  to  say  something about  how  the  Stevene  hated
 hypocrisy, but instead I turned to  the King. "Your majesty, I believe
 we have settled the matter of my wife. Would your majesty grant me the
 favor of  requiring the  Master Priest  to shut his  damn mouth?  As a
 'mere knight,' I have not the rank to do so."
      "I  do,"  Marcellon volunteered.  "Shut  up,  Jehan." The  Master
 Priest  scowled, and  Marcellon  offered his  sweetest, most  innocent
 smile.
      "The matter is  closed," the King proclaimed. "We  will not marry
 the Countess;  indeed, we  had only  meant it as  a jest,  although we
 admire Lady Sable  greatly. Now, your holiness, be so  good as to hold
 your tongue. We have other matters to discuss."
      "Tell  me about  the Bichanese,  Haralan," Sir  Edward requested,
 sitting. "You said there are thirty. Who leads them?"
      "A  very  respectable  man   of  perhaps  Marcellon's  age  named
 Kirinagi."  Somehow I  knew  that Michiya  would  pronounce that  name
 differently. "He is very knowledgeable and very capable. His second, I
 gather, is Ittosai Michiya's brother, whose name I don't recall."
      "Ito," one of the advisors  said. "Ittosai Ito. An odd Bichanese.
 He has blue eyes."
      I vaguely recalled Michiya once telling me about an older brother
 named Ito, but I had other things  on my mind. How far had Sable gone?
 Would she recognize me? Did she still--
      "Speaking, as we were, of generals, Haralan, would you approve my
 appointment for General of the  Cavalry?" Edward asked. "I have chosen
 Sir Luthias, Count Connall."
      "I approve completely. The post is yours, Sir Luthias."
      "Thank you, sire,"  I said automatically, but I  was watching the
 door for Sable.
      "How are matters in Pyridain?"
      And Marcellon and Sir Edward started in on it, the whole romance,
 from start  to finish.  In the  middle, the door  slammed open,  and I
 heard Sable's voice in the hall  beyond: "Your majesty will forgive me
 if I speak candidly and say that this had better be good!"
      King Haralan whirled. I knew Sable  would never speak that way to
 the King. And  then she came in, leaning heavily  on Michiya's arm and
 on another man, a tall Bichanese with blue eyes. I suppose he was Ito,
 but I didn't care. Right then, I fell against a wall, terrified.
      Sable was pregnant.
      God, no,  I prayed. I  didn't mean it.  I wouldn't kill  a Master
 Priest, God.  Don't take  her from  me. No, don't  take her.  You took
 Roisart  and Father--before  that Mama-Aunt  and Sir  Lucan and  Uncle
 Clifton--not her, God, not her too!

      *"I lost her, Lucan; she's gone, and there's no remedy for it!"
      "I understand."
      "How can you understand? How  dare you? Your wife lives; Morwyn's
 alive, and so is  Sable! How do you know what it is  to lose your wife
 to your sons?"*

      The King was  standing. Sable was panting; she was  pale, and her
 dress was soaked from  the waist down. Marcellon was at  her side in a
 second. "When did the water break?"
      "Just now."
      "Are you in pain?"
      "I have been, all day, but I didn't realize it was labor."
      "You?" Marcellon  laughed. I wanted to  be with her, to  hold her
 before she died, but I couldn't move. "You, the midwife, Lady Sable?"
      "I've never been in labor before," she snapped. Then she smiled a
 little, till pain erased it. "I'm glad to see you, Marcellon, and you,
 too, Sir Edward."
      I stared  at her. No  greeting for me?!  I hadn't been  gone that
 long! But I couldn't speak, couldn't tell her, couldn't move...
      Sable  finally looked  at  me,  but I  don't  know  whom she  saw
 standing there.  "I regret I'll  not be able to  get to know  you, Sir
 Knight. Your majesty--"
      "*Sable!*" I finally screamed, but that was all I could do.
      And  she looked  at me  again, frightened  and pale,  and fainted
 right into the arms of the big, blue-eyed Bichanese.
      Now I could  move. Marcellon was beside her, and  Michiya and his
 brother were propping her up. I knelt beside her. "Don't let her die,"
 I begged, taking her hand. "Don't let her die."
      "What   nonsense   are    you   talking?"   Marcellon   wondered,
 half-interested. "Your majesty, excuse us.  I will see to Lady Sable."
 The King consented,  and Marcellon turned to  Michiya. "Lords Ittosai,
 help me move her."
      "I  can carry  my  own wife,"  I snapped,  lifting  her. She  was
 awkward to manage, so pregnant...oh, God, don't let her die.
      But she  was going to die.  She was going  to die. And it  was my
 fault.
      "Luthias-sama," Michiya  was saying excitedly, "they  told me you
 were dead!"
      "I'm much better," I grumbled, shifting Sable. "Where do you want
 me to take her?" I asked Marcellon.
      "You do not look much better than a dead man," the tall blue-eyed
 Bichanese said.
      "Let me take her," Michiya offered.
      "No." I turned to Marcellon. "Where?"
      "This way," said the mage, and I followed.
      "Can I stay  with her?" I asked, barely aware  of Michiya and Ito
 following me.
      The High  Mage nearly  stopped dead and  stared and  smiled. "You
 wish to stay with her? You're more unusual than I thought!"
      "Do you think I'd let her die alone?" I shouted.
      "Die?  What are  you talking  about? Hurry,"  Marcellon continued
 without  waiting  for  my  answer.  "We've got  to  put  her  to  bed.
 Gentlemen, return to Sir Edward."

      *A little  boy was sneaking  through the  halls. It was  past his
 bedtime, and he  would be punished by Mama-Aunt if  he were caught. It
 was  harder tonight;  he  was tired,  for today  had  been his  fourth
 birthday, but he  persevered. He must once again thank  his father for
 the gifts: a  new sword, of real  iron just like Sir  Lucan's, and his
 very own pony!
      And he crept, alone in his nightshirt, to his father's study. His
 bare feet made no noise on the cool stone.*

      Michiya spoke quickly  in Bichanese to his  brother; Ito replied.
 "I  shall  stay with  Luthias-sama,"  Michiya  announced, and  marched
 beside me. I was glad he was there. God, if only Roisart were here! If
 only Father--
      Damn it, it was  *his* fault, not mine! I didn't  do it! I didn't
 mean to do it--
      But deep  down, I knew  it was my  fault. I've always  known. And
 now, I was being punished.
      Marcellon opened a heavy door and  ushered me inside. I put Sable
 on the soft bed. Marcellon spoke to  Michiya, but I don't know what he
 said; Sable was stirring, and she cried out in pain.
      "Easy," I soothed, brushing her hair.
      "Luthias," she breathed, "you're alive."
      Normally, I would have given her a sarcastic or funny answer, but
 I choked.  Maybe Beinison  took the  humor out of  me. "I'm  sorry," I
 finally managed. "I'm  sorry, Sable. It's my fault. I  never meant for
 this to happen. I  didn't want you to be--" When  had this happened? I
 thought I was careful. I thought--
      It didn't matter. She was pregnant,  she was dying, and it was my
 fault. It was all my fault.
      "That first  night," she breathed. "Everything  was so confused."
 She  smiled, touched  the chain  across my  shoulders. "When  were you
 Knighted?"
      She  was dying,  and  she  wanted to  know  about my  Knighthood?
 "Sable," I began, but I couldn't finish. What was I going to tell her?
 What could I tell her? What did it matter? She was going to die!
      "I'm  glad you're  home," she  whispered, then  pain crossed  her
 face, and she shouted.
      "Do  you want  an anestetic?"  Marcellon offered,  coming to  her
 bedside with a  cloth. I took it  in one hand and  wiped her forehead.
 With the other hand, I searched for hers and grasped it.
      Sable  shook her  head. "It  won't be  long." And  she cried  out
 again.
      How could someone be in this much pain and not die?

      *The  Baron drank  from  the  blue decanter  and  whirled on  his
 castellan. "Do you know how it feels?" the Baron demanded wildly. "How
 can you? How can you know how it feels? Morwyn lives still; my Julia's
 dead!"  The Baron  turned toward  the portrait  of his  dead wife  and
 sobbed. "Oh, Julie..." The castellan  approached gently and put a hand
 on the Baron's  shoulder, but the Baron furiously pushed  him away. "I
 don't want your sympathy; you have none."
      "You're drunk, Fionn. Go to bed," the castellan suggested mildly.
      "What does it  matter? What does anything  matter?" The castellan
 turned away and shook his head. He stared at the door, helpless. "What
 can matter after your sons murder your wife? God, I hate them--I curse
 them!  May they  feel  the same  wound--may the  women  they love  die
 bearing their children!"
      The  castellan's eyes  widened.  Swiftly turning,  he struck  the
 Baron angrily.  "For God's  sake, hold your  tongue!" he  shouted. The
 Baron toppled, and the castellan turned to the door.
      But the little boy had fled.*

      Sable held my hand tightly. I  thought she was going to break it.
 How long had  this been going on? It seemed  like hours. Yet Marcellon
 was calm--she was dying and Marcellon was calm!--as if everything were
 all under control.
      What did he  know? Damn the Mage! Or maybe  he didn't understand,
 but  that's very  strange for  Marcellon,  who knows  mysteries as  if
 they're obvious.
      Sable cried  out again.  "Push," Marcellon commanded  gently, and
 Sable's face twisted  with the effort. She cried  again, but Marcellon
 said, "Push, Sable. I can see the head."
      And that, I knew, would be the end.

      *The little  boy leapt into  his bed  and pulled the  covers over
 him. Unable to be strong any longer, he sobbed into his pillow.
      Suddenly, there was a voice at his side. "Luke?" Little arms went
 around him. "Luke, what's wrong? Don't cry."
      He couldn't  tell him;  no, he wouldn't  burden his  brother. The
 little  boy  would bear  the  secret,  the  hate, the  guilt--and  the
 curse--alone.
      But still he sobbed till dawn in his brother's arms.*

      There was  a baby  in the  room, a crying  baby, but  Sable still
 breathed--and she was still in  pain. I stared. Marcellon was smiling.
 "Another push, Sable, and we're through."
      "It shouldn't be...this bad," she panted.
      "There's  another child  here," Marcellon  explained. "There  are
 twins."
      Oh, God, she  really is going to  die! Just as Roisart  and I had
 killed our mother, my sons would kill theirs! Oh, God, please!
      Marcellon gave me  a strange look. Then he looked  at Sable again
 and  produced  another screaming  child.  "Now  just the  afterbirth,"
 Marcellon encouraged.
      I remember wondering what the hell *that* was. And Sable, in less
 pain--she was dying  for certain--pushed again, I suppose,  and it was
 over.
      And she still breathed.
      She smiled at me and squeezed  my hand--gently, thank God; it was
 sore as hell--and  I stared at her. She was  alive. I couldn't believe
 it.
      She must be  dying peacefully, gradually, so  painlessly that she
 must not even realize  it. Thank God for that; at  least she would die
 in peace.
      And  Marcellon came  forward, bearing  two bundled  lumps. "Would
 your excellencies deign  to view your perfectly  healthy children?" he
 asked gaily, putting  them on the bed  next to Sable. I  stared at the
 Mage in disbelief,  then looked at the babies as  Marcellon moved away
 to wash his hands.
      "They're so small," I said. Then I felt stupid.
      Sable whacked  me playfully. If I  hadn't known she was  dying, I
 would have  thought she was  getting better. "Newborns  generally are,
 dullard,"  she  laughed  breathlessly. "Especially  twins."  Then  she
 looked at me seriously. "Roisart and Luthias?"
      "What?" I asked.
      "Names."
      "Fionn, not Luthias."
      "Lauren and Clifton called their little boy Fionn."
      "All right," I conceded dully, "Roisart and Luthias."
      "That," said the approaching High  Mage, drying his hands, "would
 be highly inappropriate."
      "Inappropriate?" Sable asked. "Inappropriate  to name my children
 after their father and uncle?"
      Marcellon,  in  that annoying  way  of  his, raised  an  eyebrow.
 "They're girls," he explained simply. And I felt even stupider.
      "Julia?" Sable suggested, looking at me.
      "Fine,"  I said  without  fighting. Perhaps  calling my  daughter
 after her would free me of her death. "The other...Morwyn?" She nodded
 and smiled, and  I knew that she  was glad to name  our daughter after
 Mama-Aunt.
      "After your  mothers?" Marcellon questioned, and  I nodded. "Very
 good. If  you don't  mind, I'll take  the babes to  be blessed  by the
 priests."
      "By the  Master Priest?"  Sable asked sleepily,  snuggling toward
 me.
      "Don't  be ridiculous,"  Marcellon  answered  dryly. "His  breath
 would wilt the poor children." Sable smiled. "I shall return shortly."
      I kissed Sable  swiftly, then rose. I  caught Marcellon's sleeve.
 "How much longer?" I asked in whispers.
      "Longer?"
      "Until she dies."
      Marcellon  gave me  a  very  strange look.  "Your  wife is  fine,
 Luthias,"  he soothed,  putting a  hand  on my  arm. "It  was an  easy
 labor." *That*  was easy? "She was  never in any danger  of death. She
 will live for many years. Don't be alarmed."
      "She's  not  going  to  die?" I  asked  incredulously.  But  that
 couldn't be...any woman I cared for...
      "Of course  not," Marcellon returned with  slight irritation. "Go
 back to  your wife,  Sir Luthias, if  you like; she  will sleep  for a
 while, however."
      "Sleep? After that?"
      "They  don't  call  it  labor for  nothing,  manling,"  Marcellon
 scoffed,  using  Clifton's  horrid  nickname for  me.  His  eyes  were
 smiling, though. "Go on, Luthias. It's all right."
      I stood rooted, staring at the door as Marcellon closed it, until
 I  heard Sable  call me.  I turned.  "Are you  all right?"  she asked,
 holding out her hand.
      I came to her and took it.  "Me? I'm fine. You're the one who was
 in the pain. Sable, how are you?"
      "Wonderful," she told me. I sat in the chair beside her bed. "Are
 you all  right, Luthias? I  thought sometimes  that you felt  the pain
 more than I did."
      She'd never know how much. I  touched her face, and then I kissed
 her. "It's all right, Sable." She  had said she was wonderful; she was
 going to live, Marcellon had said. It was going to be all right.
      Seeing the  change in my face,  she sighed, closed her  eyes, and
 slept.
      And I laid my head down  beside hers, thanking God that my father
 had not cursed me after all.

      *The Baron  drew his little son  onto his knee, but  the normally
 exuberant boy trembled  and looked away fearfully.  "Don't be afraid,"
 the Baron said soothingly. "It's all right."
      The boy would not answer.
      The Baron  held his son  close. "I didn't  mean what I  said last
 night,   my   son,"   the    Baron   whispered,   rocking   the   boy.
 "Grown-ups...when we  hurt, sometimes  we say  crazy things,  and they
 hurt others...I never meant to hurt you, my son."
      Uncertain, the boy withdrew  slightly and looked questioningly at
 his father.
      The Baron saddened at the pain  on the little boy's face. "I love
 you,  my strong  son," he  said, holding  the boy  close. "I  would do
 anything to spare  you pain--I would give anything to  be certain that
 you never feel the  pain I felt when your mother died.  I love you and
 your brother;  please believe that,  my son, and believe  that nothing
 you did hurt her and nothing I said was true."
      And the boy sobbed and held his father tightly. "It's all right,"
 the Baron whispered. "Don't cry, Luthias." The Baron held his boy at a
 small distance. "You believe me?" The boy nodded. "I would never curse
 you, nor  would I  ever hate or  hurt you." The  boy nodded  again and
 gulped his  tears. "Now come,"  invited the Baron, offering  his hand.
 "Let's go riding."*
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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.