From: "SilentElf" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 12 May 92 09:03:32 EDT

1                                                             /
   DDDDD                              ZZZZZZ                //
   D    D  AAAA RRR  GGGG OOOO NN  N      Z  I NN  N EEEE  ||
   D     D A  A R  R G    O  O N N N     Z   I N N N E     || Volume 4
 -=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
   D    D  AAAA RRR  G GG O  O N N N   Z     I N N N E     || Issue  1
   DDDDD   A  A R  R GGGG OOOO N  NN  ZZZZZZ I N  NN EEEE  ||
                                                            \\
                                                              \
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
 --   DargonZine Volume 4, Issue 1        04/05/91          Cir 1127   --
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
 --                            Contents                                --
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
  Slavers                      Max Khaytsus           Nober 18-20, 1013
  Sons of Gateway 4:  Marcus   Jon Evans              N 4, '13-Ja 28, '14
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                            Slavers
                         by Max Khaytsus
               (b.c.k.a. <[email-masked]>)

      Rien and Kera led their horses into the stalls at the back of The
 Tipsy Dragon.
      "Where do I put her?" Kera asked, looking around uncertainly.
      "Towards the back,"  Rien said. "This town isn't safe  for man or
 beast."
      "Then Sina should be just  fine," Kera declared, laughing. "She's
 neither."
      After settling  their horses  for the night,  Rien and  Kera went
 into  the tavern.  "I forgot  to  ask," Rien  said. "How  do you  find
 Sharks' Cove?"
      "I  don't like  it. The  people are  so unfriendly...everyone  in
 Dargon was nice...even to me."
      Rien  smirked.  "As  a  rule,  the  larger  the  city,  the  more
 impersonal it  is. There are  quite a few that  are better at  it than
 Dargon."
      He paused at the bar, surveying  the room. Brice was the only one
 of  the staff  in the  room that  Kera recognized.  He was  behind the
 counter, serving drinks and chatting with customers.
      "Come on," Rien  pulled on Kera's arm. They went  down to the bar
 and sat  down at the  far end,  away from the  rest of the  patrons. A
 moment later Brice came over.
      "It's  about time!"  he exclaimed,  gripping forearms  with Rien.
 "Did everything go well?"
      "Quinn's dead,"  Rien said.  "So's Arvel. Quinn  killed him  in a
 joust before I got there."
      "Better inform  his family,"  Brice sighed. "I  thought he  was a
 little young to be sent out there."
      "I sent  a message  to his  father and to  Lord Tomich  from Port
 Sevlyn," Rien said. "I took Kera there to show her the store."
      Brice  nodded. "Glad  to see  you training  someone. We  need new
 blood."
      Kera threw a puzzled look at him, but said nothing.
      "When is your rotation out of here?" Rien asked.
      "Next month. Deber first."
      "And Enneth?"
      "As soon  as your friend,"  Brice gestured  at Kera with  a grin,
 "tries her plate on."
      "Who was supposed to replace him?" Rien asked.
      "Arvel, but he  thought he might go to Phedra  since he came here
 early."
      Rien dropped his head into his hands. "Send a message to..."
      "Hey, barkeep!" someone  yelled from the other side  of the room.
 "How long do I have to wait here?"
      "Go on," Rien said. "I'll take care of it."
      "You took me on as `new blood'?" Kera asked when Brice left.
      "That's what you'll  become if you decide to  stay," warned Rien,
 putting his arm around her shoulders. "It's  not that bad a job if you
 know what you're doing."
      "Better benefits?"
      "Pays better than Liriss."
      "How would you know what he pays?"
      "Educated guess."
      "Well,  I  suppose..."  Kera  smiled,  stretching  the  words  on
 purpose.
      "You really want to try this?" Rien asked.
      "Why not? It's just a job, right?"
      "Good. I'm  glad you  think that  way," Rien  said with  a smile.
 "Let's go. I'll sign you up and make your hanging around legitimate."
      They both got  up and went to the back  room. Rien rifled through
 the desk and a cabinet and finally turned to Kera.
      "I used to know where everything was," he complained.
      She smiled ironically. "Could be they don't trust you..."
      "Are you sure you want to do  this?" Rien asked. "I don't want to
 give you  the wrong idea. This  really is dangerous work.  People die,
 sometimes horribly."
      "Understand where I  was before," Kera pointed out.  "I could die
 there just as easily -- a disgrunted traveller turning his sword on me
 or  another thief  eliminating  competition...or even  the town  guard
 having an `accident'. At least here  I would be taking these risks for
 a good cause..."
      "Are you sure?" Rien asked again, looking intently at her.
      "Look, you can't even begin to  imagine what went through my mind
 when I was told you were killed.  I had plenty of time to wonder about
 this type of a lifestyle since then. I'm willing to take the risk."
      "All right," Rien said, "but you  will have to wait until someone
 tells me where everything's been moved to."
      Brice stuck his head through the door. "You two want to eat?"
      "Yes," Rien  answered. "We'll  be right  there," then  turning to
 Kera, added, "Let's drop our gear off downstairs first."
      The rest of the evening passed  quietly. Rien spent a lot of time
 talking with  people he  had not  seen in  months --  comparing notes,
 discussing events and making plans. From listening in, Kera understood
 that he was of some authority  here and perhaps that authority reached
 well beyond this place.
      Before going to bed she tried  on the plate armor Enneth made for
 her. To her surprise,  not only did it fit perfectly,  but it was also
 comfortable.
      "My  father  was  a  tailor,"   Enneth  said,  chuckling  at  her
 confusion. "He  always said no  one had to come  to him for  a fitting
 twice. His  secret was not  to use his  arm to make  measurements, but
 something exact and solid."
      Kera retired before midnight. Rien was still busy talking and the
 group seemed very familiar with each other and Kera felt as if she was
 intruding.  She tossed  and turned  for a  long time,  unable to  fall
 asleep. The conversation she had with Rien shortly after their arrival
 still fresh on her mind. In truth, she was not half as confident about
 her choice  as she  made Rien  believe she  was, but  it was  her only
 excuse for staying. Not that she believed he'd make her leave.

      "So do you  feel homesick yet?" Rien asked Kera  the next morning
 when he was showing her around the city.
      "Sort of,"  she admitted.  "I always thought  Dargon was  a dirty
 town, but looking at this..."
      Rien surveyed  the dock  in both directions.  Trash lay  about as
 common as the wooden  walk of the docks, which were in  a bad state of
 disrepair, with an  occasional sleeping drunk mixed in  here and there
 -- a sight  he saw many times.  "If you think this is  bad, wait until
 you see Magnus..."
      "We're going to Magnus?" Kera asked, her eyes sparkling.
      "Not  now, but  I'm sure  you'll get  there sooner  or later.  We
 travel to all the `exotic' places."
      Kera smiled. "It's quite a change,  being able to travel all of a
 sudden. I  never left Dargon before,  you know...just a quick  trip to
 the woods or out  to sea once in a while... That  first night we spent
 in  the  forest,  I  was  scared  stiff!  Now  it's  starting  to  get
 interesting. I just hope I don't get over it."
      "You  won't,"  Rien  assured  her. "Every  place  on  Makdiar  is
 different."
      "And have you been everywhere yet?"
      Rien almost let a smile slip  out, but successfully hid it behind
 a smug expression.  "No," he said. "The world is  much bigger than you
 think," and with those words, tapped Kera on her nose.
      "So where have you been?"
      "Well...I've been to Dargon," he grinned ear to ear.
      "Help!"  a female  shriek pierced  the  usual low  rumble of  the
 docks.
      Rien turned in time  to see a young woman jerk  free from a burly
 sailor and  start running towards the  buildings at the other  side of
 the dock.  The sailor ran  after her,  followed by another  man. Their
 path would take all of them past Rien and Kera.
      "Get her out of here," Rien ordered Kera, making a snap decision,
 and stepped forward just after the girl ran by. The sailor, hot on her
 heels, collided with  him. Both fell to the ground  and the second man
 chasing the girl tripped over the pair and fell down as well.
      Rien regained his  feet at the same time as  the sailor. The girl
 being chased was gone and Rien got just a glimpse of Kera turning down
 another pier. The sailor, barely recovered from the collision, was not
 paying attention to Rien, scanning the docks up and down the boardwalk
 for a sign of the girl who had escaped him.
      "Watch where you're  going!" Rien shouted and punched  him in the
 gut, to keep him occupied. The sailor turned a light shade of pink and
 sank to his knees.
      A small crowd was now gathering  and Rien turned to the other man
 getting up. "You!" he pointed, but the man took off through the crowd,
 after his target. Rien decided to let him go. By the time he could get
 through all  the sight-seers, Kera would  have plenty of time  to make
 her escape.
      A  new group  of sailors  was coming  up from  the pier  and Rien
 pulled up the man that he hit by the shirt front.
      "Let go of  him!" one of the sailors ordered,  rolling up a loose
 sleeve on his arm.
      "What's going  on here?" another  voice sounded from  behind Rien
 and the crowd parted to let a  pair of city guards through. Rien still
 held the gasping sailor.
      "If he can't walk on land, keep  him in the water!" Rien told the
 man's assembled companions contemptuously and  gave the sailor a shove
 in their general direction.
      One of  the guardsmen folded  his arms  and stared at  Rien. "You
 from around here, kid?"
      Rien gritted his teeth. Kid indeed!  "Yeah! What's it to you, old
 timer?" Two could play the game.
      "Get lost,"  the other guard told  him and pushed through  to the
 grouped sailors. "You boys been docked here long?"
      Rien smiled to  himself. The guards did not normally  pick on the
 locals, just  the visitors. It  was one of  the many things  that gave
 Sharks' Cove its reputation (and some say it's name).
      "Well,  boys?" the  guard  asked again  as  the sailors  shuffled
 before him.  Antagonizing the local guard  was not a good  prospect at
 any port, but particularly in Sharks' Cove.
      The man  who tripped over  Rien pushed  his way back  through the
 crowd and surveyed the scene. He was empty handed and angry.
      "You, men, get back to work!" he barked and they obeyed. "What do
 you want?" he asked the guards.
      "I  want to  know how  long your  boys are  going to  be starting
 fights on my streets!" one of the guards snapped at him.
      "We'll be  gone by  morning," the  man said  and walked  past the
 guard.
      "Now you  just wait  there!" the  guardsman ordered  and followed
 him.
      The man turned around, visibly agitated. "This is a private pier.
 Get off it or I'll have the men shoot you where you stand!"
      Rien smiled to  himself and slid out through the  crowd. It would
 be  too long  a confrontation  to observe  and he  chose to  disappear
 before  anyone recalled  his part  in  the initial  incident. When  he
 returned to The  Tipsy Dragon, he found Kera, Adrea  and the girl from
 the pier talking in the back room. As he entered, they all stopped and
 looked at him.
      "Everything go well?" he asked Kera.
      "No one saw us," she said, assured.
      Rien took a seat at the table. "Don't let me interrupt."
      "You're not," Adrea said. "We just sat down."
      "Good," Rien said.
      "First of  all," Adrea  started, looking at  the girl  across the
 table, "my name is Adrea. This is Rien," she pointed in one direction,
 "and Kera," she pointed in the other.
      "I am  called Deneen," the  young woman answered her.  She looked
 slightly older than  Kera, blond hair, brown eyes. Her  tunic was torn
 on the  shoulder from where  the sailor had  grabbed her and  a purple
 bruise highlighted her  left cheekbone. "I wish I could  repay you for
 what you did..."
      "Can you tell us what happened?"  Adrea asked. She could not help
 but be concerned over what she saw.
      Deneen's face  paled a bit.  "Nothing. I  just ran into  a little
 trouble."
      "Why were they chasing you?" Adrea insisted.
      "Sailors," she said too quickly. "I guess they've been out at sea
 for too long."
      "Is that why your clothing is torn?"
      The girl looked down at her tunic. "Yeah...I guess."
      "And the bruise?" Adrea asked, indicating her swollen cheek.
      "I was hit."
      "You  couldn't  have  gotten  it today.  It's  all  ready  turned
 purple."
      "I was hit at home," Deneen corrected herself.
      "Are you from around here?" Rien asked.
      The girl nodded after a moment. "A village up north."
      "We would prefer you tell us  the truth," Rien stated. "There are
 no villages to the north or is it in the marsh?"
      "We didn't save you so we could hurt you," Adrea interjected. "We
 want to help. Please, tell us what happened."
      Deneen wiped a tear from her cheek. "I was with them for a while.
 I..." Her voice cracked. "I can't..."
      "We want  to help," Adrea repeated,  laying a gentle hand  on her
 arm. "What happened? Were you kidnapped?"
      Deneen nodded, but still did not look at Adrea.
      "Were they holding you for ransom?"
      The girl  shrugged. "My family  isn't rich...and there  were many
 others."
      Adrea shot  a questioning  look at Rien.  `Slavers?' She  did not
 need to  say it aloud.  Her expression said  it all. She'd  dealt with
 them before.
      Rien's  features darkened  and he  got up.  They took  care of  a
 runner the year before. "They said  it's a private pier..." was all he
 said.
      "Get Deneen something  to eat," Adrea asked Kera  as Rien hurried
 downstairs.
      "I'm not hungry..."
      "Then bring some refreshments. No alcohol." When Kera left, Adrea
 turned back to the girl. "Where are you from?"
      "Port Sevlyn."
      "Do you know where you were going?"
      "No..."
      "How long were you on that ship?"
      "A week, I guess. I don't know."
      Adrea thought for a moment. "How many others were there?"
      "About fifty, I think."
      "Do you know  the size of the crew?" Rien  asked from the stairs.
 He returned to the table holding a ledger and sat down.
      "No," Deneen answered.
      "They told the town guard that they would leave by morning," Rien
 told Adrea. "I'll try to make sure that they don't. According to this,
 that  whole block  was  sold  a year  ago  to  Gerald Roderick,  Baron
 Morgan's brother...and the previous owner was Gaius Caligula himself."
      Adrea sighed. "So much for it being simple coincidence."
      "Was anyone removed  from the ship?" Rien asked,  looking over at
 Deneen.
      "No. We just got here this morning."
      "Were there any plans to?"
      "I don't know."
      "How did you get away then," Adrea asked.
      "Not everyone was  chained," Deneen answered. "I  guess they will
 be by now."
      Kera returned from  the bar room carrying a tray  with drinks and
 placing it on the table, sat down.
      "Thank you," Adrea smiled to her.
      "Did any of the names I mentioned sound familiar?" Rien asked.
      "Just Baron Morgan,  but I guess everyone in  Quinnat knows him,"
 the girl said.
      "What about `Abyssment' or `Quirin'?"
      "Sorry."
      Rien got up and paced a bit.  "Kera, I want you to get some rest.
 I'll have a job for you this evening."
      "I want to go to the Abyssment tonight," Adrea said.
      "You  have an  eight month  old  daughter to  worry about,"  Rien
 answered. "I will go with Brice. You can watch the store."
      "Rien! She's  old enough for  me to get  back to work!  You don't
 expect me to spend the rest of my life here, do you?"
      "When  I need  you  to risk  your  life, I  will  ask you,"  Rien
 answered bluntly. "Until then I want you to follow my lead." He closed
 the book, looking  at Adrea. The statement came across  very harsh. "I
 know you've been here a while and I know you want to get back to work,
 but  if  something  happens  to  you   out  there,  I'll  be  the  one
 responsible. Just a few more months, please?"

      "If you see anyone, go in the water," Rien instructed Kera.
      "In that?"  she peered into  the murky  Laraka. "I might  be more
 willing to commit murder."
      "Watch yourself," Rien said one last  time and dove into the cold
 water.
      Kera watched  him swim noiselessly  down stream to the  pier with
 the slaver  ship, then  turned to  watch the  shore. She  wondered how
 crazy a man had  to be to jump into an ice filled  river in the middle
 of winter. Some people just have  this thing for pain. She scanned the
 street, trying to  forget what Rien was doing. The  thought alone sent
 shivers up  her spine. Just like  the docks in Dargon  at night, there
 was no sign of life here.

      Rien let  the current  carry him  down to the  ship a  half block
 away.  There were  some lights  up  on the  deck, but  no evidence  of
 people, only two guards at the tip of the pier, intensely watching the
 area of the docks.
      He  caught  himself  on  the  hull  of  the  ship  and  carefully
 maneuvered underneath the  pier. The oars of the ship  were out of the
 water, folded against the hull, like some giant wooden bird. Releasing
 his grip on the supports, Rien swam back to the ship and around to the
 front, fighting the current on the way back. Keeping close to the ship
 made it a little easier. The oars  on the opposite side were folded up
 as well, but one  of the two steering oars at the aft  of the ship was
 not retracted and hung over the rushing water.
      Rien positioned himself under it and  hoping it was secured up on
 deck, did his best  to jump up to grab it. It took  him two tries, but
 he finally  managed to force  himself out of  the water far  enough to
 grab hold of  the oar. The cold  wind almost made him let  go and drop
 back into the water, but clenching his teeth, he pulled himself up and
 moved, hand over hand, to the rear  of the ship. He looked at the deck
 of the vessel and not seeing anyone, swung over the railing.
      After a few moments of waiting,  Rien drew his dagger -- the only
 weapon he had  on him -- and made  his way to the mizzen  mast. All of
 the mizzen  sails were  down and  the ties  were secured  to a  set of
 marked hooks  on the mast.  He found the one  that held the  main rope
 support and put  the dagger through it, twisting it  around once. With
 any luck  this would  weaken the  rope enough to  snap under  the full
 weight of the sail.
      A noise on deck made Rien turn around quickly. A sailor obviously
 far gone with drink, made his way up the gang plank and spotting Rien,
 headed fo him.
      "Gooth rum,"  the sailor said, his  speech slurred and a  wave of
 alcohol made its way past Rien.
      "Appears so," Rien took a step back in disgust.
      "Wan' zome?" the sailor held up an empty bottle.
      Rien shook his head.
      "Suit yourswelf," the sailor coughed and started walking away.
      "Hey, wait," Rien stopped him. He couldn't afford witnesses.
      The sailor turned back with a dejected look on his face.
      "Let me see that," Rien pointed to the bottle.
      The sailor put it behind his back. "No. Is mine."
      "Great," Rien muttered under his breath. "Please?"
      The sailor took a step back and Rien instantly realized something
 was wrong.
      "I don't know you," the man declared and Rien smiled innocently.
      "RUNAWAY!" the sailor  bellowed at the top of his  lungs and Rien
 heard hurried  movement on the pier.  He charged at the  sailor, using
 his body  weight to knock the  man against the starboard  railing and,
 breaking through, they both fell into the rushing water of the Laraka.

      Kera stretched  out on the empty  pier, looking up into  the dark
 winter  sky. The  bright constellation  of Perantu,  the falcon,  hung
 almost directly above her, the  talons reaching towards the ocean. The
 pier was dry and small ledges on the sides prevented wind from blowing
 across it. She was not concerned about being surprised by anybody. Her
 senses improved  vastly during  the time she  had lycanthropy  and she
 felt she could rely on them as much as most animals relied on theirs.
      When Rien told her  to get some rest so she would  be ready to do
 some work at night,  she did not even think he meant  for her to spend
 her time  guarding an empty  pier. Even  Liriss was better  at finding
 interesting things for her to do. At least it would be worth it to see
 Rien all wet in this weather.
      Sounds of  splintering wood and a  splash in the water  made Kera
 look over to  the ship. She saw  a few shapes appear  on deck, rushing
 about,  looking into  the  water, but  not much  more.  It was  almost
 obvious that  Rien had been seen,  but got away. Kera  glanced back to
 the  roadway at  the foot  of the  pier and,  not seeing  anyone, made
 herself comfortable with her head propped up on her arms, to watch the
 commotion  on the  neighboring dock.  The people  there gathered  in a
 group, one in the middle, standing on something that made him two feet
 taller. He  swung his arms  out to the  river, then pointed  to shore.
 People  started  splintering away  from  the  group. Kera  sighed  and
 continued watching. Whatever Rien had  done must have gotten them very
 upset.
      The man in the middle of the group jumped down and disappeared on
 the far side of the ship, as did the men remaining with him.
      Some  splashing  noises diverted  Kera's  attention  again and  a
 moment later two hands  grabbed the the edge of the  pier not far from
 her. Rien pulled himself up.
      "What did you do?" Kera asked.
      "I was surprised," Rien said.
      "You?"
      "The man was  drunk. I didn't think he would  be a problem. Come,
 we best leave before the guards decide to search here."
      "Dry yourself  off, first," Kera  instructed. "You won't  get any
 sympathy from me if you catch a cold."
      Rien grabbed her  arm and yanked her after himself.  "I won't ask
 for any."
      A few blocks away from the pier they stopped in an alley and Rien
 accepted the towel from Kera. "They  won't be able to set their sails.
 When that man showed up I was  hoping he was too drunk to recognize me
 for a stranger, but he wasn't as  far gone as I had hoped," Rien said,
 drying his hair. He then took the  bag of dry clothes Kera held out to
 him  and started  changing. "Hopefully  the crew  will realize  he was
 drunk and no slaves are missing and leave it at that. He thought I was
 a slave..."
      Kera sighed. "What if he figures out you're not a slave? He won't
 stay drunk  forever. He'll tell  them you were an  intruder committing
 sabotage."
      "He won't realize it. He's dead."
      "You killed him?"
      "We  fell in  the  water. When  I surfaced,  he  wasn't there.  I
 suspect he was too drunk to swim."
      "So what now?"
      "You go back. I need to know  what's happening. I am going to the
 Abyssment. Brice should be there by now."
      Kera nodded, unsure  of her task and Rien dumped  the wet clothes
 in  a pile  of  trash. He  then  turned to  her and  took  her by  her
 shoulders. "Be  careful. I  don't want  to be pulling  you out  of the
 river, understand?"
      "I've trailed people before. I know how it's done."
      "Be careful," Rien said again, embracing her. He disappeared down
 the street.
      Kera looked  up and down the  alley after he left,  then took the
 long way  around to get  back to the  docks. Her greatest  concern was
 dodging  the crew  of  the ship  that was  searching  the streets  and
 hopefully to stay out  of the way of the town guard,  which as yet did
 not know  her and  with any  luck, would  have no  reason to  make the
 acquaintance.

      Rien paused  at the entrance to  the Abyssment. The bar  was busy
 with  customers; much  busier than  The Tipsy  Dragon on  the best  of
 nights. He made his way past a  group of people arguing in the doorway
 and located the table where Brice sat.
      "Roderick's at the bar," Rien said, sitting down.
      "I know. He's been here a while," Brice said.
      "The man next to  him," Rien went on, "is the  one from the ship.
 He was the one chasing Deneen."
      "He just  got here  a few  minutes before  you came  in. Roderick
 appears to have been waiting for him. He turned away a wench when that
 man came in."
      "I damaged his  ship," Rien said. "He'll be sorry  he left it. It
 will have to stay in port through tomorrow."
      "We may need more than a day."
      "Can I get ya some'ing?" a bar girl came up to the table.
      "Milk?" Rien  grinned. She gave him  a blank look and  Rien said;
 "Akvavit." Still puzzled, the woman left to get his drink.
      "Look," Brice nudged Rien, "they're going up."
      Rien looked towards the bar.  Roderick and his companion were now
 at the  foot of  the stairs,  giving some instructions  to one  of the
 workers. After a few short exchanges they went upstairs.
      "I'll check it out," Rien said, but Brice stopped him.
      "Let  me do  it. I  get paid  to do  this. You're  paid to  cause
 trouble."
      Rien  smiled and  sat back  down. "I'll  make sure  the bar  maid
 doesn't take anything."
      "Thanks.  That drink  cost  me  a fortune."  Brice  slid out  and
 disappeared up the stairs after the two men.
      Rien accepted  his drink from  the bar  girl and settled  back to
 watch  the room.  The  beverage  was too  strong  for  his liking  and
 although  he  could  not  complain about  his  alcohol  tolerance,  he
 preferred drinks that did not distort  their flavor with the amount of
 alcohol they contained.
      The Abyssment, owned  by Gaius Caligula, the  resident crime boss
 of  the city,  was the  largest tavern  in Sharks'  Cove and  was very
 popular with  the local youth  and shady population. If  something was
 happening somewhere in  Sharks' Cove or one of  the neighboring areas,
 it was a good bet that  the information, if not the people responsible
 for the act, would be available in the Abyssment that same night. Most
 of the events were directly supervised by Caligula himself.
      Lord Gerald Roderick,  the brother of Baron  Morgan Roderick, was
 rumored to have many dealings with  Gaius Caligula, but because of the
 political sensitivity  of the issue,  it was hardly ever  discussed in
 public and often "over-looked" by authorities.
      All these  threads linked the ship  at the northern docks  to the
 underworld of Sharks' Cove, so  gathering information at the Abyssment
 was a  sure bet and  as it  usually does, it  seemed to have  been the
 right guess.
      "You look  pretty bored," a  female voice  said near Rien  and he
 snapped out of  his trance-like train of thought. A  tall, dark haired
 woman stood almost directly in front of him. "Mind some company?"
      Rien gestured for her to sit down.
      "You alone?" she asked.
      "Not any more," Rien smiled. "You?"
      "I was. The idiot who brought me here dumped me for some tramp."
      "Better find  out about those  types early in  the relationship,"
 Rien said, not unsympathetically.
      The woman nodded, sipping her drink. "You come here often?"

      Having observed  Roderick and his  companion enter a  room, Brice
 climbed out the  window at the end  of the hall and made  his way from
 window ledge to balcony to window ledge, until he found the balcony of
 the room  where the private  meeting was taking place.  Making himself
 comfortable under  the window, conveniently  cracked, to let  air (and
 voices) circulate, he proceeded to listen in on the conversation.
      "...flat fee!"  Brice caught  the conclusion of  Roderick's angry
 statement.
      "We had an agreement," another, more controlled voice replied.
      "You will pay  me what they are  worth, not what you  pay for the
 substandard merchandise you deal in," Roderick spoke again.
      "My lord," the  other man insisted, "you are  selling me harlots.
 Experienced, but used merchandise."
      "Pleasure slaves, Isom, are better if they are experienced."
      "And willing!"
      Brice shifted a little to be more comfortable, still listening to
 the two hagglers inside.
      "When  have you  heard of  a willing  slave?!" Roderick  lost his
 cool. "It costs me a lot of  money to kidnap people off the streets. I
 can't afford a loss."
      "You old fart, who do you think you're dealing with?"
      A loud slam  made Brice sit upright. It came  from inside, but he
 looked down into the alley just to  be sure it was quiet there. No one
 was to be seen.
      "You do that again and I'll personally make sure your head is cut
 off and tossed into the bay!" Roderick said again.
      "Thirty marks  for the six,"  the other  man said. "Not  a bronze
 more."
      "You're going  to go out there  and sell them for  over fifty and
 you expect me to take thirty? Forty marks!"
      "Thirty-five."
      "Thirty-eight...No. Don't go. Thirty-three."
      "Bring them to the warehouse tonight."
      Brice heard footsteps, followed by the door slamming, then a deep
 sigh and someone pacing the room. The meeting was over.

      "So you just travel around," the woman said to Rien. Her name, he
 learned from their lengthy conversation, was Jenye. "Sounds exiting."
      "Actually it's boring as hell," he answered. "And the pay is bad.
 You'd think mercenaries get paid well, but that's an old wives tale."
      Jenye laughed. "You know, you don't look much like a mercenary."
      "Do any of us look like our chosen paths in life?" Rien chuckled.
 "My last doctor was rolling over  sixty, acting under thirty and had a
 beard  that would  look better  on a  goat and  now you're  telling me
 you're a physician too."
      Jenye  burst  out laughing.  "You  know,  that sounds  just  like
 somebody I know in Magnus."
      Rien cracked a smile. "So what do I look like?"
      Jenye placed her chin in her hand and studied Rien intensely. Out
 of the corner of his eye he noticed Brice at the bar looking at him as
 well. Brice pointed to the exit  and Rien responded with a signal, not
 removing  his attention  from his  companion,  who did  not appear  to
 notice the exchange. Brice left the room.
      "You  look..."  Jenye  began  slowly,  carefully  studying  Rien,
 "...like an artisan...an artist, maybe...or an entertainer..."
      "I suppose that's better than the last evaluation I received. The
 town  guard mistook  me for  a bounty  hunter...of course  the body  I
 carried in  with me could  have led them  down the garden  path." Rien
 glanced around the bar. There  were plenty of people present, although
 it was well into the night. "I'd best be going," he stood up. "It will
 be a long day tomorrow."
      "So soon?" Jenye asked. "You haven't even touched your drink."
      Rien glanced down at the Akvavit.  "It's far too strong for me. I
 prefer to keep on my toes, not my back."
      "It all depends on what you're doing," Jenye said seductively and
 Rien's eyebrows shot up.
      "It does indeed, doesn't it?"
      "Why don't you look me up  sometime soon?" Jenye offered Rien her
 hand. "I visit here at times."
      "I just might," Rien said and left after a quick good night.
      Jenye  watched  him go,  then  finished  her  drink. One  of  the
 Abyssment's bouncers appeared at her side.
      "Get up," he  pulled her to her feet. "Let's  go." His strong arm
 shoved her forward.
      "Hey! I can walk!"
      "Then walk."
      "What's going on?"
      "Lord Roderick wants to see you."

      "You know her?" Brice asked when Rien came out of the Abyssment.
      "No. She came  up and asked for company not  long after you left.
 Made me look less conspicuous sitting there. Why?"
      "I saw her talking to the man Roderick and Isom were talking to,"
 Brice answered.
      "Isom?"
      "The other man.  The one you said was with  the ship. That's what
 Roderick called him."
      Rien  frowned.  "She  could  have  been  there  for  reasons  she
 neglected to mention...perhaps I should take her up on her offer."
      "Her offer?"
      "I was under  the impression she wanted to see  me again. Doesn't
 matter now. What did you find out?"
      "Isom is  a slave trader. Roderick  sold him half a  dozen slaves
 for thirty-three marks."
      "Thirty-three?  Sounds like  he  got taken.  Were  the slaves  up
 there?"
      "No. Roderick is  supposed to deliver them tonight.  I don't know
 where they  are held,  but they are  to be sold  at some  warehouse. I
 guess somewhere along the docks."
      "That doesn't give  us much time," Rien said. "I  don't want them
 on that ship and I don't want the ship leaving town."
      "They could  be in any  of a  countless number of  places," Brice
 said.
      "Or," Rien turned  to face him, "if  they need to be  near by and
 secure..?"
      "Roderick's townhouse," Brice picked up, "or Quirin."
      Rien turned to look at the  silver tipped spire, visible over the
 roofs  of the  buildings, pointing  up to  the sky,  somewhere in  the
 middle of the Laraka delta. "Morgan is involved?"
      "I wouldn't be surprised if the Baron was involved, but he is out
 of town and Gerald always has access to the keep."
      "Why don't I take the keep  and you check on the townhouse?" Rien
 offered.
      "You must love that river."
      Rien grinned. "Remind  me to tell you what happened  before I got
 here."

      Quirin Keep, built  by Duke Vezakis over three  hundred years ago
 was the original fortification for  entrance to the Laraka. Since that
 time it was sieged, modified, abandoned and rebuilt a number of times.
 Currently it was  nothing more than the residence of  the local baron,
 Morgan Roderick, who liked nothing more  than a large moat between him
 and his subjects. Most of  the responsibility for Laraka's defense now
 fell  to  Gateway Keep,  set  a  few  hundred leagues  upstream  where
 Vodyanoy joined the Laraka.
      None-the-less, Quirin  was still a fortified  castle, with guards
 and defenses and trying  to swim there in the middle  of a cold winter
 night was  far from  an easy  task. Rien  patiently watched  the small
 island a half  league, or half fathom, as any  sailor worth his weight
 in ale would say,  away for any sign of motion, but  it did not appear
 as if  any guards  were braver  than the  weather. Rien  undressed and
 after hiding  his clothes under the  pier, went into the  water. For a
 second time this  day he wondered about his  masochistic tendencies in
 this weather.  Taking a deep breath,  he dove into the  cold water and
 swam towards the island visible up ahead.
      It took Rien  a while to reach his  destination, fighting against
 the current  that threatened to drag  him out into the  ocean. Sharks'
 Cove  was  after all  named  for  the  hungry  fish that  visited  the
 Shandayma Bay as much as for the people who lived there. He made it to
 the shore of Quirin and dropped on the sand, letting it absorb some of
 the water, so the  cold wind coming in from the ocean  would not be as
 noticeable.
      After a  few long  moments Rien  pulled himself  to his  feet and
 moved up the slope to the road he knew existed above. In one direction
 the road led  to a pier where  Rien previously spotted a  ship. In the
 other direction was the castle  itself. Rien stood indecisively at the
 edge of the road, wondering if it would be better for him to check the
 ship, which  could leave  any minute,  if it indeed  was to  ferry the
 prisoners  to  the  mainland  tonight  or  the  castle,  where  better
 information could be obtained.
      Finally  he  decided to  check  the  ship  first. If  there  were
 prisoners on the island, his best  chances lay in making sure the boat
 did not leave  with them aboard. Keeping  to the trees at  the side of
 the road, Rien started out east, to the island's small port.
      A single ship stood docked, with a small compliment of guards and
 sailors sitting around a comfortable campfire on shore. Rien patiently
 watched them from the trees.
      The forest around the pier was cleared out and Rien could not get
 close enough  to hear the  conversation, although it was  obvious they
 were not guarding  anyone. After some time Rien saw  one of the guards
 get  up, pick  up his  equipment and  after a  few more  words to  his
 companions, start towards the road to  the castle. A hundred feet into
 the woods, Rien confronted the man  and with a single hit from behind,
 knocked him to the ground.
      Dragging  the stunned  man down  the incline  to the  river, Rien
 splashed some cold water on him,  to bring him around, and asked about
 the slaves.
      Still a little dazed, the guard  eyed Rien. "Aren't you cold like
 that?"
      Rien backhanded him. "Where are the slaves being kept?"
      "I don't know what you're talking..."
      Rien submerged  the man's head in  the water. He had  no evidence
 that the man knew, but a strong suspicion existed. A little persuasion
 could go  a long way. "Know  what I'm talking about  now?" Rien pulled
 the man back up and immediately  shoved him back under. People who had
 the  chance  to  think  things  over usually  made  better  long  term
 decisions.
      Rien pulled the man up again. "Well? Know the ones I mean?"
      The guard started  coughing and Rien pushed him down  for a split
 second and brought him back up.
      "Once more and you stay under for good."
      "The castle..." the guard continued coughing and Rien punched him
 in the face, knocking him out again.
      If the  kidnapped people were  in the castle, which  was becoming
 more and more  probable, Rien did not  have the means to  get them off
 the  island. For  that matter,  he  had no  idea what  to do  himself.
 Deciding to accept challenges as they came along -- hopefully one at a
 time -- he changed  into the guard's clothes and took  the road in the
 direction of Quirin Keep.

      Brice  held still  on  top  of the  broad  stone  wall of  Gerald
 Roderick's villa as a guard  walked down the street. `Paranoid,' Brice
 thought and  slid down the other  side into the garden.  The house was
 set some  distance into the garden  and some of the  lights were still
 lit. Brice  stealthily slipped over to  the building and knelt  by the
 wall.  It was  not  the  first time  he'd  been  sneaking around  Lord
 Roderick's property. The Baron's brother  was suspected of a number of
 criminal doings  in the  past and  Brice had  kept track  of him  on a
 number of occasions.
      Making sure that no guards were in sight, Brice climbed up a tree
 by the  house, moved hand over  hand towards the roof  and jumped down
 onto it.  A couple  of sudden  voices made him  get down  while people
 passed by the side of the house. The men were discussing horses in the
 stables. He  peered over the edge,  watched them go by,  then moved in
 the opposite direction.
      The  lights  in  the  small two  story  house  behind  Roderick's
 residence that was  used to house staff were still  on. In particular,
 the barred window  on the second floor, which was  reserved for people
 Roderick did not want to leave, was what Brice was after. He got up to
 look into it from where he was. Inside he spotted at least two women.
      Brice sat back down with a sigh of relief. He had found them. Now
 he could either stay and see what happened or sneak out and find Rien.
 He decided  to stay.  That way  he would  be present  at the  sale and
 perhaps be able to interfear.

      Dressed in  the armor of  the guard  he knocked out,  Rien freely
 entered Quirin Keep. Everything was quiet, as would be expected in the
 middle of the night.  He made his way past a  sentry beginning to fall
 asleep in the entrance hall. A bright fire burned in the giant chamber
 which  the hall  opened into.  At  the far  end Rien  observed a  twin
 staircase, starting at a common point  and splitting right and left as
 it spiraled  to a second story  balcony. He traced the  outline of the
 second  floor with  his  eyes,  making sure  no  guards were  present.
 Everything was  clear and starting with  the first door on  the right,
 Rien proceeded with his investigation.
      He found the  back stairs in a small corridor  a few rooms deeper
 into the  castle. Once again, there  were no guards or  people present
 and he quickly  made his way down  to the lower level.  This level was
 dark and cold and smelled of stagnant water, probably because it stood
 not much higher than the water level around the island. None the less,
 the floor was dry  and clean and after a good  hour of looking around,
 Rien was satisfied that there were no prisoners here.
      Rien made his way back up by  a different stairway. It led to the
 kitchen,  where for  the second  time  this night  Rien encountered  a
 drunk.
      "Have some,"  the bearded  man slammed the  bottle on  the table.
 Rien recognized him as the dozing sentry he passed on his way into the
 castle. Accepting  the man's  offer, Rien  sat down  at the  table. It
 would certainly be  tougher to throw this one into  the water to cover
 an escape.
      "Lonely work, sentry duty," Rien said.
      The guard nodded. "You new around here?"
      "I was hired over from the town guard a few days back."
      "Were you now...which part?"
      "Northern strip."
      "Ah. I was working the docks a few years back."
      Rien smiled.  It was  a safe  topic. "Messy  area. I'm  afraid we
 always kept as far from there as our patrols could take us."
      "Not my problem any more," the guard shrugged. "Roderick hired me
 a few years back. Cleaner, safer, better pay."
      "The Baron?"
      "Oh, no. His brother. You?"
      Rien shrugged.  "Some big fellow with  a scar." There was  one in
 every outfit.
      "The one with  the front teeth missing?" the  guard asked. "Yeah,
 he thinks he's the next best thing to the king."
      "How'd you get here?" Rien asked.
      "Regular staff shuffling, they say."
      "So  that slave  bit is  only a  rumor?" The  guard looked  drunk
 enough for a change of topic.
      The guard eyed Rien suspiciously. "What slaves?"
      Rien leaned back comfortably, self assured. "You know...there are
 rumors in the streets."
      "What sorts of rumors?" the guard's eyes narrowed.
      "That the Baron's brother is keeping slaves in Quirin."
      Rien's  companion  roared with  laughter.  "He's  too chicken  to
 endanger Morgan. Morgan keeps the sling away from Gerald's ass."
      "At the townhouse then?" Rien asked.
      "Right!"  the  guard  slammed  his  mug down  on  the  table  and
 continued laughing.
      Rien waited patiently. "You're serious?"
      "Yeah," the guard went  on. "Why do you think I  was put here? He
 doesn't want me to know!" And with that he broke into more laughter.
      "Mustn't be  your day,"  Rien said and  slammed the  almost empty
 bottle against his  head. The guard slumped down across  the table and
 Rien quickly got  up to leave. He  had lost a lot of  time following a
 false lead and now he had to make  it up. With any luck Brice would be
 on top of  it. Rien briskly walked  out of the kitchen,  down the hall
 and to the exit.
      "Halt!" a guard rushed into his path.
      Rien almost drew the sword.
      "Where are you going?"
      "I'm returning to the dock."
      "I didn't see you come in," the guard said belligerently.
      "I came in over an hour  ago," retorted Rien, determined to bluff
 the  situation out  -- one  trace of  his passing  in the  kitchen was
 enough.
      The guard  stepped aside with  a muttered curse and  Rien hurried
 out. He  quickly made it to  the beach, disrobed and  entered the cold
 water. A  half hour  later he was  at the north  shore of  the Laraka,
 getting dressed again.

      Brice watched  carefully from the  roof as six guards  removed as
 many people  from the servants' building  and led them to  an enclosed
 wagon. Each of the  four women and two men were  gagged and their legs
 bound (their  arms were all ready  tied behind them) before  they were
 deposited in the  wagon. Then two guards got inside,  one took control
 of the horses and the wagon was rolled around to the front of the main
 building. Brice watched the procedure carefully, memorizing each face,
 each  movement. He  did not  feel himself  capable of  challenging six
 armed guards,  not to mention  all who would be  within ear shot  of a
 struggle, but instead, when the wagon  rolled past his position on the
 roof,  he rolled  over the  edge and  onto the  canvas cover  over the
 wagon, the top of  which was almost level with the  sloped roof of the
 building. He held still  for a few moments, waiting to  see if a sword
 was going  to surface  near him  or a crossbow  bolt tear  through the
 heavy fabric, but  none did. He successfully made it  on board for the
 ride. It did not take long.
      As the wagon stopped, heavy  footsteps sounded on the wooden walk
 at the side of the building, followed by Gerald Roderick's voice.
      "Is everything ready?"
      "Yes, sir,"  the driver answered. "We're  ready to go as  soon as
 you are."
      Brice raised his  head to look around. He could  just see the top
 of the teamster's  head sticking out mere inches above  the top of the
 wagon. Somewhere  to the side people  walked by. Someone got  into the
 wagon and someone  got out. Brice put his head  back down, releasing a
 deep breath. He should have checked  how high the teamster was sitting
 before he got on for a ride. It could have been a costly mistake.
      "Bring me my horse," Roderick called to someone. "You, meet me at
 the warehouse. You two, go with him."
      Brice pressed himself closer to the  wagon as it moved on. By the
 time it reached the gate to  the street, two mounted guards joined the
 wagon. Once  it was  outside, Roderick  and a  third guard  joined the
 growing caravan. One man took point, with Roderick a little behind him
 and the other  two men rode behind  the wagon. All Brice  could do now
 was hold on for  the ride and pray that the rear  guard did not notice
 him.

      Kera watched  the tall thin man,  who had chased Deneen  when she
 first encountered him,  pass her on the boardwalk of  the pier. Out of
 the corner  of her eye  she noticed him turn  and look after  her. She
 focused her attention  behind her as the  man fell out of  her line of
 vision. She  feared he  would follow  her, do  something, but  all her
 instincts and training  told her not to make any  sudden moves and not
 to act as if she feared him. She continued walking ahead, not changing
 her pace, not turning to look,  but all her attention was concentrated
 behind her, trying to detect unnatural movement or sounds.
      The man did  nothing to alert Kera  and she did not  turn back to
 avoid seeming suspicious or concerned. By  the time she made it to the
 corner and  looked back, the  man had turned  down the pier  where his
 ship was docked. She turned down the  pier she was at and making it to
 the end, climbed up on a  crate and made herself comfortable to watch.
 The slaver ship appeared in the  distance, a dark shadow a block away.
 After a minute a  group of people appeared on the  deck and after some
 shuffling around, left  the ship. They turned north when  they got off
 the pier  and started walking  away from  her. Hopping off  the crates
 noiselessly, Kera followed the small squad.
      After a few blocks the group turned down a side street and by the
 time she  got there, they were  gone. Kera cautiously walked  down the
 alley,  looking right  and left,  examining the  road for  any trails.
 Behind her she  heard horses and a wagon and  throwing a single glance
 back, hurried  on ahead. She  collided head on  with a man  dressed in
 light armor who  appeared from nowhere. She was grabbed  and forced up
 against a wall by  a doorway as two mounted men,  followed by a wagon,
 rode up behind them.
      "Lord Isom!" the man holding Kera called through the doorway.
      The tall  thin man stepped  out. "Good," he muttered,  looking at
 the wagon, then turned to Kera. "This is the third time we meet today.
 I consider it twice too many for a coincidence. Who are you?"
      "I..." Kera paused as a well dressed man dismounted his horse and
 came over.
      "Well?" Isom asked again.
      "I...I was just walking," Kera said.
      "Really now? Walking every place I go?"
      "Who is she?" th other man demanded.
      "Don't worry about her, Roderick. She  will be leaving with me at
 sunrise. She obviously wanted to see the ship."
      Kera tried struggling, but the  guards held her tight. She kicked
 him and  for a moment he  lost his grip  on her, but another  took his
 place.
      "Take her inside," Isom ordered and went in.
      "Bring the ones in the back of the wagon, too," Roderick ordered.
      From his position on top of  the wagon, Brice was able to observe
 the  six  prisoners brought  into  the  building, leaving  behind  the
 teamster and a guard. The two men exchanged a few words about the work
 and the late hour, then the guard  announced that in the course of the
 trip, the mead he drank before  had travelled its course and he needed
 to have it pass on. [Original text censored for a mature audience.] He
 wandered down the alley and the driver leaned back against the wagon.
      Taking his  cue, Brice  crawled up  the top of  the wagon  to the
 front, then dropped a  loose loop of rope, hanging off  a hook next to
 the driver, around the man's neck and  gave him a shove. The length of
 the rope broke the driver's fall and he was able to regain his feet on
 the ground,  but Brice quickly pulled  it back up, choking  the man. A
 minute later he let the body dangle to the ground and took his seat.
      Releasing the reins leading to the  two horses and picking up the
 whip that was  left on the bench,  Brice jumped to the  ground. By now
 the guard was  returning and Brice snapped the whip  behind the horses
 as hard  as he could.  The animals instinctively pulled  forward, away
 from the  sound, wanting to  avoid getting  hit. In their  charge they
 knocked  over the  guard and  the wagon  rolled over  him with  a soft
 squish, dragging the  teamster behind. Readying the  whip again, Brice
 stepped through the door.  He was not sure how he  would deal with the
 half dozen men  he knew were inside,  but he knew Kera  would help and
 hoped that the prisoners would do the same.

      Rien observed  the action taking  place beneath him.  Both Gerald
 Roderick  and Isom  were  in  the room,  along  with  ten guards,  six
 prisoners and  Kera. He had  the gut feeling  that she would  get into
 trouble when  leaving her  to watch  the docks,  but at  least nothing
 serious had happened yet. With any luck, nothing would.
      "Very good,  very good..." Isom  walked around the  bound people,
 looking them over.  He would stop at  one or the other,  poke at them,
 study their faces, their builds. Each time he would smile a satisfied,
 self pleased grin and go on. "Perhaps we can do business again, soon."
 He turned to Gerald. "Pay him."
      Out of the corner of his eye Rien noticed the door crack open and
 Brice slip in. He smiled to himself. The odds had just improved.
      "If you don't  mind, I'd like to count this,"  the nobleman said,
 accepting a pouch from one of Isom's guards.
      "By all means."
      Gerald Roderick poured  the gold coins into his  hand and started
 counting off  the thirty-three Marks  due him.  Isom used the  time to
 walk over to Kera  and to examine her. He took hold  of her head under
 her chin and turned her to face him.  "I will go a lot easier with you
 if you tell me  who you are and why you were following  me. Who do you
 work for?"
      Kera pulled  free from his grasp  and turned away. She  could not
 move more than that because of the two guards holding her.
      "One less. Doesn't matter. Tie her," Isom told the two guards.
      "They're all  here," Roderick  said, finally done  counting. "The
 slaves are yours."
      "There is one more matter," Isom said. "The runaway."
      "I am doing everything in my  power," Roderick stated. "If she is
 to be found, my men will find her."
      "They'd better," Isom  growled. He produced five  more gold coins
 and gave them to Roderick. "Thirty-eight Marks for your cooperation."
      Roderick pocketed the money. "No trouble."
      "Take them out," Isom instructed the guards.
      Rien moved swiftly along the ceiling  beam and jumped down on the
 two guards attempting to tie Kera's hands. He landed with both feet on
 one man's shoulders, forcing him to the ground. Jumping off the fallen
 body, Rien  swung his sword  at the other  man, cutting deep  into his
 chest. The element  of surprise was now lost. With  a roar four guards
 charged for him.
      Rien backed over the first man he attacked, to stand next to Kera
 and readied  for the assault. He  noticed that Kera had  picked up the
 fallen  guard's sword,  a loose  rope  still tangled  around her  left
 wrist.
      Brice stepped out  of the shadows behind the guards.  One man was
 staring up  at the ceiling, expecting  someone else to drop  down. Not
 wanting  to disappoint  the  soldier, nor  spoil  the surprise,  Brice
 struck with the whip, silently looping it around the guard's neck. The
 man screamed a  silent scream, grabbing at the end  of the whip caught
 around  his neck.  Brice  yanked him  back and  stabbed  him with  his
 dagger. As the  man was falling, Brice had re-wrapped  the whip around
 the legs  of a guard  by Isom  and pulled him  over. One of  the other
 guards responded, but tripped over the struggling man.
      On the other side  of the room, Rien knocked over  two men with a
 low swing of his  sword. Kera met the charge of  the other two, barely
 remaining on her  feet, and a second  later Rien came up  on the other
 side of the two and struck one down. The other, disoriented by attacks
 from the front and behind, stepped directly into Kera's swing.
      The  remaining  four men  on  the  ground surrendered,  but  both
 Roderick and Isom were gone.
      "I've got  them," Brice  went for  the door, but  one of  the men
 immediately clambered to his feet  and challenged him. Brice threw the
 whip, tangling it around the guard's legs. As the man fell back to the
 floor, Brice made  it into the alley,  but it was empty.  He came back
 inside to  see Rien cutting  the ropes  binding one of  the prisoner's
 hands.
      "They got away."
      Rien looked  back, annoyed, but  said nothing. Angry  words would
 not change the  situation. He looked down at the  men they had fought,
 sitting  on the  floor. Seven  of  the ten  were alive,  but two  were
 unconscious from their wounds. "Leave your weapons and go," he ordered
 and five men quickly got up and left.
      Rien picked up a  dagger from one of the guards  and handed it to
 the woman  he'd cut loose. "Free  the others. The man  who was selling
 you is  Lord Gerald Roderick. The  man who was purchasing  you is Lord
 Isom. Report  them to the  town guard." He  turned to Brice  and Kera.
 "Let's go."
      "Wait! Who are you?" one of the people called out.
      Brice looked at  the woman with a sheepish grin.  "We're the ones
 who rescued you."
      Outside  the warehouse  Rien paused,  looking at  the dead  guard
 lying in  the street, wheel marks  forming an impression in  his chest
 and torso. "What happened here?"
      "The driver must have lost control of the horses," Brice grinned.
 "Good thing it worked to our advantage."
      Rien looked over at Kera. "I assume you're all right. If you want
 to get some rest, go on to the inn. I want to check on the ship."
      "Rest?  After all  this? You're  kidding! I  couldn't sleep  if I
 wanted to!"
      "Let's go then. It's getting light."
      The three started west, towards the docks along the bay.
      "I see you finally learned the whip," Rien said to Brice.
      "I finally convinced  Deven to teach me...but I  don't think he's
 seen the light of day since then. How was the castle?"
      "I doubt Morgan is involved  in his brother's doings. Gerald even
 rotated  some staff  he didn't  want involved  with his  activities to
 Quirin."
      "How did you get here then?"
      "I went  back to  the Abyssment  to have a  word with  Jenye, the
 woman you thought was spying on me,"  Rien said. "She was. She sent me
 here."
      "She just up and told you?"
      "Not quite. I had to get tough."
      "You beat up a woman?" Kera asked.
      "Not in the Abyssment," Brice laughed.
      "Not that  anyone would notice,"  Rien retorted. "I simply  put a
 little fear  of me into her.  She was reasonably cooperative  when she
 thought I could do more harm than the people she worked for."
      "I wasn't  expecting you to  show up,"  Brice said. "Nice  to see
 you're still resourceful."
      "Was there anyone else that Roderick was holding?"
      "Not that I  could tell. From his yapping on  the ride over, this
 appears to be a  market he hasn't had a chance to  exploit yet. I hope
 this helps him make up his mind our way."
      Rien nodded. "Hope we can stop that ship."
      "How do you expect to stop it?" Kera asked.
      "When I snuck  on board, I damaged some equipment.  If they don't
 notice it  when they  put up  the sails,  one may  tear when  the rope
 snaps."
      "But what  if they don't  come back to  repair it? Can't  they do
 that out at sea?"
      "They could, but they shouldn't.  I'm more concerned that they've
 all ready found the torn rope and replaced it. All we can do right now
 is hope it works out."
      "With any  luck," Brice  added, "those  people will  report their
 ordeal to the town  guard soon. If not, we'll have  to find some other
 way to get those guards on board."
      By this time they were walking  along the docks, towards the pier
 where the ship was docked.
      "Where  are you  going after  your  rotation is  up?" Rien  asked
 Brice.
      He shrugged. "If nothing comes up, I thought I'd go by Magnus and
 then down south. It's getting too cold for my taste out here. And that
 reminds me, how was your swim?"
      A smile appeared  on Rien's face. "I'm not paid  nearly enough to
 do this three times in one night."
      As they walked  on, he told of his adventures  on the slaver ship
 and on the isle  of Quirin. It was not long  before they reached their
 destination. The ship was pushing off  from the pier when it came into
 their sight and Kera suggested they  watch from an empty pier near by.
 Watching from piers  was something she did a lot  of lately, she added
 souly.
      The ship maneuvered out to sea on oars alone.
      "Why aren't they raising sail?" Rien wondered aloud. "The tide is
 going out and the winds look favorable."
      "I think  we lost  this one,"  Brice said.  "Best find  out their
 destination and see if they can be stopped there."
      Rien nodded grimly.  The ship was a good half  league out, when a
 couple of sails on the fore mast were  put up and then the ones in the
 rear. Rien  held his breath in  anticipation, wanting to see  his plan
 work. A long  minute later a few  of the sails were snapped  up by the
 wind and fell,  dangling aimlessly in the breeze.  Other sails started
 to be lowered one by one, when a cross beam on the mizzen mast tilted,
 fell to the deck  and slipped off into the water, taking  a few of the
 oars with  it. A sheet  of canvas  remained dangling loosely  over the
 starboard side.
      "I guess they're  coming back now," Rien said,  tension gone from
 his voice.
      "Just how much damage did you do?" Brice asked.
      Rien shrugged his  shoulders. "I just weakened the  rope. I don't
 know what they tangled it in."

      The following  day Rien  and Kera  saw Deneen  off. They  got her
 passage on  a barge going  up to Port Sevlyn.  The rest of  the people
 captured by the slavers were taken off  the ship by the town guard who
 appeared on the pier en masse soon after the crippled ship docked. The
 sailors surrendered peacefully after a few heated words with the troop
 lieutenant and were all taken into custody. Surprisingly, Isom was not
 on the ship and  Rien never got close enough to the  group to find out
 why. On the whole it did not matter. The slaver had lost his ship, his
 crew and his cargo. It would take him a long time to recover the loss,
 if he ever could, but somehow Rien  felt that Lord Isom was not one to
 give up easily, if at all.
      "What do you think happened to him?" Kera asked Rien after Deneen
 waved for the last time.
      "Isom?  I'd imagine  he had  a different  way of  getting to  his
 destination or perhaps  didn't need to go...I doubt we  scared him out
 of business."
      "So what now?"
      Rien scanned  the dock  area. Everything appeared  as it  had the
 morning  before. People  rushed  about on  errands,  ships were  being
 unloaded on the  piers and the customary drunks littered  the sides of
 the walks along the buildings.  "Looks like nothing here has changed,"
 he sighed. "Not that it ever does. Is there anything you want to do?"
      "We were sight-seeing yesterday," Kera offered.
      They mounted their horses and started  up river. "I suppose I can
 show  you the  Abyssment. It's  given me  countless hours  of pleasure
 watching the drunks and the winos."
      "Really?"
      "No  place  like  Sharks'  Cove,"  Rien  smiled.  His  expression
 suddenly became serious as he spotted  a familiar face in the crowd. A
 young  girl with  auburn hair  and  amber eyes,  that stood  out at  a
 distance, rode  towards him on  the horse he  took to Dargon  almost a
 year ago.
      Something inside him said `Eelail', but instead he raised his arm
 and shouted at the girl: "You! You stole my horse!"
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                          Sons of Gateway
                           ---- -- ------
                           Part 4: Marcus

                        by Jon "Grimjack" Evans
                        <b.c.k.a. acssjon@ubvms>

      "This  place is  colder than  death," Ne'on  muttered, as  he and
 Captain Bartholemew Clay  walked the parapets above  Gateway Keep. The
 moisture from their  breath hung lightly in the air  in front of them,
 before dissipating like small clouds on a hot summer day. Captain Clay
 clasped his  black cloak tightly  around his  chest and looked  at his
 lord in wonder.  Ne'on refused to wear any- thing  more than his white
 robes and golden belt, to which was strapped a fine silver dagger - of
 Galician origin, Clay guessed. Ne'on's  entire left arm contrasted the
 rest of his clothes by its black  dye, and the midnight black glove he
 wore on  his hand. Ne'on's  Black Arm, Bartholemew mused,  and frowned
 for not having noticed it before.
      "Aren't you used to the weather by now, my lord?" Ne'on responded
 to the question with a confused gaze, and Clay reinforced his thought.
 "You have lived here all your  life, have you not?" Captain Clay often
 wondered why his  employer did not wear more  protective clothing; for
 warmth alone, if for no other reason.
      "I'm  more concerned  with  Marcus' knowledge,  than my  clothes,
 Captain. And my robes provide ample warmth to sustain life in my body,
 for  now." Clay  didn't remember  having asked  the question,  but its
 being answered  didn't surprise  him. Ne'on had  a habit  of answering
 some questions before they were asked.
      Ne'on stopped by a fortification in the wall, and looked out over
 the partially  frozen Laraka.  His father had  built Gateway  like any
 other  keep of  the day;  but, without  enough funds,  he made  things
 considerably  smaller. He  thought his  father had  been a  small man.
 "What does Marcus know about this  'High Mage', or whatever his title?
 What is there to know about him? Is he just a dealer in the arts? No;"
 he answered his  own question, "otherwise, how would he  have known of
 Qord?"
      "My lord,  if I may,"  Clay began, and  Ne'on turned to  him with
 such a cold gaze he reached to gather more of his cloak about him. The
 cold air is increasingly bitter, he thought.
      "Please, my  lord," Ne'on mocked,  "what is  it you wish  to tell
 me?" Bartholemew felt no anger at his lord for this remark; he held no
 respect  for titles  of  other  men unless  they  were deserved.  This
 thought warmed him, and gave him the strength to return Ne'on's stare.
      "As  I was  about to  say, I  spoke with  Marcus concerning  this
 'Marcellon' yesterday."  Upon hearing  this, Ne'on's gaze  became more
 attentive, his  jaw a little  less hard.  Clay noticed the  signs, and
 continued. "Not  only is he an  accomplished wizard, but his  mind has
 powers no  ordinary man can  lay claim to.  There's a word  for it..."
 Bart's eyes  scanned the sky,  as if searching  for his answer  in the
 clouds above.
      "Psychic," Ne'on stated.  "That could be a  problem." Once again,
 his gaze fell onto the crystallizing  river, the snow hanging over the
 banks as if grasping hold for  life, the occasional rabbit darting out
 from a snow covered bush nearby. "Unless I blind him." Ne'on's spirits
 rose, and Bartholemew was almost afraid to ask what he meant.

      It is nothing  new, he thought, merely a  substitution for other,
 simpler, forms  of sacrifice. Ne'on  repeated this thought  to himself
 continuously as he  removed the rabbit from the small  cage he had set
 in his  private study. Rather  than waste additional  spell components
 which he  could not  spare - he  was already using  his only  piece of
 crysthalum,  which  was hard  to  find,  and  harder still  to  polish
 correctly - he had to substitute  the life energy of the small animal.
 The  light of  the bronze  chandelier was  all that  lit the  room his
 father had once filled with bows, swords, and trophies of the hunt. At
 least  his use  of the  animal  was for  more  than the  sheer joy  of
 killing.
      The small,  pink nose twitched  nervously, the ears  flicked back
 and forth, as if the creature sensed its impending death. It struggled
 for freedom  as Ne'on  unsheathed his  silver dagger  and lay  it down
 within the  pentagram he had drawn  on the floor. He  felt himself cut
 off from the rest of the world as  he sat within its bounds, as if his
 breath  were  being restrained,  but  he  disregarded that  as  fancy,
 imagination.  Taking  from  his  pocket   the  small  blue  stone,  he
 remembered how  it had come  from a larger  slab he had  found outside
 Qord's hut  in the  Nar-Enthruen. He  had had to  cut that  stone many
 times, making sure  the piece was shaped correctly, the  edges not too
 sharp, before  he finally came  up with  this piece. Strong  enough to
 pass the  magic, he thought,  without shattering before the  spell was
 completed.
      Opening the leather-bound tome he had acquired from the remainder
 of Qord's  possessions, he  turned to the  appropriate page  and began
 reciting a  chant far older  than the walls  of Gateway; or  any other
 castle in  Baranur, for  that matter.  The stone  glowed with  a thick
 luminescence which expanded to form a small hemisphere, encircling the
 outer points of  the pentagram. The spell was cast.  All that remained
 was to expand it to the proper dimensions.
      Retrieving  his dagger,  he held  the rabbit  directly above  the
 trans- mitter and  slit its small throat, delicately  and quickly. The
 blood  poured freely  over the  gem-stone, and  over the  floor below,
 caking and drying  almost instantly as the magic  absorbed its energy.
 The  blue hemisphere  expanded rapidly,  fading in  proportion to  its
 size,  until it  had  completely  surrounded the  entire  keep with  a
 near-invisible aura.
      The Garthian Blind  has been cast, and no spell  or psychic probe
 will pass  through, he  thought. Unfortunately,  this includes  my own
 magic.   Also  unfortunate,   he  continued,   looking  down   at  the
 chrysthalum, is  the loss of  the component.  I shall have  to acquire
 another piece before I open the gate.
      A stone above  the door to the room glowed  faintly for a moment,
 until Ne'on acknowledged its signal. Stepping out of the pentagram, he
 took a  deep breath and opened  the door to greet  whoever was outside
 the room. It was, he should have known, Captain Clay.
      "What is  it?" Ne'on asked of  his Captain as he  turned from the
 door and walked  backed to the table.  He had some cleaning  up to do,
 and  there  was  little,  he   thought,  that  required  his  complete
 attention. He  frowned lightly again when  he saw the empty  cage, and
 avoided it in his cleaning.
      "More  men  have arrived  for  service  in  the Black  Arm,  Lord
 Keeper." Clay  cast his gaze lightly  about the room, settling  on the
 bloody rabbit. "Taking up fine cuisine?"
      "Don't be glib, Clay; it  doesn't become you." Returning his tome
 to  the table,  he flipped  through the  pages as  if searching  for a
 spell. "Do you have anything of worth  to tell me, or do you just like
 to play in my laboratory?"
      "You mentioned something of a desire  to have a ceremony held for
 the  new recruits..."  Bartholemew looked  at Ne'on,  but received  no
 confirmation. "I  have planned the  occasion, and wish to  confirm its
 date."
      "Where did they come from?" Ne'on closed the tome and reached for
 the small decanter on the edge of the table. Lederian red wine is best
 at room temperature. "How do you know they are trust worthy? Would you
 like a glass," he offered, indicating the bottle.
      "No, thank you."  Bartholemew never drank wine, the  head it left
 him with was too slow to keep  up with his normally fast paced line of
 work. "And," he  continued, "we don't know we can  trust them. Not all
 of them, in any case. I commissioned some acquaintances - five of them
 - to find me eight men each. We have fifty new recruits."
      Ne'on almost  betrayed a  sign of surprise,  when he  heard that.
 "From whence, then, came the other ten?"
      "It seems," Clay explained, "that the word is out. Your Black Arm
 is the elite guard, in Gateway. We have ten men from the populace, the
 oldest around forty five, and the youngest, seventeen. Our captains of
 the guard are beginning to worry about their status."
      "Tell them  not to  worry." Ne'on stroked  his thin  chin lightly
 with his left hand,  as his gaze seemed to settle  on the mountains to
 the east. "Let these  be the last of the Black Arm.  Let it further be
 known  that if  someone wishes  to be  a member  of the  Arm, he  must
 challenge  one of  the  existing members  for  their position."  Ne'on
 smiled, having  always believed  in the survival  of the  fittest. His
 mental  fitness, he  thought,  would  allow him  to  survive for  many
 hundreds  of years.  "And make  sure the  present members  of the  Arm
 receive the  best training available.  I want  you to take  a personal
 interest in it."
      "I hardly  think that  will be  necessary," replied  the captain.
 "The guards here are all specialists  with the bow. I don't think they
 would know what to do with a good sword fighter, in close quarters."
      "Unfortunately  for you,"  Ne'on riposted,  "I don't  pay you  to
 think. Do as I say, and remember who put you where you are."
      Bartholemew remembered. He remembered well. "Yes, my lord."

                Flames burning, crisping, dying, red skull
                rising, dripping, bloodied, blackened,
                burned, hardened, hot, dark, blackness
                engulfing... he's coming...

      The crystal sphere glowed faintly, clouded, and revealed nothing.
 Marcellon  stared at  the ball,  dissapointed. Could  he have  drained
 himself so completely, in this last  week, his own powers were failing
 him? He had been taxed to some extent, he knew, when the head of Count
 Connall had arrived at court without the rest of his body; however, he
 should still be able to use the ball uninhibited.
      When the  messenger had arrived  from Gateway, two hours  ago, he
 was relieved to be informed of  Ne'on's capture. As he was reading it,
 however, the parchment seemed to burn  in his hands, and he dropped it
 to the  floor, to the confusion  of the messenger. When  Marcellon had
 looked at it again,  it was whole. He dismissed it  as stress, a fancy
 of  his over-worked  mind. Finally,  when the  messenger had  left, he
 closed the door and saw the image  of a white haired youth, rising out
 of a pit of flaming lava, fire  dripping down off a red colored skull.
 He knew something was amiss in Gateway.
      He tried  once more, concentrating  on the dry parchment  to give
 him a  connection to the keep.  Once more, the ball  revealed nothing.
 Then  he  noticed  it:  the  ball  was  glowing,  he  was  making  the
 connection.  Fool! He  was tired!  Something was  blocking his  probe,
 making him believe  he couldn't establish contact.  The illusion works
 best that is not all illusion. Some type of blanking spell was cast on
 Gateway - probably a Blind. He tried harder, concentrating, this time,
 on the white haired head of the Winston child. The images came cloudy,
 but they  were there: Ne'on Winston  sat on the seat  of Gateway Keep.
 But where was Goren? Ah, this  image was sharper. Goren Winston lay in
 a huddle, barely conscious, in  a dungeon cell. The purple-black color
 around  his eyes  and the  swollen lips  betrayed how  the guards  had
 treated him. Obviously, this situation demanded outside help.
      He  let the  images cloud,  and fade.  He frowned;  with the  war
 coming, he couldn't go  to Gateway on his own. Jordan  had died in the
 same camp  as Qord,  some months ago.  His father was  a mage  of some
 worth, if he  remembered correctly. What was his  name... Marek? Marek
 would be hearing from the High Mage.

                ...reaching, opening, grasping, red liquid,
                sweet, glass, round, smooth, cold, biting,
                dropping, staring, pain, pang, hurt, hand
                on chest, he stares, accusing, despairing,
                questioning, shocked, alone...

      Marcus looked over the grey mermilons to the Vodyanoy river below
 the battlements. Where its brother, the Laraka, joined in its eastward
 flow, was an outcropping of rock, a ledge which overlooked the joining
 of the waters. On a rare day  in Nober, one could see ice worms eating
 through the frozen waters to feast  on the dead moss against the rock.
 The ice worms had plenty to feed on this year, he thought.
      Watching  the  giant water  bucket  lower  from  the top  of  the
 northern  parapet  to the  cold  waters,  he  looked about  the  outer
 perimeter of  the keep, worried about  a possible fire. Fires  are the
 only  reason they  used  the  bucket, in  times  of  peace, except  to
 practice the  drill. He was  relieved when he  saw no clouds  of black
 smoke rising into the air. At least the Arm hadn't burned another cart
 in the market place.
      Since the Black Arm had  been officially named the personal guard
 of the Keeper, several months  ago, their reputation had not improved.
 In Nober,  they had stopped paying  for their drinks at  the Riverside
 Tavern,  the more  prestigious of  the  two taverns  in Gateway.  When
 Marcus  had brought  this fact  to  light in  Ne'on's presence,  Ne'on
 decided that his men needed some fringe benefits, and decreed that the
 Arm would not have  to pay for its drinks at  the Tavern. This annoyed
 Marcus to  no end; there was  already a feeling of  apathy between the
 regular guard and the Black Arm, and the tavern keeper was no lover of
 Winston blood, that day.
      One day, Marcus had all but seen one of its members burn down the
 cart  of one  of  Gateway's  merchants. The  merchant  tried to  press
 charges, and  Marcus was willing  to give  him his full  support; but,
 Ne'on said no proof meant no  sentence, and the merchant was forced to
 swallow his  losses. That was one  less merchant Gateway would  see in
 the winter months, when supplies were low enough already.
      At last, Marcus seemed to find some respite. At the end of Deber,
 the first month of the new year,  Ne'on had sent some fifty of his men
 to parts unknown.  Ne'on claimed they were looking for  a rock of some
 sort, a  spell component for  some all  important plan he  had. Marcus
 hoped Ne'on knew what he was doing. There was war in the air, Bichu or
 no Bichu,  and he knew those  slanty eyed foreigners would  sail right
 down  the Laraka,  taking Magnus  in one  bloody day.  With only  nine
 members of the Black Arm left  in Gateway, aside from that shifty eyed
 captain, Marcus  thought he had  little left  to worry about,  for the
 time being. When  the others return, he thought,  Rise'er's feast will
 begin anew.
      Marcus' silent thoughts  were slowly interrupted as  he heard the
 soft footfall of leather on stone. Looking  up to his left, he spied a
 small man dressed in chain mail which  was too large for his size, and
 a helmet which had to be pushed  back so that the eyes behind it could
 see. The sword  at the man's side dragged lightly  against the ground,
 its length only  slightly longer than the man's  legs. Marcus wondered
 why the  man didn't carry  a short sword,  instead, when he  heard the
 cherubic voice  of his son  cry out from  under the helmet,  which had
 fallen back over the boys eyes.
      "Castellan Ridgewater,  sir!" Thomas  had been training  for only
 three  months now,  and already  he  had begun  to wear  the armor  of
 Gateway. Thomas stood as much at attention as he could, given the over
 sized armor he was  wearing, and the weight of the  blade at his side.
 He had  originally been  meant to  start his  training with  a smaller
 blade; however,  he knew  his father  used a broad  sword, and  he was
 determined to be his father's equal, as circumstances allowed.
      "Report, soldier,"  the Castellan replied, resulting  in a bright
 smile from Thomas.
      "Request permission to speak freely, sir!"
      Marcus looked questioningly  at his son. He thought  he knew what
 was coming next: the other boys training in the guard were planning to
 spend a night  in the forest to the south-west  of Gateway, where they
 hoped to do some winter trapping. "Permission granted, Thomas."
      "I just came to tell you I'm dropping out of the regular training
 stuff." Marcus looked with great  astonishment at his son, standing in
 front of him with his oversized attire. Then he noticed the Black Band
 on Thomas'  left arm. "I just  spoke with Lord Keeper  Winston, and he
 says  he needs  to train  young minds  like myself  for future  pla...
 placements in the  Black Arm!" The boy's enthusiasm  scared Marcus; he
 had no idea what he was getting into.

      The steel reinforced doors burst open on the main hall, as Marcus
 strode through them with anger in  his eyes. "Ne'on," he yelled at the
 top of  his voice,  his face red  and his eyes  bulging. Keeper  or no
 Keeper, he had some explaining to do. No son of his was going to train
 for the  Black Arm,  he would  make sure of  that. "Ne'on,"  he cried,
 again.
      "What  is it,  Castellan  Ridgewater?"  Ne'on's smooth,  carrying
 voice lilted through the room from  behind a parchment he was reading.
 Not removing his gaze from the letter, he continued, "And, please, for
 the sake of formality, remember to address me in the proper tone, when
 we are in the reception hall."
      "To Rise'er with 'proper tone', Ne'on. What are you doing with my
 son?" Marcus  stormed up the room,  stopping directly in front  of the
 Keeper. His  fists were clenched  in rage, and  his sword ached  to be
 wielded.
      "My lord Castellan,"  Ne'on began with a  lackadaisical air, "you
 seem very upset. As far as Thomas is concerned, he is being personally
 trained by  Captain Clay  for private  duty. I'm sure  that, in  a few
 months, he will be a fine addition to the Arm. I thought I might start
 up a  youth program  for keeping  the urchins in  line, what  with the
 upcoming war. I  offered to put him in charge,  as their sargent, once
 he was properly trained."
      "My son,"  Marcus trembled, "is no  pup to be trained  under that
 dog, Clay. I do not want him  in your children's group, and I will not
 have him joining any part of your Black Arm."
      Ne'on  lowered the  parchment  he had  been  reading, and  looked
 directly at the man in front of him.  "He will be very sad to hear you
 are against his  rising in the ranks, Castellan. However,  I think you
 will  find  him  working  with  me,  in  any  case.  He  seemed  quite
 exhilarated when I told him my  plan." Marcus quickly grabbed the hilt
 of his sword, and took a step towards his lord.
      "Keep your distance,  Castellan." The voice came  from behind the
 door Marcus  had bashed open when  he entered the room.  Marcus turned
 around, slowly, to see four men  in silver chain and black tunics, all
 wielding short swords and pointing them at him.
      "Come now,  gentlemen," Ne'on interposed.  He rose from  his seat
 and walked  towards the  men, a  half smile of  pleasure on  his face.
 "There's no need for aggression.  Marcus, my old friend," Ne'on placed
 his left arm over the Castellan's shoulders, "perhaps you need a rest.
 You've been  through a lot, these  past months, what with  my father's
 untimely demise at  my brother's hands. You haven't had  a vacation in
 years,  since your  wife's  unfortunate death  during childbirth.  Why
 don't you  travel? Go  on a hunting  trip? Take some  time off  to get
 yourself together?" Ne'on started walking  the man towards the door as
 he spoke to him,  and now they were at the entrance  to the hall. "How
 does that sound to you?"
      Ne'on's voice was smooth, and  soft, and penetrated Marcus' anger
 easily.  Marcus felt  acquiescent  as he  listened  to Ne'on's  words.
 "Perhaps you're right, Lord Keeper." A confused look came over him. "I
 am tired.  Very tired. Maybe  I should  take a small  vacation." Ne'on
 began  to smile,  and  Marcus  continued. "I'll  think  about it.  I'm
 terribly sorry for the mess I made..."
      "Do  not  worry,  Marcus,  old  friend.  I  shall  take  care  of
 everything."  Ne'on gave  a small  pat  on the  Castellan's back,  and
 Ridgewater exited the room considerably quieter than he entered. After
 Ne'on closed  the door, he  looked at his guards.  "Starting tomorrow,
 Castellan Ridgewater  is to be followed  where ever he goes.  I want a
 complete and  detailed account of what  he does, who he  talks to, and
 how he handles each and every situation. He is an old man; it would be
 a terrible shame if he were to have an accident," he added to himself.

                ...hand grasping tight, taught, red, mad,
                tunic tearing, digging, flesh torn by
                fingers, dirty, brown, skin peeling, blood
                slowly dripping, reaching, lifting, pain,
                blood, death...

      The stone hallway echoed the sound of hard leather boots scraping
 against the floor.  Marcus turned the corner and  descended the spiral
 stone staircase, dug  from the rock on which Gateway  was founded, and
 muttered again that it was too small  for a boy to climb through. Once
 Marcus  had seen  to  his present  problems, he  would  make sure  the
 underground works of Gateway were properly renovated.
      At  the bottom  of the  stair was  a strong  wooden door,  a foot
 thick, which had no  key holes, just large bars on  either side, and a
 small window to speak through. Marcus rapped loudly on the door, and a
 dark  face looked  out from  the other  side. "Let  me in,  Kraig," he
 growled, and  lifted the bar  on his side. He  heard the grunt  of the
 small man behind the door, and pushed it open.
      "Good  evenin', Castell'n,  what  brings ya  round  this time  o'
 night?" Kraig's unshaven face, dark skin,  and bleary eyes made him an
 unpleasant sight  in the  flickering orange torch  light, and  his own
 smell  was  almost comparable  to  the  fetid  aroma that  filled  the
 chamber. Marcus decided not to stay here any longer than necessary.
      "Ne'on's been changing every squirmin' thing else in Gateway, has
 he changed anything  down here?" Marcus knew there was  no change, but
 he wanted to make sure the other guards were still down here, as well.
      "Aye, the  Lord Keeper's been  busy, of late. But,  there's still
 just the  three o'  us. Jess  and Dalia  are back  in th'  other room,
 sleepin'."
      "Wake  them,"  Marcus  commanded   him,  "and  bring  them  here,
 quickly." When Kraig had left the room, Marcus unlocked the door which
 led to the pens, rows of cages only four feet high and four feet deep.
 The scum of the river were held there, as far as Marcus was concerned.
 Thieves, small-time  pirates, murderers; they  all found their  way to
 this area of the dungeon, if the  Castellan was able to catch them. He
 could think of a few men he'd like to see there, right now.
      Dalia,  a tall,  red-haired woman  with brown  eyes, and  Jess, a
 dark- skinned man  like his brother, Kraig, entered the  room with the
 guard. "Here they are, Castell'n. What d'ya need o' us?"
      The three tired, run down, out  of luck guards were at the bottom
 of the  river, as  far as  their ability was  concerned, which  is why
 Ridgewater had assigned them this shift. Almost nothing could go wrong
 down here, where light  of day and fresh air were  as uncommon as good
 men. Marcus wasn't sure how he  should handle his situation. The first
 half of his  mission had been easy.  He always took a  ride around the
 perimeter of the  keep before sunset, and dropping a  packed bundle on
 the ice under  the dock by the  northern ford was as  easy as catching
 rats  in  the  kitchens.  Now,  however,  he  had  to  depend  on  the
 reliability and  discretion of guards who  had no reason to  love him,
 and little reason not to betray him.

      The snow crunched softly under his boots, the wind bit lightly on
 his unshaven face. The cloak he had was warm, but when the sun had set
 completely in the west, he knew he  had better have shelter and a warm
 fire. His  body was in  pain, his teeth bared,  and his head  on fire.
 Sliding down the  gentle slope of snow  and ice, he dug  into the snow
 under the dock for the package Marcus had told him would be there. His
 lips  accuse  you,  his  eyes  betray you,  his  soul  is  burning  in
 Gil-Pazulirken.
      His bare hands  digging into the soft snow, the  cold creeping up
 his sleeves, he felt  the harsh skin of a dead  aelo wrapped with cord
 made from a horses tail. The cold dampness on his knees felt warmer as
 his  skin numbed;  he knew  it  was getting  late. If  he didn't  find
 shelter soon, something away from Gateway and his treacherous brother,
 they wouldn't be finding him until the Mertz thaw. That's it, die; let
 go. Join your father in the feast of Rise'er. He'll be glad to eat the
 flesh from your bones, to revenge himself upon you, murderer.
      Opening the bundle,  he gazed at what the castellan  had left for
 him: a tinder  box, a piece of  curved glass, a chunk  of salted meat,
 some dried fruit, six arrows, and  his father's bow. He picked up this
 last item and tried  to string it. How dare you?  Kill your father and
 take his own  possessions? Better to destroy them, than  keep them for
 one such as you.
      Try as he might, he was too  weak to bend the bow; he needed food
 and water,  and rest. But  where would he go?  He knew the  wind would
 bite deep and harsh, as soon as  he stepped out from beneath the dock.
 How would he even manage a fire, and with what wood? Better you freeze
 here, beneath the dock your father  built with his own hands, like the
 wolves on the other side of the river.
      At that thought,  he looked across the water,  about seventy feet
 at this spot, and saw the small pack of wolves huddling together where
 the dock rested against the embankment. Marcus hadn't chosen this spot
 randomly, he  knew how the winds  blew in Janis. Gathering  the bundle
 together, he pushed up to the top  of the slope, still under the dock,
 and dug  away the snow, which  was less deep, there.  Removing the bow
 and arrows  from the skin,  he snapped the  arrows in half,  and piled
 them with some  rotting wood from the underside of  the dock. He would
 have to wait until the fire was  started before he could burn the bow.
 Removing the tinderbox,  he made the best use of  the wood he possibly
 could, until the light of dawn should wake him.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
    (C)    Copyright    April    1991,    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.