Message-Id: <9309071642.AA21972@hellcow.css.itd.umich.edu>
Date: Tue, 07 Sep 93 12:41:00 EDT
From: SilentElf <WHITEJL@duvm.ocs.drexel.edu>
Subject: dargonz v06n02
To: Rita Marie Rouvalis <RITA@hellcow.css.itd.umich.edu>
Status: RO


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   D    D  AAAA RRR  G GG O  O N N N   Z     I N N N E     || Issue  2
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 --   DargonZine Volume 6, Issue 2        07/28/93          Cir 1151   --
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 -- Archives at FTP.EFF.ORG (192.88.144.4) in pub/journals/DargonZine  --
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 --                            Contents                                --
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  Guest Commentary             Carlo Samson
  Take from the Tower          Carlo Samson           Firil 30, 1013
  Quest Part II                Dafydd Cyhoeddwr       Ober, 1013
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1                        Guest Commentary:
                          Startled Birds
                                by
                          Carlo N. Samson


      Greetings all, and  welcome to the second issue of  Volume 6. For
 our  new  readers,   the  previous  single-story  issue   was  a  rare
 occurrence; sometimes  a story is  written that simply can't  be split
 into convenient installments.
      I'm sure some  of you are wondering about the  long time lapse in
 between volumes. This is due in part  to the fact that over the years,
 several authors have moved/graduated/lost net  access, and we are once
 again  looking for  new  people  to join  the  Dargon Project.  Please
 contact the editor (Dafydd, white@duvm.bitnet) if you are interested.
      Last year about this time I had the opportunity to meet in person
 David "Orny"  Liscomb (founder of  _FSFNet_ and creator of  the Dargon
 Project),  as  well as  fellow  Dargon  authors  Rich Jervis  and  Max
 Khaytsus. Interesting  guys, all of them  (be sure to say  'hi' if you
 meet them on the net!).
      Anyway,  in this  issue we  have the  long-awaited conclusion  of
 Dafydd's story  "Quest" (Part 1  of which appeared in  _FSFNet_ Volume
 10, Number 3),  and a story from  yours truly which provides  a bit of
 background to some of my earlier works.
      As for upcoming issues, we have  several War stories in the pipe,
 a couple  of works by  new authors, and  a new cycle  of Brynna/Cydric
 adventures. Also, back issues of  _FSFNet_ are available from the same
 archive site as _DargonZine._
      So keep it here, tell your friends about us, and e-mail to Dafydd
 (that  address again:  white@duvm.bitnet)  if you  want  to write  for
 Dargon!
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                         Take from the Tower
                                  by
                            Carlo N. Samson

 (Author's  note: The following story takes  place about a year  before
 the start of the Baranur-Beinison war.)


 QUIASHRION WOODS: Firil 30, 1013

      The mid-afternoon sunlight filtered  down through the tall trees,
 dappling  the forest  floor as  Berk  tramped along  the narrow  path,
 softly whistling  an old drinking song.  The sound of a  snapping twig
 and a muffled curse caused him to  turn around just in time to see his
 friend Kintrell stumble and fall to the moist ground.
      "What happened there,  Trell? Did a tree up and  trip you again?"
 Berk said  with a  grin as he  extended a strong  hand to  his younger
 companion.
      Kintrell struggled with his pack  as levered himself up to accept
 Berk's  assistance. "I--I  think  I saw  a rat,"  he  stammered as  he
 regained his footing.
      "Wouldn't surprise  me," Berk  said, casually scanning  the dense
 forest that surrounded them. "They say  that the wizard kept a pack of
 crazed killer rats, which of course have now escaped."
      Kintrell's  eyes widened,  but he  kept a  calm expression  as he
 brushed a leaf out of his unkempt hair. "You think I'm afraid of rats?
 I'm not, you know."
      Berk gave a short laugh. "I know. It's the mice that really scare
 you, eh?"  He shifted his rucksack  to a more comfortable  position on
 his wide  shoulders and continued  walking. But the thirty-  five year
 old adventurer understood  his friend's nervousness, for  the patch of
 woodlands they  were now in  had a somewhat sinister  reputation among
 the local countryfolk.  Stories were told of a  reclusive wizard named
 Tarlada who  built a great green  tower called Glasmelyn Llaw  deep in
 the heart  of the forest  south of a town  called Dargon. It  was also
 said that those who ventured too close to the wizard's home were never
 seen again.
      Berk was sure that most of the tales were exaggerated, but didn't
 exactly  discount  them, either.  But  he  never seriously  considered
 trying to find the  tower until almost two weeks ago,  when he heard a
 rumor that Tarlada was finally dead. Upon making further inquiries, he
 learned that a pair of adventurers--a  woman in a silver half-mask and
 a brooding young  mage--had invaded the green tower to  rescue a gypsy
 woman whom the wizard had taken.
      This  news had  served to  pique Berk's  interest. It  was common
 knowledge  that wizards,  especially reclusive  ones, usually  amassed
 great stores of wealth, and the thought of an unguarded wizard's tower
 (ripe for  the plundering) very  much excited  him. He was  once again
 running low on funds, his last job  having come a month ago as a hired
 sword on a caravan run from Magnus.
      Berk then  spent the next  few days  trying to convince  his most
 trusted friends  to join him  in an expedition  to the tower.  None of
 them wished to do  so, as they all believed that  the wizard was still
 very much alive  and would horribly torture anyone  who dared approach
 his forest retreat. In the end  he was only able to persuade Kintrell,
 a longtime friend  and aspiring thief, to accompany  him by mentioning
 that  the wizard  would  surely have  more  than a  few  books in  his
 possession.  Although  Kintrell  was  illiterate, the  young  man  was
 fascinated  with books  and took  every opportunity  to try  and teach
 himself how to read.
      After  a  few more  days  spent  interviewing various  people  to
 determine  the  most  probable   location  of  Tarlada's  tower,  Berk
 encountered  an  old  man  who  was  able  to  provide  him  with  the
 information he sought. Then, after  buying provisions for the journey,
 he and Kintrell  headed south out of Dargon into  the forestland where
 the wizard was said to have lived.
      Kintrell scrambled to keep pace with Berk. A drop of sweat beaded
 off the  young thief's chin and  soaked into the stained  maroon tunic
 that hung  loosely on  his skinny  frame. "What kind  of books  do you
 think the wizard has?" he asked.
      Berk, who  had heard  this question  several times  since leaving
 Dargon, rubbed the back of his  neck and replied, "I keep telling you,
 Trell,  wizards have  lots of  books. Mostly  spell books,  that's for
 certain. Okay?"
      "Do you think he'll have one that can make me know how to read?"
      "Well,  we won't  know  that  until we  get  there, right?"  Berk
 replied  heavily, shaking  his head.  They had  been walking  for what
 seemed like  hours after  leaving their horses  when the  trail became
 impassable for the  animals, and his patience was  growing thinner the
 more weary he became.
      After  a few  moments Kintrell  asked, "Do  you think  the wizard
 really is dead?"
      Berk had also heard this question  several times. He was about to
 snap back an  answer, when he realized that Kintrell  had never really
 done anything potentially life-threatening in his twenty- three years,
 and was undoubtedly feeling apprehensive.  He reached down the neck of
 his brown  tunic and  brought out  the object that  hung on  a leather
 thong. "Remember what this is for?"
      Kintrell looked at the crystal-and-silver pendant. "Sure, it's to
 tell us if  there's bad magic around." He paused  a moment in thought,
 then said, "But  what if the wizard's  not evil? I mean,  what if he's
 good, but just doesn't want us to bother him?"
      Berk let  the pendant drop  to his chest  and put his  arm around
 Kintrell. "Trell,  my simple-minded friend,  think for a  moment about
 why we're in  this gods-cursed forest. The wizard is  dead, right? And
 when  someone is  dead, they  can't hurt  those of  us who  are alive,
 right?"
      "Yes, but--"
      "Ghosts are not real, Trell."
      "I--I know, but if he's dead, why did you buy the pendant?"
      Berk smiled. Kintrell  was showing signs of  original thought. "A
 simple precaution," he replied. "In ventures like these, it's best not
 to leave some things to chance."
      They walked  along for  another hour  or so,  pausing once  for a
 brief rest.  The forest was calm  and quiet, with only  the occasional
 birdcall or rustle in the bushes to break the silence. Soon, the trail
 ended in a large clearing where  stood the fabled Glasmelyn Llaw. Berk
 and Kintrell stopped and stood in silent amazement at the great tower,
 which seemed to be constructed of  a single piece of green crystalline
 stone. Five slender turrets rose to various heights from points on the
 tower's circumference, giving the structure  the appearance of a giant
 green hand thrusting upwards from the forest floor.
      "So this is  where the wizard lives,"  whispered Kintrell, gazing
 up at  the dark windows  slits. A shiver raced  down his spine  at the
 thought that some unseen lurker could be watching them from inside.
      "Used to live," said Berk, drawing  his sword. He glanced down at
 the pendant and  was reassured when he saw that  the crystal was dark.
 "Come on. It doesn't look like anyone's home."
      The pair advanced across the  clearing and paused at the entrance
 to the  tower. The door was  missing, and there appeared  to be scorch
 marks around the frame.  The hinges of the door looked  as if they had
 been melted.
      Kintrell unhitched  his mace  from his belt.  "What do  you think
 happened here?" he asked.
      "Exactly  what   it  looks  like  happened,"   Berk  replied.  He
 cautiously made his way into what  he assumed was the main living area
 of  the tower--or  used  to be,  he corrected  himself.  The room  was
 completely burned out; all that remained were brittle piles of charred
 wood and a layer of ash covering  the floor. He poked at a nearby pile
 with  the tip  of his  sword;  moving aside  some of  the larger  wood
 fragments, he uncovered the twisted remains of a large chandelier.
      Kintrell wandered over to the side  of the room and squatted next
 to the remnants of a large  bookshelf. He stirred the burned wood with
 the head of his  mace; suddenly, there was a loud  screech as the wood
 pile erupted  in a flurry  of motion. He  cried out and  flung himself
 backwards. Berk whirled around in time  to see a bird explode from the
 pile and wing it's way out the door.
      Kintrell lay gasping, clutching his  heart. Berk reached down and
 hauled the young man to his feet.  "What's the matter with you? It was
 only a wood grouse!"
      "S-sorry, Berk, it just surprised me, is all," Kintrell panted.
      "Well, come on,  then. Doesn't look as if  anything survived down
 here--let's hope the fire didn't spread any farther."
      The two made their way to the back of the room and up a flight of
 stone  steps; Berk  noted with  satisfaction  that there  was no  fire
 damage in evidence. Almost halfway to the next floor, his foot slipped
 on something and he toppled forward. He  let out a string of curses as
 he pushed himself back to his feet.
      "What happened?"  Kintrell asked.  Berk ignored  him as  he knelt
 down to examine the step he had  slipped on. It appeared to be covered
 with a grey  powdery substance; he took a pinch  between his thumb and
 forefinger and  rubbed lightly. "Feels like  ash," he said. He  took a
 quick  sniff of  the  powder and  frowned. "But  it's  not from  wood.
 There's a whole  mess of it here." He straightened  up and scrutinized
 the walls; they were clean and unmarked.
      "So what do you think it is?" asked Kintrell.
      "I don't know;  the fire didn't get  up this far, so  it can't be
 from burning." Berk  picked up his sword and  carefully stepped around
 the ash pile. "Come on--and watch yourself."
      The  second floor  was apparently  a display  room. A  panoply of
 armor and edged weapons occupied a third of the wall space, while maps
 of various kingdoms and tapestries took up the rest.
      "Would you look  at this, Trell--this is what we  came for!" Berk
 said with  delight. "Now, what  we're looking for are  valuable things
 that we can carry and sell easily. You understand what I mean?"
      "Sure,  Berk,"  replied   Kintrell.  "Nothing  heavy--like  those
 shields, or those big swords, right?"
      "Right. Now  let's get  to it."  Berk shrugged  off his  pack and
 pulled out a large canvas bag;  Kintrell did likewise. Berk moved over
 to a  display case holding  an assortment of silver  tankards; finding
 the door  locked, he  smashed the  glass with the  hilt of  his sword.
 Grinning, he began stuffing the tankards into the bag.
      After they had  ransacked the room, the pair  explored the turret
 for that  floor. It  turned out  to be a  library, much  to Kintrell's
 delight.
      "Ol's balls," the young thief  murmured, gazing at the shelves of
 books and scrolls. "You think these are his magic books?"
      "Probably," Berk  said. Ignoring the shelves,  he began rummaging
 through the  drawers of the  desk in the  middle of the  room. Finding
 only a sheaf of  parchment and a stick of sealing  wax, he turned away
 from the desk  and saw with horror that Kintrell  was happily tumbling
 the books off the shelves into his bag.
      "What in  Xothar's name  do you think  you're doing?"  he yelled,
 grabbing Kintrell's arm.
      The young man  looked at him fearfully. "Y-you said  I could keep
 any books we found!"
      "I know--but  you can't take ALL  of them! We have  to leave room
 for the valuable stuff."
      "But books *are* valuable!"
      Berk thrust  Kintrell away from  him. "Look, just take  the books
 out and leave them here. All right?"
      "But, Berk--"
      "DO IT!"
      Kintrell winced  and began to  comply. Berk looked at  his friend
 and felt  a sudden stab of  guilt. He sighed heavily,  then said, "All
 right, Trell,  all right. You  can take one, and  if we have  any room
 left over, you can come back and get a few more. Okay?"
      Kintrell brightened. "Okay, Berk!"
      "Great. Just meet me on the  next floor." Berk shouldered his bag
 and left the room.
      Kintrell continued taking books out  of the bag, and waited until
 he heard  Berk's heavy  bootsteps echo on  the steps  before rummaging
 around  to see  which book  was worth  keeping. Most  of the  tomes he
 examined had elaborately illuminated  pages and neatly flowing script;
 one, however, was written with strange blocklike letters and contained
 no decoration. He looked at the  book's leatherbound cover and ran his
 finger across a  large gold symbol in the center.  Just then, he heard
 Berk bellow for him to hurry up. Making his decision, Kintrell stuffed
 the tome into his bag and scurried down the stairs.

      Subsequent  floors  and  turrets  yielded items  more  to  Berk's
 liking. His bag overflowed with silver candlesticks, ivory statuettes,
 small gemstones, and  the like. After a while, the  two paused briefly
 for  a meal,  eating on  gold plates  and drinking  from fine  crystal
 goblets. By late afternoon, they  had filled their bags and backpacks,
 and had to fashion  new bags using sheets from off the  beds in one of
 the sleeping rooms  they found. Berk continually  checked his pendant,
 even  though he  was certain  that the  tower was  indeed free  of the
 wizard. He  also kept finding mysterious  piles of ash on  the various
 levels of the tower, but soon  ceased wondering about their origin the
 farther up they progressed.
      Eventually, they  reached the top  of the fifth turret.  The room
 was completely  dark, prompting Berk  to instruct Kintrell to  light a
 torch. In the flickering firelight, the pair saw that the walls of the
 room were covered with  a heavy black cloth. Next to  the wall stood a
 long low table  draped with a silver  cloth, and in the  center of the
 room stood a massive table, on which was a dark cube- shaped object.
      "This was probably  the wizard's conjuring room,"  mused Berk. He
 eyed the object on the table; Kintrell  moved to stand next to him and
 wondered aloud what the object could be.
      "I'm not entirely sure," Berk replied. Curious, he unsheathed his
 sword and was about to poke  the cube-shaped thing when Kintrell cried
 out, "No, don't!"
      "What, Trell?"
      "I-I don't think you should do that, Berk."
      "Why not? Think it's evil or something?"
      "It-it .  . .  " Kintrell  shivered and  cast his  eyes nervously
 around the room. "I think we should leave this place."
      "All  right, Trell,  no  need  to wet  yourself,"  Berk said.  He
 sheathed his sword, glancing at his  pendant as he did so. The crystal
 was still dark, as  it had been ever since they  entered the tower. It
 was  supposed to  glow in  the presence  of hostile  magic, or  so the
 jeweller he  bought it  from claimed. Then  again, perhaps  there were
 some forms of evil too subtle to be detected by magical means.
      A quick search of the  room revealed nothing special. Berk ripped
 down the  dark heavy  cloth, which  served merely  to block  the light
 coming in  from the  window. Satisfied  that there  was nothing  to be
 gained in  this room, he  indicated to Kintrell  that he was  ready to
 leave.
      The young  thief was staring out  the slitted window next  to the
 table by the  wall, gazing out over the woodlands.  At Berk's call, he
 turned and said, "This is the last room, so that means we're finished,
 right?"
      Berk nodded. "Not  a bad haul, I'd say! Get  your stuff and let's
 leave."
      Kintrell reached down  and picked up his  makeshift treasure bag,
 having left  the backpack  and canvas  bag on  the previous  level. It
 resisted his pull;  he yanked harder, but the bag  remained fast. With
 all his might  he gave the bag  one final yank; the  low table flipped
 over and Kintrell  found himself tumbling backwards into  the table in
 the center  of the room. Berk  dropped his bag and  started forward to
 try and catch him, but was  too late to prevent Kintrell from slamming
 down atop  the dark cube.  There was  a crunching sound,  and Kintrell
 screamed as he felt shards of the object dig into his back.
      "Trell!"  Berk shouted  as he  raced to  aid his  companion. "Are
 you--" His  words were cut  off by a  thin, shrill wail  that suddenly
 pierced the  air, accompanied  by a  burst of  bright blue  light that
 flared out from underneath Kintrell, where the dark cube had been.
      Berk helped  his friend  off the table.  Kintrell moaned  as Berk
 removed pieces of  what looked like charred wood from  the young man's
 back. Just then, another wail split  the air; moments later, a violent
 tremor  rippled through  the tower.  The two  adventurers were  thrown
 against the  wall. Berk reached  out to steady Kintrell,  but suddenly
 clutched  at his  head as  a searing  pain shot  through his  mind. It
 lasted for only a second; Berk dropped his arms and saw Kintrell still
 holding his head.
      "Trell, are  you okay?" Berk asked  as he shook the  young man by
 the shoulders.
      "W-what's happening, Berk?" Kintrell  stammered, his eyes full of
 fear.
      "I don't know,  Trell, but we're getting out of  here right now."
 Berk picked  up his  bag and  ushered Kintrell ahead  of him  down the
 steps. They hadn't  gotten far when the tower  shuddered violently for
 the second time.  A bolt of pain hammered hard  into Berk's brain, but
 this time did not  subside. He let out a cry and  pounded at the wall,
 squeezing  his  eyes   tightly  shut.  He  drew  a   deep  breath  and
 concentrated, fighting  back against the  mental agony. He  opened his
 eyes and saw Kintrell hunched up against the wall.
      "Let's go, boy!" he shouted through gritted teeth.
      "It hurts, Berk, it hurts!" Kintrell wailed.
      "Come ON, damn it!" Berk growled, pulling the young man along.
      The tower trembled again as they emerged from the turret onto the
 fifth level,  and the pair were  thrown to the floor.  Kintrell landed
 next to  his canvas  bag, which  had tipped over  and spilled  out its
 contents.  Concentrating against  the haze  of pain  that clouded  his
 mind, Kintrell focused and saw the book he had taken from the library.
 He reached out and clutched it to his chest, just as he felt Berk pull
 him to his feet. As he stumbled  along in front of his friend, he felt
 a stiffness begin to creep into his arms. His breath started coming in
 short, ragged gasps. The pain in his mind was unrelenting.
      By the  time they made  their way down  to the second  level, the
 tower's shuddering  had become  severe enough to  cause cracks  in the
 walls  and floor.  Kintrell could  barely move  his legs.  He stopped,
 causing Berk to stumble into him.
      "Keep moving, damn you! We've got to keep moving!" Berk screamed.
      "I-I can't!"  Kintrell sobbed. Berk  shoved him hard  and shouted
 for him  to get going.  Kintrell started  crying openly as  he lurched
 into motion.
      They finally  made it  out of  the tower  and blundered  down the
 forest trail.  The pain  had lessened somewhat,  but the  stiffness in
 their joints  had become unbearable.  Still, Berk kept them  moving as
 fast as they were able.
      Kintrell's legs  felt like solid  stone. His arms had  long since
 frozen around the leatherbound book. He desperately wanted to stop and
 rest,  but Berk  was cursing  like  a madman  for him  to keep  going.
 Eventually,  Kintrell's legs  gave out  and he  crashed to  the forest
 floor. He saw Berk stumble a few  steps more, then fall heavily to the
 ground. Kintrell tried to will himself into motion, but found that his
 body no longer  obeyed him. His arms were dead,  useless, and he found
 that he could no longer even  feel the book against his chest. _What's
 happening  to me?_  he  tried  to scream,  but  his  lips were  locked
 together. The  last vestiges of  feeling left  his body, and  soon his
 eyes  closed  of  their  own  volition. In  a  panic,  Kintrell  tried
 thrashing about, but it was as if  he were encased in stone, or buried
 alive in cold, hard  dirt. _Help me! Help me! OH BY  ALL THE GODS THAT
 EVER LIVED, *HELP ME*!!!_
      Mercifully, his mind ceased functioning not long afterwards.

      A few days later, Jongur the  Hermit was chasing a rabbit through
 the forest  when he came upon  the petrified corpses in  the middle of
 the trail. With  a gasp of horror  he dropped his sling  fled from the
 scene, eyes  wide with  fright. He  stood panting  against a  tree for
 several minutes, until his curiosity  overcame his fear. He crept back
 to the scene and peered at the  bodies from behind a bush. They looked
 very much like statues hewn from  a flaky light-grey stone; indeed, he
 might have assumed that  that was the case, were it  not for the items
 they held. One man lay on his  side, clutching a bulging bag made of a
 heavy blue  cloth; the other lay  on his back, an  expression of sheer
 terror frozen on his face, clasping  a large book to his chest. Jongur
 estimated  that they  had not  been  there for  very long,  as he  had
 crossed this trail seven days ago.
      The  hermit sat  on the  ground, considering  the bodies.  With a
 shock he remembered that he was near the old wizard's green tower. For
 as long as he  had lived in the woods, the area  around the tower felt
 foreboding  and sinister,  as  if  some unseen  force  wished to  keep
 everyone  away. Then,  of course,  there were  the strange  vines that
 seemed  to  have  a life  of  their  own  and  a singular  purpose  to
 discourage people from approaching too  closely. Jongur had learned to
 avoid the  tower, until one  day not long ago  when he pursued  a deer
 into the tower's sphere of influence.  The vines were gone, as well as
 the sense of the unseen presence.  He assumed that the wizard had died
 at last, and with him whatever magic  he had used to ward his home. He
 found that  the game in  the tower area  was more plentiful  than that
 patch of woods  around his hovel, most likely  because hunters avoided
 the tower as well.
      But now,  Jongur feared that the  wizard was not truly  dead, and
 had cursed these  two for plundering the tower. The  hermit had always
 assumed  that if  he  did  not bother  the  wizard,  the wizard  would
 likewise  leave  him alone.  But  with  this  direct evidence  of  the
 wizard's apparent malice, he wasn't so sure. He no longer felt safe in
 these woods; it was probably best that he leave and find another place
 to live. But where?  Back in the town? He shook his  head sadly at the
 memories: the fire,  his family's death, the months of  begging on the
 street, the constant fear of being  attacked by other beggars for what
 he managed to  collect. No, he couldn't go back,  yet neither could he
 continue to live here. Unless....
      Jongur  eyed the  blue  bag that  the man  nearest  to him  held.
 Perhaps he had gotten away with some of the wizard's wealth? Hope rose
 in his  chest. He unsheathed  his knife and  slowly crept over  to the
 man. A  few pokes on  the man's arm with  the knife caused  small grey
 bits to  flake off. Satisfied  that the  man was completely  inert, he
 pulled on the bag, but it remained  firmly in the man's grasp. He then
 cut a slit in  the bag and ripped it open.  Various objects of silver,
 crystal, and gold spilled out onto the ground. Jongur let out a cry of
 delight; if he could sell these, he  would be a rich man and could try
 to start  his life  over again. His  mind raced with  plans on  how to
 carry the wealth  back to his home,  and how best to  go about selling
 them.
      He stuffed as much as he could  into the burlap sack that he used
 to carry home his kills. He was about to leave when he caught sight of
 the book the other man held. He went over and pulled the book out from
 under the man's arms, accidentally breaking  one of them off as he did
 so. The strange  gold symbol on the cover of  the book fascinated him;
 whatever the  book was  about, he  was certain it  would fetch  a good
 price. He tucked the tome under his arm and hurried home.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                              Quest
                         by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
                     b.c.k.a. <white@duvm.bitnet>

                               Recap

      A young man named Dyalar living in Trasath - a very small village
 which  doesn't seem  normal even  to the  inexperienced youth  who has
 lived there all  his life - is  apprenticed at age 14 to  his uncle, a
 blacksmith named Lavran whose shop is in the City of Dargon.
      The lad goes to Dargon  and gradually learns smith-craft from his
 Uncle Lavran.  At age  16, after a  hearty celebration  of Midsummer's
 day, he is lured from his bed by  a falling star and dreams of what he
 might do with a lump of the fabled sky-iron. He finds the fallen star,
 as well as  two religious symbols - an oak-  branch shaped from amber,
 and a strange  silver-like chalice. From that day, he  seems to gain a
 'guardian angel'  which keeps  him out of  serious harm.  Several more
 years pass.
      And, just a few weeks  before King Haralan's 36th birthday Dyalar
 dreams that he takes his three  treasures and forges a sword from them
 with the help of an unseen entity.  As he dreams that he is taking the
 rosy-gold sword from its final cooling bath, he awakes to find that it
 was not  a dream  and that  he now  has a  Quest to  complete. Without
 telling anyone, he sets out upon it.

                                Part 2

      I  curled myself  up as  small as  possible in  the corner  of an
 abandoned but not ruined woodland chapel.  I covered myself as best as
 I could with my blankets as well  as branches and leaves I had brought
 in when I'd arrived.  I was still a little cold and I  knew I would be
 colder when  the small fire went  out, but the weather  wasn't yet bad
 enough to be dangerous. Still, as I  drifted off to sleep I hoped that
 I would  get some  kind of  direction on my  quest soon  - I  had been
 wandering all but aimlessly for the past three days and it was getting
 too late in the season to be so  deep in the forest alone and far from
 any civilization.
      I dreamed the Dream that night. Confusion, fear, struggle, a ring
 of dancing figures, a knife, pain - and I woke, sitting up and gasping
 at the pain  in my chest, barely  noticing the cold of  the chapel. It
 took me a few minutes to calm down, but soon I was trying to rearrange
 my 'nest', which had been scattered by my thrashing. I was confused by
 the intensity of the Dream - normally  by this time of year, the Dream
 only produced a vague sense of unease and a slight twinge in my chest,
 and it rarely even woke me up.
      Once I  was ready  again for  sleep, it came  swiftly and  with a
 strong scent  of roses.  I fell immediately  into dreaming  again, but
 this time  I saw only  a familiar village  square and no  nightmare. A
 voice that  was ghostly  even for  a dream seemed  to say,  'Return to
 Trasath - your Quest leads homeward...'  and I slipped too deeply into
 sleep to remember what further I may have dreamed.

      Seven years after I left it, and  two days after the night in the
 chapel,  I rode  back into  Trasath. I  hadn't even  realized that  my
 'aimless' wandering had in fact been leading me in the direction of my
 home village. But if I hadn't stumbled  upon a trail just where it was
 marked by a  Fretheod obelisk that had been used  as a mile-marker and
 sign-post to  Trasath (among other villages,  including Dargon itself)
 the  morning  after my  dream-message  in  the  chapel, I  might  have
 wandered in the woods for far longer than two days.
      Trasath seemed so  tiny to me now! After the  vastness of Dargon,
 my home village  was but a clustering of houses  about a central well,
 with the single  inn looking even smaller than my  uncle's house. As I
 rode into  the central  square, the  few people  out and  about looked
 askance at me,  and no one hailed  me though I saw  recognition in the
 eyes of  a few. I  turned my  horse down one  of the three  short side
 streets  the  village  boasted  to  my  father's  house,  feeling  the
 suspicious stares biting into my back as I rode.
      Father's house hadn't changed much save  that it seemed a bit run
 down. I dismounted and  tied my horse's reins to the  ring by the door
 and knocked.  I was fairly sure  he would be  home as it was  close to
 sundown, and  in any case  mother would be  there. After a  short wait
 during which  I knocked two more  times, the door opened  slowly and I
 laid eyes on my Father.
      He was  almost as much  changed as  my perception of  Trasath had
 been. He seemed shorter, older, thinner, and much more worry-worn. His
 hair had gone streaky-grey, and his  face bore lines too deeply etched
 for one who was  not ancient. He stared at me for  a moment, then said
 shakily, "Son? Dyalar?"
      He opened his arms and we embraced, hugging fiercely and slapping
 backs in our  love and happiness at seeing each  the other again. When
 we finally  broke apart, it  seemed as if much  of the worry  and fear
 that had been in his face was gone and he stood up straight and proud,
 looking at me up  and down. "Come in, come in son.  I was just sitting
 down to  dinner -  join me  and tell  me about  Dargon and  why you're
 here."
      I followed  him into the  house, idly noting the  slightly untidy
 look of the front room. Something  didn't seem right there - something
 was  missing. I  knew that  mother would  never have  allowed even  so
 slight a degree of disorder creep into her house. As we crossed to the
 dining room,  I asked,  "Father, is mother  away visiting  someone? It
 just looks like no one has cleaned in here in a while."
      He stopped  stock still, and  all the improvement in  his bearing
 that seeing me  had produced now vanished like a  spring frost beneath
 the first rays of  the sun. He sat down on the  nearest chair and drew
 me  down into  the one  next to  it. "So,  Lavran didn't  tell you.  I
 thought he wouldn't, but I forgot in the joy of seeing you again. Son,
 your mother  has been  dead these past  six years. It  was -  a fever,
 caught the winter after you left.  The village healer could do nothing
 for it. She...she didn't suffer..."
      He broke off, consumed by  his remembered grief. I, too, grieved.
 I was  shocked to  hear that mother  was dead, and  even more  so that
 Uncle had  known but not  told me. I  would have thought  nothing more
 about the manner of mother's death had not the familiar scent of roses
 intruded into  the grief father and  I were sharing, and  a sense that
 father was  not being fully  truthful with me grew  in the back  of my
 mind.  The feeling  didn't indicate  malice, but  rather fear,  and it
 seemed to have something to do with my quest.
      We eventually  comforted each other sufficiently  to have dinner,
 and we talked about  what I had been doing and what  he had been doing
 but  not in  depth. After  catching each  other up  in a  general way,
 father said he had to get some sleep as he had work to do early in the
 morning, but he promised  to leave work as soon as he  was able and we
 would talk more then.
      I was given my old room to stay in, though it took a while to get
 it cleaned up  and ready to be  lived in even for a  night. Finally it
 was ready, and I sank into my old  bed that was a little too short for
 my adult body and fell asleep.
      When I  began to  dream, it was  very much like  the night  I had
 forged the sword - everything seemed  real but even though I was doing
 it there  seemed to be something  between the 'me' that  was observing
 and the 'me' that was doing. In my dream (which I knew probably wasn't
 actually a dream),  I got out of bed and  dressed warmly. Then, taking
 the sword out of its makeshift scabbard, I made my way silently out of
 the house and to  the small paddock where I had put  up my horse after
 dinner. I  rode cautiously to the  farmhouse of a man  named Arndil. I
 dismounted a short distance from the  house and walked the rest of the
 way silently. As I drew nearer and nearer the house, my sword began to
 glow faintly silver. I crept into the  house and to Arndil's room - he
 had never been married as far as I  knew, and he seemed to be alone in
 the house.
      As I stood  beside Arndil's bed looking down at  him, I felt hate
 rise up in me. I saw him in a memory that was not my own, but that was
 as vivid as if  it must be something I had seen or  done. I saw Arndil
 dancing in a ring with seven  other men, all naked, all chanting, with
 "myself" bound  and helpless  at the center.  Only Arndil  was sharply
 enough defined in  my dream-memory to recognize - who  the other seven
 were I  did not know.  All eight were  chanting dark and  evil chants,
 invoking someone or  something named 'Hanarl, Savior  of Trasath', and
 intoning that I must be sacrificed to keep the village safe.
      The memory faded enough that I again  saw Arndil in his bed in my
 dream. Hatred  flooded my  body, and  I raised my  sword high  over my
 head, taking a two- handed grip on the barely-long-enough hilt. I knew
 that the hate in my body wasn't my own, but belonged to whomever owned
 that memory, and that person or thing had total control of me.
      The sword descended, driven by  my muscles hardened by long hours
 at the forge  swinging heavy hammers and by the  will of my possessor,
 aimed at the totally unprotected and unsuspecting body of the sleeping
 Arndil - or  so I thought. The  blade met an obstruction  in clear air
 about 6 inches from the sleeping body with a jar that rattled my teeth
 but made no noise.
      I was startled by the unseen barrier but my puppeteer wasn't. The
 blade hadn't  slid from the barrier  like it might have  from a curved
 metal shield;  it seemed to  have bit into  the resistance like  an ax
 into a log. My muscles strained  and the blade sank slowly against the
 resistance. As  it bit deeper  and deeper, the  sword began to  glow a
 fierce  gold  unlike  its  previous subdued  silver  radiance,  and  I
 marveled to see the invisible shield-like thing protecting Arndil from
 the blade begin to glow reddish-white,  more red near the cloven part,
 revealing the shape of the protection.
      The thing  that possessed  me continued to  struggle to  force my
 blade through  Arndil's protection, the farmer/priest  still sleeping,
 blissfully  unaware  of  his  danger. Inch  by  fractional  inch,  the
 golden-glowing  blade  neared  Arndil's  flesh and  finally,  my  body
 sweating with  the effort, the keen  edge reached its target  and drew
 blood from Arndil's arm.
      The instant  that blood was  drawn, the protection  collapsed and
 Arndil awoke, gasping  in startled fear. He  seemed totally unprepared
 for an attack,  both mentally and physically, but  my puppeteer didn't
 give him time to gather himself  together. The sword was already drawn
 back over my  shoulder, and after my stance was  adjusted slightly, it
 was swung again. It connected  with Arndil's outstretched arm with all
 the force my body could muster and sheared clean through it, coming to
 rest  deep within  Arndil's chest  and killing  him cleanly.  But that
 wasn't enough for my possessor. It  forced my body to continue to hack
 and  chop,  rendering  the  man  into so  much  meat  and  blood,  and
 continuing when there  was no more Arndil to carve  by hacking his bed
 into flinders as well.
      Finally, the hatred within me cooled,  and the strain of what had
 been done to  me dulled even my  dream perceptions so that  I was just
 barely aware  of being guided  back to my horse,  and then back  to my
 Father's house and my bed.
      My  exhaustion kept  me  asleep  well into  the  morning. When  I
 finally awoke, my  hopes (faint, at best) that the  past night's dream
 had been  just that  were dashed  when I saw  the rust-brown  of dried
 blood on  my clothes  (not the  ones I  had worn  to bed,  either), my
 sheets, and my skin. My golden sword  was on the floor beside the bed,
 and while it wasn't stained, the floorboards around it were.
      It took me a  while to drag myself out of bed.  Up 'till the past
 night, the strangenesses in my life had been good, interesting things:
 being dragged out into the forest  by a falling star and finding three
 treasures instead of one; my 'guardian  spirit' keeping me safe for my
 destiny; and the 'presence' that had  helped me forge my golden sword.
 But  now those  strangenesses had  turned sinister  and ugly  with the
 carnage it seemed all  but certain I had been forced  to commit. I was
 heartsick, but I didn't want my  father to know. I hardened my resolve
 and began  to clean myself and  my room before leaving  Trasath and my
 'quest' behind.
      Dried blood is not  easy to get out of cloth,  and even harder to
 get out of floorboards, but I  succeeded. After packing my things, few
 as they were,  I checked once more  to be sure that no  evidence of my
 dream-walk remained  to incriminate my  Father, I saddled up  Sock and
 rode for Dargon.
      The trail took me through the village again, and if I had doubted
 that I  had really killed Arndil  despite the blood on  my clothes and
 person  that morning,  I was  made sure  that someone  had killed  the
 farmer as I rode through the central  square of my former home. I only
 heard bits and pieces of other conversations, as no one seemed to take
 much notice  of me, but  the topic  of everyone's discussions  was the
 mysterious  and messy  death of  Arndil. I  was sure  that some  of my
 former friends were eyeing me with suspicion even though I had bundled
 the golden sword  in some blankets tied behind my  saddle. And I could
 feel every pair  of eyes in my  back as I left Trasath,  for good this
 time.
      But, as I rode down the main trail toward Dargon, my vision began
 to cloud. The Dream,  which had rarely come to me  in the daytime, and
 then only on MidSummer's Day itself, now obscured my perceptions and I
 noticed the resemblance between my nightmare-Dream and the memory that
 had preceded the carnage last night. In  fact, my Dream seemed to be a
 distorted shadow  of the memory of  the person who had  controlled me!
 The Dream intensified  - the confusion, the fear,  the pain...and then
 it was gone, and I found myself riding up to my Father's door.
      I tried to leave Trasath for the  rest of the morning and most of
 the  afternoon,  but  I  could  not.  Always  the  Dream  would  come,
 disorienting me  and removing me from  control of my horse,  Sock. And
 when the Dream faded away, I would  be back at my Father's door or, as
 in the last few tries, in  the paddock behind Father's house beginning
 to strip  Sock of  my equipment.  Finally, I  gave up  in despair  - I
 couldn't leave Trasath of my own accord.
      I  wasn't very  good company  for  my Father  that afternoon  and
 evening. He  could tell  I was  depressed, and maybe  even that  I was
 afraid of something.  But, I couldn't tell him what  was going on. Not
 that I couldn't have - nothing was  keeping me from it, unlike my wish
 to leave Trasath -  but I wasn't sure enough of  him and the situation
 in the village to fully trust anyone with what was happening to me. If
 Uncle Lavran were here, or maybe  even Leriel...I could have talked to
 either one of  them. But I just  wasn't close enough to my  Father - I
 didn't  know him,  had  never  known him  well  enough  to talk  about
 something like this.
      We both decided to retire early. I  went to my room, but I didn't
 want to sleep.  I lay on the bed  and wished with all my  might that I
 wouldn't go out dream- walking again, or that if I was dragged from my
 bed that the thing controlling me  would explain what was going on and
 why I  was part  of it.  Somewhere in  the middle  of my  wishing, and
 sometime before  my exhaustion forced me  where I didn't want  to go -
 into sleep - I  made up my mind that if I did  go dream-walking, and I
 didn't learn why, that I would take steps to make sure that I wouldn't
 be used any further.
      This time my dream-walking didn't  intrude into my sleep until my
 body was  dismounting Sock at the  gate of a family  named Harnolt. As
 soon  as I  realized  that  this wasn't  an  ordinary  dream, I  began
 fighting, but it was no use. As my body was carried forward cautiously
 to the front door of the moderate farm house, my sword began to glow a
 deep, rich red which seemed to throw  a shell around me. Somehow I was
 made aware that this glow, like the  others, had a function - the deep
 red was to shield me from sight until I had reached my goal.
      I entered the house silently  and paced through the rooms surely,
 as if I had no doubt of  my destination. I passed through the rooms of
 the children, then  their parents, all unseen, and  finally stopped in
 the room  of Brenn Harnolt, grandfather  to the children in  the other
 room, father to the man who now ran the farm.
      Once again, the Dream in its pure  form rose up in me. This time,
 I recognized only  Brenn in the circle of eight  dancing men, although
 one  of the  other  figures was  little  more than  a  moving blot  of
 darkness rather than a shadowy blur  and I realized that the blot must
 be the deceased  Arndil. I wondered whether this hell  was supposed to
 continue  until  all eight  of  the  dancers were  dead  -  but I  was
 determined that it wouldn't.
      I tried  to remain  distant from  the hate  and rage  that poured
 through  me, called  up  by the  pure  Dream and  the  sight of  Brenn
 sleeping there on the bed. My  body wasn't affected by my withdrawal -
 it raised the sword and brought it  down with all my might, only to be
 stopped  again by  a shield  like the  one that  had tried  to protect
 Arndil. As before, the blade began  to glow gold, and the shield began
 to glow red in protest as it was slowly riven by the magic forged into
 the alloyed sky- iron.
      Soon,  the shield  was thoroughly  pierced, and  first blood  was
 drawn. But Brenn seemed more prepared than had Arndil. When the shield
 went down and  Brenn woke up, he recovered from  his shock swiftly and
 drew  a dagger  from beneath  his pillow.  I guess  that the  death of
 Arndil had  forewarned the  rest of  the dancers,  but I  wondered how
 Brenn proposed defend himself with a  dagger from someone who had made
 mincemeat of Arndil.
      I found out quickly: the dagger  was magic. Brenn was an old man,
 with thin,  withered arms and a  skinny, frail body. However,  when my
 body took a swing at him with all the strength in my back and legs, he
 was able to  catch the blade in  the vee of dagger-blade  and hilt and
 the force of my blow was totally  absorbed by his weapon - he probably
 didn't even feel the  power my body had put into  it. And, despite age
 and fragility,  Brenn had  probably been  a fighter  once, and  he was
 still agile  if not  fast -  I was just  a metalsmith  with occasional
 dreams of  being a  swordsman. Brenn flicked  my blade  aside (another
 magical  property of  his dagger)  and riposted  unexpectedly into  my
 stomach.
      Fortunately,  my puppeteer  had  good reflexes  and  I backed  up
 enough to turn a possibly fatal stabbing into a shallow wounding. This
 only  made my  puppeteer  madder,  and it  began  to  hack and  slash,
 attacking mercilessly and untiringly. I had occasion to notice that my
 sword was  again glowing red,  its light encompassing the  whole room,
 keeping the sounds of our battle from the rest of the house.
      I also  noticed that  every time  my blade  struck the  dagger, a
 spark  of  blue   light  was  struck.  It  started   out  very  small,
 unnoticeable the first  few times, but it increased  by larger amounts
 with each blow. As the spark  grew larger and brighter, I noticed that
 Brenn seemed to feel  the shock of the contact of  the blades more and
 more. He seemed to know what this  meant well before I did, because he
 began to get desperate, making wild moves, throwing things to distract
 me, calling out for help. I finally figured out that just as the blade
 had sheered through the shielding  that had protected the man earlier,
 it was  now somehow canceling  out the magic  in the dagger  little by
 little. And  eventually, when my  puppeteer took one last  swing which
 was parried frantically by Brenn,  the dagger-blade broke and my blade
 carried through and into Brenn's chest.
      This fight had been even worse than  the last one in terms of how
 drained I  already felt.  My controller  managed to  force my  body to
 mutilate Brenn's  but not to the  extent it had Arndil's,  and it left
 the rest of the  room intact. I lost awareness even  before I had left
 the  house, hoping  that my  puppeteer  could get  me home  in such  a
 condition.
      It was past noon  when I woke, and even though  that meant that I
 had slept for almost  half a day, I was still tired  and achy from the
 exertions I  had been forced  through in  the night. Again,  there was
 blood everywhere  - and this  time, some of it  was mine. But,  when I
 bent to examine  the wound that Brenn  had given me, I  was shocked to
 find  no trace  of it  on  my body.  My  tunic was  slashed and  blood
 stained, but there was  no mark on my stomach. I  looked over to where
 the golden sword had been laid  across a chair propped against my door
 and marveled at the magic thing that I had somehow created.
      I  cleaned  my room  again,  removing  all  traces of  blood  and
 struggle. Then I ate  a meal big enough to feed half  of Dargon, or so
 it seemed, so hungry was I. All  the while, I was trying to figure out
 a way to end  the dream-walking I was being forced  into. As I saddled
 Sock, the solution came to me - I would used the sword that I had made
 to kill myself, and thereby end the killing I was doing unwillingly.
      Loath to  end my life  without need, I  tried once more  to leave
 Trasath,  this time  by  back  ways. But,  I  was  still blocked  from
 escaping my destiny  in that manner. So  when I came out  of the Dream
 again in front  of my father's house  I decided to escape  in the only
 other way  open to me.  I turned Sock away  from my father's  house to
 find a clearing in the woods around Trasath in which to end my life.
      I  followed our  side street  until it  ended just  past Jefirt's
 house, who lived on the outskirts  of the village. Choosing one of the
 faint trails that continued into the forest from the end of the street
 at random, I  rode on, taking side paths and  navigating forks totally
 without pattern. Just about the time  I began to think it strange that
 I hadn't found  a clearing yet, I  came to a very  large cleared space
 that  would be  perfect for  my  purposes. It  was about  as large  as
 Trasath's  Square, oval  in shape,  with several  large stones  placed
 about it. It almost seemed familiar in  some way, but I was sure I had
 never been there before.
      I dismounted Sock and looped his  reins over the saddle. He would
 stay in the area for a while cropping the dying grass in the clearing,
 but if I was  successful in my mission he would be  free to wander off
 back to  town. I removed the  golden sword from behind  the saddle and
 moved into the center of the clearing.
      I knelt in  the grass and unwrapped the sword,  admiring one last
 time the work that had been done on it. It was a beautiful weapon, but
 even though my  hands had fashioned it I couldn't  take credit for its
 creation. I wondered whether I would  learn who HAD created it and why
 after I was dead...
      I had already pondered  the difficulties of self-destruction with
 a  sword, but  the basic  problem was  solved by  the presence  of the
 stones in the clearing. I placed the hilt of the sword in the angle of
 a stone and the ground, which would  keep it from moving away from me.
 Then, I  placed the point  of the sword  against my chest  between two
 ribs and  to the left of  the breastbone. I leaned  forward enough for
 the point to catch  in my tunic, then paused for  a moment. I silently
 said farewell to my father, Uncle  Lavran and Aunt Mellide, my friends
 in Dargon,  Leriel (who was more  than a friend, though  I would never
 get to find out how much more now)...
      As I  tried to remember the  people I should be  taking leave of,
 the  Dream began  to intrude  upon  my consciousness.  Flashes of  the
 circle of dancing men were interspersed among the faces of loved ones.
 One moment  I could feel  the ropes binding me  as the men  danced and
 chanted, and the next I was kneeling  down with the golden sword at my
 chest. Somewhere in  that confusion, I recognized that  the clearing I
 was kneeling in was the same as the one where the naked men danced and
 chanted in my Dream. Also, somewhere in the confusion, I realized that
 when I  concentrated on the sword,  the Dream faded away.  Grasping at
 that straw, I centered my attention on the sword until all vestiges of
 the confusion  were gone  and I  was once again  only kneeling  in the
 center of the  clearing. Quickly, then, before whatever  was trying to
 stop me  found another tactic, I  bade a quick farewell  to everyone I
 had not thought of  before, and began to lean forward.  Just as I felt
 the tip of  the sword draw blood  from my chest, there was  a flash of
 very bright, very white light, and I heard the command, "STOP!"
      And, I  found myself  obeying. Completely.  I couldn't  even turn
 around  to see  from whence  the command  had come  - I  was immobile.
 Presently, I felt hands on my shoulders pulling me back gently so that
 my  chest came  away from  the  sword's tip,  letting it  fall to  the
 ground.  The hands  pulled me  to my  feet, turned  me, and  pushed me
 gently to  the edge of  the clearing and  into the trees.  There, just
 beyond the edge of the clearing was  a pair of ancient oak trees, huge
 and spreading, shaded to a deep  green by the layers of leaves between
 them and the  sun. Nothing but the barest  forest undergrowth carpeted
 the ground beneath  them - their age and size  precluded anything else
 taking root within their demesnes - creating a shadowed clearing about
 their bases. I was guided just to the edge of this dark green clearing
 by the hands at my shoulders, and  then a voice said, "Be free again."
 As volition returned to my body and  I slumped back down to my knees I
 felt an overwhelming  wave of nearly divine power  emanating from that
 natural  temple  that drove  me  to  prostrate myself  without  really
 wanting to.  A shape  moved briefly  within the  shadows, and  then it
 faded away along with the awe inspiring sense of power.
      Before  I had  even  begun  to recover,  hands  took  hold of  my
 shoulders  again, and  a  voice  I almost  recognized  said, "Get  up,
 Dyalar. Herne  doesn't much like the  reaction even the shadow  of his
 partial avatar elicits, which is why  I'm here to enlist your aid." As
 I was  helped back to my  knees and then  to my feet I  reflected that
 that natural temple  was a perfect place to meet  the Protector of the
 Forests. Some argued that Herne was  more of an elemental force than a
 deity of some  kind, but whichever he was, he  certainly had the power
 to bend mortals to  his will. It was in his favor  then that he didn't
 like to use it.
      Back on  my feet  I turned to  see whose hands  had aided  me, to
 confront  the  impossible. I  recognized  the  voice  now, just  as  I
 recognized the face, although I hadn't  seen it in about 10 years. She
 hadn't changed at all, but then she  wouldn't have - she was my sister
 Keryin, and she was dead.
      But  she didn't  look dead.  Dressed in  her favorite  grey-green
 gown, black hair tied back with  blue and green ribbons, eyes flashing
 blue, cheeks rosy-red,  a budding rose the same color  tucked into her
 hairband over her  right ear - she looked exactly  as I remembered her
 going off  to the village  dance two nights  before she died.  I said,
 "Keryin, is it really you? Are you...How could you be alive? Or...a-am
 I d-d-dead?"
      She hugged  me tightly, feeling  very solid, and said,  "It's me,
 Dy. I'm not alive - not really. And you are not dead. We are both here
 to do the will of Herne and eliminate the evil that dwells in Trasath.
 From  the moment  of my  death, I,  with his  help, have  been working
 towards this day. The story is long, but you need to know it all."
      She began  to speak, and her  story was almost too  bizarre to be
 believed. I  probably wouldn't have  believed it  were it not  for two
 things. One  was Keryin herself, who  had been dead for  10 years. The
 other was the already fading memory of the glimpse of Herne I had been
 granted. At that moment, there was  no way I could doubt anything said
 in Herne's name.
      Keryin's tale began with the Wolf  Winter, and its effects on our
 tiny village.  Dargon was a prosperous  duchy, for all that  it was on
 the northern end of the Kingdom,  and even though Trasath was somewhat
 isolated from most  of the duchy, it had always  done well for itself.
 But the Wolf Winter had eliminated half the population of the village,
 and had provided the means for an evil force to gain a foothold there.
 Certain powerhungry  citizens had  been influenced into  calling forth
 from the Dark  Places an entity known as Hanarl.  Eight members of the
 community,  under  the  leadership   of  Master  Dineel,  the  village
 innkeeper, had  made a pact with  the spider-like being to  provide it
 with the sacrifices it wished in return for being given power over the
 entire village. Considering the weakened state of Trasath at the time,
 and the  promises made that such  a disaster as the  Wolf Winter would
 never happen  again, the village had  little choice but to  give in to
 the Octacle and to Hanarl's demands.
      After that, twice  yearly, at ceremonies everyone  over a certain
 age were required to attend, a sacrifice  was made to Hanarl of one of
 the villagers,  chosen by lottery.  Those two were only  the mandatory
 sacrifices, however. At any time, the Octacle, or even anyone who knew
 about them, could demand that some supposed wrong could be paid for by
 sacrifice. Wanderers  were frequently  the subject  of these  kinds of
 sacrifices, but never often enough to arouse suspicions. The Octacle's
 hold was maintained by blackmail -  if anyone left the village knowing
 of Hanarl's grip on the populace,  it was communicated to them that if
 they told anyone,  a loved one would be the  next victim of sacrifice.
 If the person  didn't have a loved  one to be held,  he wasn't allowed
 away from the village, and if he  tried to get away, he was invariably
 captured and sacrificed.
      Keryin had been  one of those 'extra' sacrifices.  At that dance,
 she had  been propositioned by Dineel's  son and had turned  him down.
 Repeatedly. In  front of everyone,  and not politely. Two  days later,
 she had been  taken in the middle  of the square by  Master Dineel and
 four other men, accused of  blasphemy against Hanarl, and sentenced to
 sacrifice. No  one had been able  to do anything to  save her, because
 the entire village was in the same precarious position.
      Her  loss had  been covered  up  - none  of the  children in  the
 village  knew of  Hanarl and  the Octacle,  and Father  was even  more
 determined that I  should not know of them after  Keryin was killed by
 them. He talked to  Lavran and made the deal that  got me removed from
 Trasath.  It also  got him  in trouble  with the  Octacle, but  he had
 thought it worth getting me out of danger's way.
      But the Octacle had retaliated against  him for saving me. He had
 been lying  to me about Mother's  death. Keryin told me  that her name
 had been  forced to come up  for the Mid-Summer sacrifice  lottery and
 that the Octacle had  duly killed her on the Stones  of Hanarl as they
 had killed countless others before and after her.
      "But, now you are here, Dyalar, wielding the Sword of Herne. Ever
 since my wrongful death, Herne has been using both of us - you through
 me - to  work toward an end  of Hanarl. You were guided  to the ruined
 chapel to find the Branch and  Chalice, and thereafter to find the sky
 iron. Once these objects of Power  were in your possession, I was able
 to reach you at times, enabling me  to protect you even from the order
 of form Herne  removed me to after  my body was slain.  Then, when the
 stars were  right, we both  moved you to create  the Sword out  of the
 three artifacts you had found and a portion of your own soul, for only
 a weapon possessed of the powers those four things would give it could
 possibly conquer the Octacle of Hanarl that ensnares Trasath."
      "Why didn't  you just  tell me?" I  asked after  letting Keryin's
 explanation  sink in.  "I would  have been  happy to  help you  - done
 anything to avenge your death and mother's."
      "It  would have  been  too  dangerous, Dy.  The  Octacle is  very
 powerful, and  even though they have  ruled supreme in Trasath  for 17
 years, they still fear the day  that someone comes to depose them. The
 two that we  killed still slept under the shield  given them by Hanarl
 even this  long after  anyone has thought  to try to  kill one  of the
 Octacle in  their sleep. And  they have  their ways to  detect surface
 thoughts that they use mostly on  strangers - which you qualify as. If
 you had ridden into town with  death and destruction on your mind, you
 wouldn't have lasted 5 minutes, Sword or no.
      "The plan was  to have you -  us - eliminate four  of the Octacle
 and then challenge Master Dineel with his power severely diminished by
 the halving of his priests. But,  we had not counted on your attention
 during  the night  raids, nor  on your  reaction to  those raids.  I'm
 really sorry you found what I  was directing you to do so distressing.
 Perhaps I did  get a little carried  away, but then they  did kill me,
 after all..."
      "But, now that I know..." I began, but Keryin interrupted me.
      "Yes, now that you know, the plan has changed. Your moral outrage
 at what was being done to you  impresses Herne, even though it put our
 plan in jeopardy. Though you were  an instrument of Right, you did not
 know it. You sought to end the  carnage in the only way you could find
 since you  knew not  the purpose  of the killings  and only  that such
 killings were wrong.
      "That is  why Herne intervened  today, in violation of  the rules
 imposed upon powers like him by  pact and law. And, ironically, it was
 Hanarl's breaking  of the rules so  long ago which tipped  the Balance
 far enough in his favor that Herne feels justified in making the small
 transgressions he has - manifesting  the merest fraction of himself on
 this Order of Form, and allowing me  full access to this Order of Form
 (if temporarily) - as efforts to right the Balance.
      "And  he wouldn't  do it  even then  if it  wasn't so  important.
 Hanarl has grand plans, and Trasath is only a testing ground. It works
 slowly, wanting to be sure of Itself, and in doing so It has amassed a
 great deal of power  here. It must be stopped soon, for  if It is not,
 the whole world is in jeopardy.
      "You might think that Trasath is  an unlikely place for such evil
 as Hanarl to  begin his conquest of  Makdiar from - it  is, after all,
 just a small hamlet in the wilds  of Dargon. However, the Balance is a
 delicate  thing.  Hanarl  managed  to  use  the  forces  of  Nature  -
 essentially a part  of the Balance itself - to  goad certain people in
 Trasath to helping  it tip the Balance  in favor of Chaos  just a bit,
 but it  was enough. Trasath is  small, and Hanarl doesn't  have enough
 worshipers here to  draw strength from homage. But he  gains even more
 power from the sacrifices its Octacle  performs. Soon it will be ready
 to spread  its influence to  more hamlets  and villages. As  its power
 grows, and  the Balance skews  ever farther toward Chaos,  Hanarl will
 move faster  and faster, gobbling  up towns, cities,  whole countries.
 Unless  forces are  brought into  play on  the side  of Order  and the
 Balance is restored.
      "And this is what we must do.  We are the forces of Order arrayed
 against Hanarl's forces of  Chaos. It is not as it  was planned, but I
 believe that we  can still prevail against Hanarl's  minions. You, the
 sword ... and myself  as an added element - it will  be enough. It has
 to be."
      She stopped speaking for a moment, head tilted slightly as if she
 was listening to  something I couldn't hear. When  her eyes refocused,
 she said, "If  you accept our mission, we should  be about it. Herne's
 brief intervention here  caused ripples that the  Octacle has noticed.
 We would be foolish to wait around  here for their response - we would
 be  at a  distinct  disadvantage anywhere  near  their unholy  ground.
 Herne's last words  to me were that  if we are able  to defeat Dineel,
 Hanarl will  be forced to  retreat and  the other priests  will become
 powerless. He gives us his blessings, but can do no more at all for us
 now.
      "So, what do you say, brother?"
      I put off giving Keryin a  definite answer by taking steps to get
 us away from the Stones of  Hanarl. Riding back to Trasath with Keryin
 mounted  behind me,  I tried  to figure  out what  to do  next. Keryin
 seemed to believe that the Octacle of Hanarl was a formidable foe, but
 also that I could defeat them. I  wasn't as sure. The only magic I had
 ever  faced  had  been  in  the   last  two  days  and  while  it  was
 overwhelming, it was  also frightening. I didn't know  enough about my
 skill or the Sword to believe  I could stand against a directed attack
 from a fully  aware and prepared opponent. But, I  also didn't think I
 had a choice.
      "What should I do?" I finally asked Keryin, hoping that she would
 have the answers I couldn't find due to her 'special' status.
      "What do you think you should do, Dy?" she responded.
      "Well," I replied, "my options are rather limited, aren't they? I
 mean the only thing I can think  of is to ride into the village square
 and cry  challenge on Master Dineel,  then wait for him  to accept and
 fight."
      "You have  one other option -  well, two actually. You  could, if
 you chose, simply leave Trasath. The  binding Herne put on you to keep
 you in the village has been lifted  - he didn't want to coerce you any
 further to his work."
      "No," I said. "I don't know if  I can defeat Master Dineel, but I
 know I must  try, for yours and  Mother's sake, as well as  all of the
 others who died  at the hands of  Hanarl's minions - I  can't just run
 away and let more die."
      "I   didn't  think   you  would,"   Keryin  said,   squeezing  me
 affectionately. "So, your other viable option is to sneak up on Master
 Dineel and kill him before he has a chance to kill you."
      "But  that's not  honorable!" I  said, indignant  that she  would
 suggest such a thing.
      "Neither is  Dineel or his  master, Hanarl. You should  know that
 even  if you  follow the  forms and  conventions of  single combat  by
 calling Challenge  on Master  Dineel, there is  nothing in  his makeup
 that  would force  *him*  to follow  them. I  can  guarantee that  the
 remainder of the Octacle would  be stationed around the Square waiting
 for the  right moment to  strike at  you, with Dineel's  approval, and
 even at his orders.  If your opponent will not play  by the rules, why
 should you?"
      "Because, if I didn't, I would be as bad as he!"
      "That, brother, would  depend on why you were doing  it. What you
 now  have to  decide is  which power  - whose  "honor" -  you wish  to
 follow. True, within the confines of  what you term honor, sneaking up
 on and killing Dineel with no warning is wrong. However, if you did it
 because it  was necessary, the only  way you have a  chance of killing
 the man, and the  man's death is for the greater  good, then you would
 be following the Honor of Herne and of the Balance.
      "Herne has enlisted you to remove Hanarl from this Order of Form.
 He has placed  on you no restrictions  on the "right" way  to do this,
 only that it be done. Do you agree that it must be done?"
      "Well, yes...of course..."
      "Then  is it  more important  that it  be done  your way,  with a
 challenge that Dineel  will ignore and you will possibly  die from, or
 that it be done in the surest way possible?"
      "I...I don't know, Ker. I always thought....Which is right?"
      "I can't tell you that, brother. I can only present the options."
      "But, don't you know? Why won't you help me?"
      "No, Dy, I don't know which is  "right". I know which I would do,
 but you must  decide which you will  do. Both Herne and I  trust you -
 you will do the best you can  to eliminate Hanarl, no matter which you
 chose."
      Still trying to decide, I guided Sock up to my Father's house and
 dismounted. I was somewhat confused by  the idea that "honor" wasn't a
 constant thing  - something  solid and absolute  to measure  your life
 against.  Then, as  if  in a  flash,  I realized  that  "honor" WAS  a
 constant thing, it was the form of the honor that was fluid. The codes
 that I had  learned during my time in Dargon  were only one embodiment
 of the  concept. But, they  could be set aside  if there was  a higher
 guidance -  which I  had in  the form of  Herne's directive.  It *was*
 honorable to kill Dineel from ambush, as  long as I was doing it for a
 greater  cause than  the filling  of my  purse, or  the betterment  of
 myself or my liegelord. I was serving Herne and the Balance in this. I
 had decided.
      I secured Sock's reins to the hitching post before Father's house
 and noticed that  the front door was  slightly ajar. I was  sure I had
 closed  it, but  then,  considering  the errand  I  had  left upon,  I
 realized that I  could as easily have left it  standing wide as locked
 it.  I closed  it,  and  turned to  Keryin.  "Dineel's  death is  more
 important than adherence  to a set of rules." I  said. "We're going to
 the Inn to catch him unawares. Let's go."
      I set out  towards town and the  back way to the inn,  but I soon
 noticed  that Keryin  was not  following.  I turned  around found  her
 walking back towards the woods.
      "Ker! Where are you going?" I  called out. She stopped and looked
 over her  shoulder. "Remember the  shortcut we found racing  Minia and
 Phin to the bakery? Come on!"
      Only with  her prompting did I  remember the shortcut -  as young
 children, we had all been forbidden to enter the forest around Trasath
 for any reason. The village was small,  so it wasn't a problem in most
 cases. However,  at the  end of the  week it had  been the  custom for
 Dorinach, Trasath's Baker,  to cool her pies on the  back porch of her
 shop. Minia and  Phin, the children of our neighbors,  my sister and I
 would  often race  over there  in the  late afternoon  to take  in the
 lovely aromas and get first pick of the castoffs of Dorinach's baking.
 There usually wasn't much in the way  of castoffs, so the first one to
 arrive  got  the  best  bent  tarts, or  broken  cookies.  Keryin  had
 discovered a way to shorten the  run down several alleys to the bakery
 by skirting  one edge of  the village and  taking a trail  through the
 forest to  the end of  the alley that  ran behind the  village square.
 And, as I began to run after  her swiftly moving form, I realized that
 the bakery was right next to the Inn.
      Sneaking  through the  alley  as  silently as  we  were able,  we
 approached the Inn. I saw that  Keryin's shortcut had been a very good
 idea - there  was someone at the entrance of  the cross-alley just the
 other side  of the  Inn, and  at the end  of this  alley where  it met
 Trainer's Way.  It seemed  that Master Dineel  had posted  guards, but
 only along  the most  likely ways  for me to  get to  the Inn  from my
 father's house.
      Now moving even  more silently and keeping a wary  eye on the two
 guards who had  no thoughts of anyone approaching the  Inn from behind
 them (fortunately), we  neared the rear door of  Master Dineel's home.
 It seemed  that luck  was with  us -  the door  was open,  probably to
 facilitate the warning that the guards  expected to give Dineel of our
 approach.
      I led the way through the pantry  and kitchen of the Inn. The top
 half of the  door between the kitchen  and the front room  was open so
 that it was easy to hear the  conference going on in there. Keryin and
 I crouched by the door and listened.
      "...s properly  secured by  the well, Master.  We had  no trouble
 taking him either." I identified the voice as that of Ederavin, one of
 Father's best friends and who lived next door.
      "Good." This  was Dineel.  "Then we  have a  hold over  the young
 troublemaker. Ederavin,  I want  you to  stand next  to Himran  and be
 ready to answer Dyalar's challenge. Don't worry - you're just there to
 distract him  for a moment. To  make sure that Dyalar  takes the bait,
 however, I want you  to take this wand. It has  enough power stored in
 it to  do substantial damage to  the person you touch  with this metal
 end. I won't ask you to try to get close enough to Dyalar to use it on
 him  - the  wand isn't  capable of  discharging swiftly,  and I'm  not
 interested in putting another of the  octacle at risk. However, if you
 use it on Himran, you will both  be avenging the years of slights that
 man has  done to us,  and you  will be sure  to distract his  son long
 enough for the rest of us to act."
      "As you will, Master," was Ederavin's  reply. I thought I heard a
 note of regret in his voice, but  such was Dineel and Hanarl's hold on
 the octacle that even the prospect of torturing his best friend didn't
 sway Ederavin from  obeying. And it was only by  concentrating on what
 my  mission was  that I  kept from  leaping up  right then  and trying
 (futilely, most likely) to keep them from harming my father at all.
      "To  continue,"   said  Dineel.  "Feyarin,"  who   was  Trasath's
 shoemaker, "you take the remainder of  the octacle and hide in various
 positions around the edges  of the square - make sure  you have a good
 view of the well. While you wait, concentrate upon Hanarl. I will take
 up a position at the edge of  Tailor's Way, out of direct sight of the
 well. As we wait,  I will be entreating our god to  supply us with the
 means  of destroying  our  enemy.  When Dyalar  enters  the square  to
 challenge Ederavin for the life of his father, you will each be filled
 with the Venom of Hanarl. Release it at Dyalar, and he will be utterly
 destroyed. We can then rebuild the fullness of the octacle and put our
 plans back on schedule."
      With  a  chorus  of  "As  Hanarl demands,  by  the  Master,"  the
 conference broke up. I heard them leave, talking softly to each other.
 When there had been  no sound for a minute or  so, I peeked cautiously
 over the edge of  the lower part of the door and  was relieved to find
 that the front room was empty.
      Cautiously, I went through the kitchen door and crossed the small
 front room that also served as a  tavern. The front door had been left
 open as well, and I peered through  it. I saw Ederavin standing by the
 well next to the  limp form of my father, who had  been bound hand and
 foot as  well as being  secured to one of  the spit-posts by  a goodly
 length  of rope  wrapped about  his chest.  Ederavin looked  at Father
 sorrowfully, then  stared at  the short,  black, silver-capped  rod he
 held.  After a  moment his  face took  on a  look of  resolve, and  he
 reached out to  touch the silver end  of the rod to  my father's neck.
 There was a slight crackling noise, and I could see a flickering dance
 of sickly  purple light begin to  move across father's neck.  I turned
 away to  find Keryin right  behind me,  watching the torture  with the
 same expression  on her  face that  I knew  was on  mine -  hatred and
 desire for revenge.
      We both  moved away from  the door  and the chance  of discovery.
 Keryin turned  her gaze on  me, questioning.  When the first  moans of
 pain came through the door, she touched my shoulder in sympathy. I was
 trying to wrestle with my recently-made resolve to eliminate Dineel by
 whatever means were  necessary - with my father's pain  on the line as
 well as my "honor", I was having a hard time not falling into the trap
 Dineel had  so carefully set. But  Keryin's presence helped -  she was
 hurting too and she was not rushing heedlessly into the square.
      Finally, I  said, "If we both  slip back into the  alley and then
 around to Tailor's, we could sneak up behind Dineel..."
      Keryin's face  had hardened as  the moans turned to  low screams.
 She said,  "I have to stop  that, Dy. You  sneak around that way  - as
 fast and as quietly  as you can. I'll try to get  them to stop hurting
 father."
      "But, what about that 'venom' thing Dineel talked about?"
      "Dy," she said with a smile and  a gentle touch to the side of my
 face, "remember,  I'm already dead.  Herne will protect my  spirit and
 guide it to its final rest when my task here is done. They cannot harm
 me in any permanent way. Go - every second wasted is one more eternity
 in torment for father."
      I hugged her, wishing she could stay with me always, then ran for
 the alley. The guards still watched  the Trainer's Way entrance to the
 alley, nervously shifting a bit as  the now louder screams echoed from
 house to house. I turned back the  way Keryin and I had come. I didn't
 dare run  outright for fear of  alerting the guards, but  Tailor's Way
 wasn't very far along the alley  anyway. I turned onto the narrow road
 in the direction  of the square and immediately slipped  back into the
 alley: Dineel's hiding place may  have been effective from the Square,
 but from this end of the street I  had a perfect view of the leader of
 Hanarl's Octacle.  My hands itched for  a bow (though I  was barely an
 average shot) or  a sling (with which  I was better -  there were more
 targets for a slingstone than an arrow in a city like Dargon). Since I
 had neither, I drew my rosy-golden sword and peered around the corner.
 I marked out carefully likely  spots of concealment between myself and
 Dineel before quietly taking the first step around the corner.
      As soon as I  was around the corner, my sword  began to glow red,
 calling up the shell of concealment I  had seen it use before. I moved
 straight  for  Dineel,  hoping  that  concealment  by  ordinary  means
 wouldn't be needed.  It seemed that either luck or  the red shield was
 working for me, because I was within  two steps of Dineel's back - and
 him all unawares - when Keryin  stepped into the square from the front
 door of the Inn with a shouted "Stop!"
      From my  position I could see  the entire Square. I  watched five
 people step out of concealment, each one with their hands clasped palm
 to  palm in  front  of  them and  a  cloud  of greyish-greenish  light
 billowing around those hands. The  fingers of those hands were pointed
 at Keryin but I could see that  everyone was confused by the fact that
 it was a woman and not a man that had entered the square. Ederavin had
 jerked the wand away from my father's neck at Keryin's cry, ending his
 screams, but when he  saw it wasn't me who had  come to challenge him,
 he started  to put  the wand  back to  my father's  neck. But  then he
 recognized Keryin,  and his eyes  widened in  fear and he  dropped the
 wand. It bounced on the well-rim, then fell down inside.
      Dineel  stayed  hidden,   but  I  could  see  the   same  fog  of
 foul-looking light around his hands. I took one step, then another - I
 was  within range.  I  lifted  my sword  to  strike, concentrating  on
 Dineel's back.  Just as  I was ready  to end the  threat of  Hanarl in
 Trasath village, the  red shield vanished, to be replaced  by a golden
 one. At the same time, Keryin cried out "Dyalar!" and I saw a globe of
 greyish- greenish  light impact  with the  golden shield  and shatter,
 scattering a black liquid from its remains.
      Dineel wheeled immediately and his face went white when he saw me
 there. Some of the black liquid struck  him, and he winced in pain. He
 leaped backwards,  pointed his  hands at  me, and  the cloud  of light
 around his  hands flew at me  like the globe had  done moments before.
 This attack  acted like a signal  to the others, but  they didn't have
 even  as  much success  as  the  first  one  to fire.  Dineel's  globe
 shattered on the shield, splattering him with even more black liquid -
 what I  assumed was  the "Venom  of Hanarl", and  which it  seemed the
 followers of Hanarl were not immune to. Only one other globe came near
 me, but  it actually hit Dineel,  who cried out and  staggered. Of the
 two remaining globes, one hit the  Inn, staining the paint and smoking
 a little. The last one somehow managed to hit one of the other octacle
 members full in the chest - his  screams as he died were deafening, if
 not prolonged.
      Dineel,  who was  hardier than  his followers,  retreated further
 from me.  He called  out, "To  me!" and the  remaining members  of the
 octacle moved with him towards the well. He glanced behind him and saw
 that Ederavin was  just staring at me, while Keryin  was busily trying
 to untie  father. He  shouted, "Ederavin!  Grab the  girl! We  need to
 summon Hanarl, and she's already been a victim - she should provide an
 easy entry point for our god!"
      Snapped out  of his shock by  a direct order, Ederavin  did as he
 was told. Keryin had no weapons, and  though she fought as well as she
 was able  without, Ederavin  was able  to keep  her from  running away
 until the rest of  the octacle arrived and pinned her  down at the lip
 of the well.
      I began  running as soon  as she went  down, breaking out  of the
 paralysis I had been in watching  her struggle, so much like the Dream
 that had haunted  me for so long. Dineel wasn't  wasting time, though.
 With  the five  remaining members  of the  Octacle pinning  Keryin, he
 lifted her tunic enough to bare her stomach and using a knife that was
 as twisted  and sickly looking  as everything  else having to  do with
 Hanarl so far,  he cut her four  times in an simple  eight limbed star
 pattern. The  cuts were not deep,  but they did hurt  - Keryin's cries
 told that - and they did  bleed. Then, holding the bloody knife aloft,
 Dineel screamed out  Hanarl's name over and over, a  chant taken up by
 the other five.
      Though the  village square  was not  large, it  seemed to  take a
 terribly long time to  cross to the well. As I  drew closer and closer
 to my goal, I began to see a  shape forming above the well and the six
 chanting people there.  It was just a  blob at first -  a presence but
 formless. Then, it began to shape  itself into a spider-like being. It
 had only five  legs, though - there were three  stumps where its other
 legs should  have been, showing how  much Hanarl had linked  itself to
 its Octacle. I  knew that even with  the powers of the  sword, and the
 blessing  of Herne  behind me,  I would  have no  chance against  this
 avatar of a god if it had a chance to arrive fully.
      So spurred  on, I finally  reached the chanting Dineel.  His eyes
 were  only  for the  arrival  of  his god  -  only  Keryin noticed  my
 presence. I hesitated even so, not  wanting to strike like this. But I
 looked up and saw the only  slightly ghostly form of the Hanarl-avatar
 there, beginning to move its legs  and click its mandibles, and I knew
 I had to act. I aimed, and thrust.
      My sword entered Dineel's chest  from behind. His chanting turned
 to a scream  that stopped when the  first 6 inches of  my golden sword
 came  out his  front. The  Hanarl-avatar writhed  soundlessly, and  as
 Dineel's life left his body, the head of the spider-thing exploded and
 the body  vanished like  mist blown  away by a  wind. The  five people
 holding Keryin  down fainted,  releasing her. I  knelt beside  her and
 covered her wound with her tunic. She  smiled at me and said, "You did
 it. I'm very proud of you, Dy. You freed Trasath!"
      We hugged,  then she said, "Cut  father loose - those  knots just
 didn't want to come untied. Then, we  have to get back to the grove. I
 don't want father  to see me -  I can't stay much longer  and it would
 only hurt him to see me again."
      I released  father from his  bonds, but he was  still unconscious
 from the  wand. Keryin had already  started back down the  road to our
 house and the grove,  so I followed her. When I  reached home, she was
 already in Sock's saddle, waiting for  me. There was a faraway look in
 her eye that frightened me, but she wouldn't answer any questions. She
 just insisted that I mount up. I  did, and then we rode at a breakneck
 pace back to the grove.
      Even before I  had reined Sock to a stop,  she had dismounted and
 was walking back to the two  huge oaks. When she entered their shadow,
 she went to  her knees. I looked  away long enough to  get down safely
 from Sock's  back, and  when I  looked back, she  was surrounded  by a
 faint glow.
      I  walked over  to  the oaks  and stood  behind  Keryin, who  was
 beginning to look a little transparent within the glow. Though she was
 not moving, and her head was bowed and thus she couldn't have seen me,
 she began  to speak in a  hollow, almost echoing voice.  "Herne speaks
 through me," she  said. "Herne thanks you for righting  a great wrong.
 You have  done what he was  not permitted to  do on his own.  Now, say
 farewell to  your sister. Her  task is finished  - her spirit  will be
 released now."
      I knelt and hugged Keryin, surprised at how solid she still felt,
 considering how transparent she looked. She raised her head and turned
 a tearful face to  me and kissed me on the cheek. In  a voice that had
 lost its echo,  she said, "I wish  I didn't have to go,  Dy. I'll miss
 you - these  past couple of years  have been fun." The  scent of roses
 made my eyes tear up too.
      Addressing the air,  I asked, "Does she have to  go? If she truly
 doesn't want to, that is?"
      There was silence for a moment, and then Keryin's eyes got glassy
 and the echo returned. She said,  "Your sister may not remain embodied
 - that is not permitted. But, she could return to being your 'guardian
 angel', as  you referred  to her,  if she wished.  Your bond  with the
 magics of  your sword  allow the  two of  you this  kind of  contact -
 should you lose the sword, or  should it be destroyed, Keryin's spirit
 will have  to go. The  decision is yours,  Keryin. You have  served me
 well - do you wish this to be your reward?"
      She came back to  herself and said, "Yes, Herne -  I want to stay
 with Dyalar." She smiled at me as she said this, and I smiled back.
      This time, the voice came from  the trees of the 'temple'. "So be
 it. Come to  me, Keryin. Dyalar, turn  away. You will not  wish to see
 the destruction of this body."
      I hugged  Keryin one last time,  and kissed her cheek.  She stood
 and walked deeper into the shadows  between the two ancient trees, and
 I walked back  to Sock. There was  a cry that wasn't of  sound, but it
 drove through my  soul like a sword.  Then, there was a  change in the
 very air,  and when I  turned I was shocked  to see that  the towering
 oaks had vanished - the 'temple' was now just a stand of normal forest
 growth. Of Keryin there was no sign. I mounted Sock and turned back to
 the trail back  to town. Yet as I  rode out of sight of  the stones, I
 caught the scent  of roses on the  air, and heard a  familiar laugh at
 the back of my mind. Smiling, I rode on, but not alone.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1     (C)    Copyright   July,   1993,   DargonZine,    Editor   Dafydd
 <White@DUVM.BitNet>. All  rights revert to the  authors. These stories
 may  not  be  reproduced  or   redistributed  (save  in  the  case  of
 reproducing  the whole  'zine  for further  distribution) without  the
 express permission of the author involved.