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From: bberver@nmsu.edu (Brendan K. Berver)
Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: "Death of a Dragon", Part 1/4
Date: 25 Feb 1995 00:46:39 GMT
Organization: New Mexico State University, Las Cruces, NM
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  		  	    Death of a Dragon

     Winter strikes hard along the west coast. No one knows this better
than the sailors who ply their trade in the Great Blue. As one old mariner
put it "I've seen it go from blizzard to dead still in less than a
minute, and it don't make no difference, cause no matter what ole Papa
Winte got in store for you, its gonna be _cold_." And cold it always is.
     It was cold that night as well, a still, freezing cold, the type that
can be beautiful, provided you've a cup of ale and good fire to warm you. 
The Inn was quiet that night, as quiet as the Inn ever is. Somewhere in
the rafters above, Listener played a soft tune, in cheerful complement to
the crackling of the fires. Rowan stood idly at a table, casually wiping
it with a cloth, in spite of the fact that there was nothing remotely
unclean about it. And at one of the many tables scattered about the room,
there sat a queer looking little man who didn't seem to blink often
enough, writing quickly yet carefully on some sort of pad. The Inn was
never really deserted, but it was at times like this that it almost seemed
that way, and a sleepy calm came over the place, in spite of its
reputation. 
     A blast of cold poured into the Inn as the door opened, then rapidly
shut again, admitting a single figure wrapped in furs. The few patrons
still remaining glanced away from the business long enough to decide they
didn't know the person and didn't care to find out who he was. Rowan,
however, studied him with interest. Safe within the warm confines of the
Inn, the furs began to come off, revealing a mass of thick gray hair, a
beard to match, and a pair of bright blue eyes. His eyes now exposed, the
stranger glanced slowly about the room, taking in everything. His stare
was hard and slow, but Rowan sensed nothing dangerous about this man. 
Pleased at the thought of gaining a new patron, Rowan stepped forward,
hand extended in friendly greeting. 

     A'arden was just finishing his notes on a story he had heard earlier
that day when the stranger arrived. He had spared the man only a glance as
he entered, then returned to the task before him, not noticing as Rowan
helped him out of his furs. Nor did he notice the way the man seemed to be
looking for something, or Rowan's gesture in his direction. It was
therefore somewhat a shock when he glanced up to determine what had
blocked the light and discovered a man nearly as tall as Rowan and
certainly wider staring down at him. 
     "May I help you?" the small man asked politely.
     The reply was gruff and short, but not unfriendly. "You the story
buyer?" 
     A'arden instantly put away his pad. "That is correct, sir. Do you have a
story to tell?"
     The old man, and old he was, A'arden could now see, grunted, and
walked around to the front of the table. "Aye, lad" he said as he sat down
heavily, "that I do." He chuckled to himself as he looked at the tiny
figure whom he had heard paid for stories. "For whatever its worth to you,
that I do. Is it true what they say then, that you pay for stories?"
     A'arden answered by reaching his arm across the table and opening his
hand. Silver clinked against the wood, once again drawing the attention of
some of the Inn's more shadowy figures. The old man stared at the coins
for a moment, then burst out with a hearty laugh. 
     "Well then, you are all they say." he commented when he had finished.
"Done. My story is yours. Understand, now," he said, his voice growing low
and suspicious, "I'm not in this story, you hear? I didn't have nothing to
do with this one, but for the man that told it to me."
     "Of course.", remarked A'arden in his crisp manner. "Would you wish
to be kept anonymous then?"
     "Anomoy-what?" The voice dropped to a growl.
     "Your name, sir." came the patient reply. "Do you want to have your
name attached to the story?"
     The man's relief was obvious. "Oh..that's all you mean. No, this
story is no more mine than it is yours. Less now, I suppose. At least
you've paid for it."
     "Yes sir."
     A'arden leaned forward as the man leaned back, and filled one of the
tall glasses in front of him with the beer his table always sported. He
knew the effect this had; even those who didn't drink seemed more
comfortable with a full glass in front of them. This man showed no
reservation, however, and took a hearty swig before beginning. 
     "You have to understand, son. The world was different back then, you
know? And the place! Oh, I don't know that I could find it on any map
round these parts. But it happened, lad, make no mistake about that. It
all happened....."
     A'arden never took notes when someone was telling him a story, it
tended to make then uncomfortable. There was always time for that after.
But in his mind the old man's words were already merging, re-forming, and
sorting themselves into the story they would one day become... 

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

     An arrow whistled through the air several yards ahead of them and
imbedded itself in the ground with a dull thump.  None of them moved. 
Good, he thought, still firing blindly.  It had gone on this way for the
past several hours, despite the fact that the arrows never hit anything. 
Forced to crawl through the underbrush at a snail's pace, it had become
impossible for Kelnor and his men to pursue them with any speed. Of
course, the massive size and thick vegetation of the Heartwood worked
against them as well, slowing them nearly as much as Kelnor, maybe more
so. But the forest offered cover, and for the moment, invisibility; a gift
they learned to appreciate as the arrows continued to fall.  He knew
Kelnor would have begun to spread out and comb through the forest, but
they still had several minutes before they reached this point and by then
they would be gone. 
     This was the third day now that they had fled east towards Dragon's
Tail, the mountains that snaked down the side of the continent.  Once
there they could lose themselves in the caverns and escape to the seaport
Elkshaven and finally get a boat to the freelands, Elwere.  He glanced
over at her.  Twen was strikingly beautiful as the sun danced off of her
dark brown hair from the high canopy above.  Her eyes twinkled with fear
as she crouched motionlessly with the rest of them, but they still
maintained a brave and determined air about them.  She was waiting for his
signal to continue, staying perfectly still, even though she knew the
troops were only a few hundred feet behind, at most.  He nodded, and again
the trio started forward, stealing slowly and quietly over the moist
ground.  Seran took the lead, being careful not to snap any branches or
disturb the birds.  Twen came next, as stealthy as any, no less competent
for her lack of a sword. Last came Brant, glancing nervously behind him,
looking as if he might relish a chance to perform his duty as rear guard. 
Days of running and hours of crawling quietly through the forest had
numbed their minds to everything but the silence of moving. 
     Seran's thoughts began to wander as he made his way forward, in spite
of his efforts to stay focused. Memories of the last few days flitted
around his head, connecting in random patterns until he forced them into
the proper order. Twen, he thought. That's when the real problems had
started. He remembered clearly how he and Brant had crossed paths with
Twen, working alone on her small farm.  It had been a cold day, and was
proving a colder evening. The wind was strong, and after two days of
pursuit, spirit among the pair, especially Brant, had begun to fail. Their
speed had been good, the two were well ahead of Kelnor and his troops. And
as they approached the thin strand of the Heartwood that lay between them
and the mountains, they had been surprised to find a cabin nestled among
the trees. Seran knew the danger of stopping, knew that to be safe, they
should camp in the woods beyond and bypass the cabin altogether. But the
night was so cold, and Brant was beginning to show signs of strain.
Reluctantly, he decided that caution be damned, the cabin was warm, and
right now that meant more to him than Kelnor and all his men put together.
Besides, it was such a remote place, maybe whoever called it home
would welcome some company. A kindly old man, perhaps, the kind who would
put them up for the night in exchange for some friendly conversation and
maybe some chores in the morning. Giving up all pretense of stealth, they
walked up the small path and knocked on the door.  There was a
startled rustling on the other side of the door, then silence.  A few
moments later, the door opened to just a thin slit revealing a pair of
deep brown eyes. 
     "Yes?  Can I help you?" asked soft, almost timid voice.
     "Good evening, my lady," Seran replied.  "We are traveling to
Elkshaven across the plains.  It has been a cold, windy day from morning
till eve, and we had hoped that you might lend some poor strangers
hospitality and give us a warm place to sleep tonight. We will pay you, of
course, in labor if not coin, but we must be off early tomorrow." The eyes
narrowed a bit, seeming to drill into Seran. Something about those eyes
bothered him, like a familiar smell he couldn't quite place. Suddenly they
opened wide. 
     "Seran?" Seran blinked.  "Seran?  Is that you?" Seran stuttered for a
moment, struggling to maintain a mental foothold despite nearly two days
without sleep. He knew the voice, it tugged at him from memories of long
ago, but as with the eyes, no connection was made. 
     He never got the chance for prolonged thought, however, as the door
flew open and a small form rushed out, hugging him before his wearied mind
quite understood what was going on. Any attempt at a mental foothold was
abandoned as everyone seemed to start talking at once, his mind had
decided it was time to stop trying to figure things out and simply roll
with the punches as best it could. Then, finally, something clicked.
     "T-Twen?!  What are you doing here?" Light from the wide open door
fell across her face, revealing a young lady, just younger than Seran,
smiling happily.  Seran would have been happy to simply stand there while
his mind pulled itself together, but Twen gave him not a moments grace,
pulling him in and sitting him by the fire before she began rummaging
through cabinets looking for something to eat or drink.  Brant followed
somewhat awkwardly, closing the door behind him.
     "My goodness, Seran, it has been a long time!" Cabinets continued to
creak open and bang shut, but Seran noticed most of them were empty. "What
have you been doing all this time?  Why are you traveling to Elkshaven?"
     Seran's cheeks began a rapid color change. "Well, uh, er, gee, that's
a long story..." he managed, feeling flushed. 
     Brant, enjoying his friend's discomfort, decided to help him out.
"I'm afraid, dear lady, that your friend here has been dodging the worst
part of the king's army for almost two days now. They have orders to get..
oh my...I forget... What was it, Seran? Did he want your head, or...
something else?" 
     The look of delight on Brand's face was unmistakable. Seran made a
silent vow to get him back for this one. Oh well, he thought, at least
he's smiling again.
     It had been too long since Brant had smiled. Seran had been wondering
what had become of the cheerful youth he recruited just a few years ago.
The youngest of any present, Brant still had an aura of power about him, a
hint at the great man he might someday become. His shaggy light hair
contrasted with his set jaw and stubborn face, making him look even
younger than he was. But Seran knew that beneath young face was talent,
strength and skill. He was the best ranger Seran ever trained, nearly as
good as Seran himself, and would probably surpass him one day. Provided he
survived. Brant was caught in that unfortunate age in which one knows
everything and feels invincible, and unless Seran could keep him in line,
he'd never live to get out of it. Seran knew he hated running away, it
made him feel weak, helpless, out of control. And Brant always wanted to
be in control. Still, he could be charming when he wanted to be, and it
made Seran feel better to see his friend's spirit returning. He managed a
tired smile. 
     "Twen, meet my fellow outlaw, Brant.  Brant isn't too happy
about being chased all over the continent."  Now it was Brant's turn to
flush as Twen's laughing eyes took him in.  Still, he received the
gaze with pride, executing a low sweeping bow.
     "My lady." he said as he folded at the middle.
     Brother, thought Seran. Always a show-off. "Brant, meet Twen, a
friend of my youth." Twen curtsied, a far more modest gesture than
Brant's, and smiled.  "We used to live right by each other." she added.
     Brant raised an eyebrow at Seran. "Really?" he said coyly. "Well
then, I'm sure you've a lot to catch up on."
     His remark didn't even draw a nod, the two were already chatting like
old friends long separated. Which, Brant realized, they probably were.
Feigning despair, he sighed and collapsed in a corner. "This," he muttered
quietly to himself, "is going to be a long night."

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