Fragments from the Rim [401380]

[DoS Archive]

From: lantillian@aol.com (Lantillian)
Date: 11 Feb 1999 01:09:36 EST

Makros drew the second of three sheafs from his satchel, and aimed his pin so as to attach this excerpt below the first two.

How *dare* this Dragoon-Talanador fellow *remove* his work from the board?

Aeloran would have to replace that first excerpt...

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The cobblestones were glossy and slick with the freshly-passed rainshower when Fandral Kurgan mounted the porch of the Red Dragon Inn.

The twenty minute walk had been automatic, an elementary retracing of steps taken long, long before. The night he dueled the Liekiller, he walked the same path home. The nights when all of Dojo Darelir appeared to see Xenograg defend the Overlordship, Phaedrus and Harkur had trod with him the same stony path. With each footstep, the Bishop recalled another name, another blade, another night.

He remembered the dread bargain, the demon blade, his steady rise after months of being titled "pincushion." Of all things between Heaven and Earth, there was nothing he could claim excess of save memories.

The pitted wood of the porch bannister greeted Fandral's leathery palm with something he fancied to be warmth. Stepping through the swinging doors into the Inn, the same warmth surrounded him in a whirl of banter, laughter, clinking of utensils and shouted orders from the kitchen. Slowly, silently, the old soldier edged his way towards the basement stair.

Then, the cool air of the basement. Preternaturally still despite its proximity to the raucous inn above, serene in the daylight hours of meditation before the duel: the dueling hall was his true home. Banners and trophies crowded the southern gallery where once had hung a simple cardboard sign among them. The racks flanking the great mantel held the battered cast-offs of generations of aspiring duelists -- the very same epee Simini had
trounced him with in their practice in the Chapel!

Unconsciously, his lips curled into a wistful smile at the memory of beautiful days spent in contemplation and practice of the duel. Had any duelist ever been blessed with such talented and enthusiastic partners on the path of the blade? Surely not... Aspendale, devoted Bladesinger and swordbrother to his own, always ready with a reciprocal thrust for his Kempai should he get sloppy. Simini, inexcusably fleet of foot and deceptively powerful
in her graceful, whirling cuts and slashes. Elijah, both destined and doomed to walk his path forever alone, forever apart -- his blade standing as silent testament to the simplest truth of the rings, that all else would ever pale once the sands drank thirstily and steel rang sharp and shrill. In the guttering torchlight of one night, in the blazing hearthglow of another, it was Torquillian, Simini and Elijah who had all so gracefully exceeded
their Kempai... Their Sempai... Forever leaving their marks upon the proudest moments of his life. He had more now to learn from them than they from him, and such was a rare distinction for any Sempai to claim.

And what of the others? Ah, their paths had strayed farther perhaps from the duel, had they not? Branoic, proud and grim in his quiet determination. What light shone now upon his noble brow? And Kell Raven, the swift study and swifter tongue... His call, too, led him to stand with only one foot in the rings. Fine souls, both -- credits to the Chapel, all.

The sixth, Rantom. Lost in the very same war that had nearly taken all that remained from his Kempai. Missing in action for well over a year, unheard from and worse, largely unmourned in a war of rebellion that claimed more rebels than volunteers could be found to fill the ranks. What dim star saw his last sigh, if indeed the reaper had come for him?

Symmetry, Kurgan decided, as he crossed the still rings to the southern gallery. All had walked their own paths, and none saw their spirit defeated, of that he was certain. No, a blessing such as those Kohei... Kohai, now... Was to be treasured dearly indeed.

The Bishop raised faintly-scarred fingers to touch the tapestry that held the aspect of Siera of Redwin, his Swordsister true.

He closed his eyes.

They opened upon a very different world indeed.

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