Three women stood watching as Phonzy made his way from the village, shield on his back, the long-handled sword at his hip.
"Will he find his way, Mother?" the Maid asked of Aine.
Aine nodded, not taking her eyes off the young man cast out for honor's sake.
"His is a long road," she said and she looked at the Maid. "But, you are here, so he must have found his way."
The old woman, leaning on her staff, spoke.
"He has a good eye, that one. If he learns to see what is true, he will find his way."
Origins: Phonzy (Part III)
Into this silence Phonzy's quiet "No" fell like a thunderclap.
The silence held for another instant and then Magdar roared in anger, his long-handled blade flashing in the firelight as he drew it. Phonzy drew his own and their blades met with the ringing of steel on steel.
The warriors around the circle stood fast and the night was filled with the clash of metal, the grunting of straining men, the hiss of breath as blades drew blood.
Magdar's sword flashed and danced in the light. Thon's bladework was that of a craftsman, efficient, measured, accurate.
He stepped inside Magdar's guard and crashed the hilt of his sword into his brother's face. Magdar fell, tripping over Phonzy's outstretched leg. His sword fell from his hand.
Phonzy, his blade held close to Magdar's throat, bent and picked up the fallen sword in his left hand. He looked to the Elder.
"My 'No' remains," he said.
There was a pause as Magdar got to his feet and looked to his father.
The Elder looked at Phonzy and slowly nodded his head. Phonzy nodded in answer and turned to leave the circle.
"No," shouted Magdar and drew his short knife to strike at Phonzy's back.
Phonzy whirled around. His blade slashed a deep cut across Magdar's chest, blood flowing freely from the wound.
The long-handled sword sliced through skin, through sinew and muscle and lodged in the bone just below the shoulder of Magdar's right arm.
Magdar's knife fell from lifeless fingers and he dropped to his knees.
Phonzy stood, looking at the Elder.
"You have proven your case, Phonzy of the River," the Elder said. "You have the right of this."
After a pause he continued, "but you can no longer share the fire of this people. Go now. Go with your honor known and remembered."
Phonzy nodded, sadness clear in his young face. He freed the blade from Magdar's arm and cast his own to the ground.
The warriors opened the circle and he moved through them to gather his belongings. Of the Maid, when they thought to look, there was no sign.
The Storyteller brought his tale to an end and the people sat in silence for a time before, one by one, they left the fire for the dark and the warmth of their tents.
The silence held for another instant and then Magdar roared in anger, his long-handled blade flashing in the firelight as he drew it. Phonzy drew his own and their blades met with the ringing of steel on steel.
The warriors around the circle stood fast and the night was filled with the clash of metal, the grunting of straining men, the hiss of breath as blades drew blood.
Magdar's sword flashed and danced in the light. Thon's bladework was that of a craftsman, efficient, measured, accurate.
He stepped inside Magdar's guard and crashed the hilt of his sword into his brother's face. Magdar fell, tripping over Phonzy's outstretched leg. His sword fell from his hand.
Phonzy, his blade held close to Magdar's throat, bent and picked up the fallen sword in his left hand. He looked to the Elder.
"My 'No' remains," he said.
There was a pause as Magdar got to his feet and looked to his father.
The Elder looked at Phonzy and slowly nodded his head. Phonzy nodded in answer and turned to leave the circle.
"No," shouted Magdar and drew his short knife to strike at Phonzy's back.
Phonzy whirled around. His blade slashed a deep cut across Magdar's chest, blood flowing freely from the wound.
The long-handled sword sliced through skin, through sinew and muscle and lodged in the bone just below the shoulder of Magdar's right arm.
Magdar's knife fell from lifeless fingers and he dropped to his knees.
Phonzy stood, looking at the Elder.
"You have proven your case, Phonzy of the River," the Elder said. "You have the right of this."
After a pause he continued, "but you can no longer share the fire of this people. Go now. Go with your honor known and remembered."
Phonzy nodded, sadness clear in his young face. He freed the blade from Magdar's arm and cast his own to the ground.
The warriors opened the circle and he moved through them to gather his belongings. Of the Maid, when they thought to look, there was no sign.
The Storyteller brought his tale to an end and the people sat in silence for a time before, one by one, they left the fire for the dark and the warmth of their tents.
Origins: Phonzy (Part II)
Phonzy gazed at those around him. His eyes rested briefly on the Maid and came to a halt on Magdar.
"We were sent 'to scout', your words Elder, to scout and bring word of assistance after the storms of the past months. We were to bring offers of help, of bonds between peoples."
He looked at the Maid again, and back to Magdar.
"We brought death, and bondage."
The Elder stood silent for a time. Then, "Magdar, what have you to say in answer?"
Magdar half-turned from Phonzy, half-turning to his father.
"What was done is now done. Our influence is spread. There are now men who will stand with us when the need comes."
The Elder pursed his lips.
"With an offer of help we might have had the same," he said.
Magdar turned fully to his father.
"Echtar, their leader, spurned your offer. He bid us leave. He cast our help back in our teeth."
"And swords were drawn," said the Elder.
"And swords were drawn," said Magdar, "and reddened with their blood." He nodded to his father. "They learned of our strength."
"And tribute taken?" asked his father.
Magdar gestured to platinum, gold and iron piled at the feet of his warriors. "And tribute taken," he said. As he said this he gestured, less confidently, to where the Maid stood.
The Elder spoke to Phonzy. "When blood was shed, what did you do, fostered son of this tribe?"
Phonzy's voice was clear. "I fought. I am sworn to protect he who is my brother."
Phonzy's voice was clear. "I fought. I am sworn to protect he who is my brother."
The Elder nodded. "That was well done," he said. "Yet you disagree with your brother."
"People died, people were taken," said Phonzy, "who did not need to die." He turned to the Maid. "Who should not have been taken."
There was silence for a time. Magdar's hand gripped the hilt of his blade. The warriors ringing the three in the circle shuffled, tense.
The Elder, who had been staring off into the distance, turned his gaze once more to Magdar and thence to Phonzy.
"What was done," he said, "is done."
Silence fell again. The warriors relaxed. Magdar loosened his grip on his sword. commanded.
"We were sent 'to scout', your words Elder, to scout and bring word of assistance after the storms of the past months. We were to bring offers of help, of bonds between peoples."
He looked at the Maid again, and back to Magdar.
"We brought death, and bondage."
The Elder stood silent for a time. Then, "Magdar, what have you to say in answer?"
Magdar half-turned from Phonzy, half-turning to his father.
"What was done is now done. Our influence is spread. There are now men who will stand with us when the need comes."
The Elder pursed his lips.
"With an offer of help we might have had the same," he said.
Magdar turned fully to his father.
"Echtar, their leader, spurned your offer. He bid us leave. He cast our help back in our teeth."
"And swords were drawn," said the Elder.
"And swords were drawn," said Magdar, "and reddened with their blood." He nodded to his father. "They learned of our strength."
"And tribute taken?" asked his father.
Magdar gestured to platinum, gold and iron piled at the feet of his warriors. "And tribute taken," he said. As he said this he gestured, less confidently, to where the Maid stood.
The Elder spoke to Phonzy. "When blood was shed, what did you do, fostered son of this tribe?"
Phonzy's voice was clear. "I fought. I am sworn to protect he who is my brother."
Phonzy's voice was clear. "I fought. I am sworn to protect he who is my brother."
The Elder nodded. "That was well done," he said. "Yet you disagree with your brother."
"People died, people were taken," said Phonzy, "who did not need to die." He turned to the Maid. "Who should not have been taken."
There was silence for a time. Magdar's hand gripped the hilt of his blade. The warriors ringing the three in the circle shuffled, tense.
The Elder, who had been staring off into the distance, turned his gaze once more to Magdar and thence to Phonzy.
"What was done," he said, "is done."
Silence fell again. The warriors relaxed. Magdar loosened his grip on his sword. commanded.
Origins: Phonzy (Part I)
"She was a Maid," the Storyteller said, "a Maid such as a man would not see again his whole life."
The people sat close, despite the heat of the fire, to hear.
"Where did she come from, this Maid?" asked one of the young men, a boy too young to have heard all the story, but old enough to wish to know of maids.
The Storyteller nodded at the boy. "They say she was of the Behroozi, a people of the River."
He gestured at the encampment around him. "It was late in the evening, an evening such as this, with the nights lengthening."
And so the Storyteller began his tale.
Magdar, the son of the Tribe's Elder, their name now lost to time, had returned home. His closest warriors were with him. Twenty of the strongest, the bravest, sworn to him.
One of them was Phonzy. Phonzy of the River, as he became known.
Phonzy, son of Feddar, son of Dar. Thon son of Erith, daughter of Raven. Thus was Phonzy noble from both his father's and his mother's line.
This Phonzy, and Magdar in front of him, stood in the center of the throng, his dark hair swept back from his fierce eyes, the grime of battle clinging to his strong arms.
"This was ill-done, Magdar," he said, and silence fell over all who heard.
Magdar reached for the long-handled sword at his hip, but his father stayed his hand.
"Harsh words," the Elder said, "harsh words from he who is as my son these long years of fostering." He gestured to Magdar. "Who is as a brother to my own son, Magdar."
Thon nodded at him who had fostered him.
"Harsh words, yes," Phonzy said. "Harsh words, but true."
The young men, Magdar's warriors, stirred. Magdar's hand fell to the hilt of his blade. The Maid stood off to the side between two warriors, watching all from wide-spaced green eyes.
She did not stir.
"Speak," the Elder commanded.
The people sat close, despite the heat of the fire, to hear.
"Where did she come from, this Maid?" asked one of the young men, a boy too young to have heard all the story, but old enough to wish to know of maids.
The Storyteller nodded at the boy. "They say she was of the Behroozi, a people of the River."
He gestured at the encampment around him. "It was late in the evening, an evening such as this, with the nights lengthening."
And so the Storyteller began his tale.
Magdar, the son of the Tribe's Elder, their name now lost to time, had returned home. His closest warriors were with him. Twenty of the strongest, the bravest, sworn to him.
One of them was Phonzy. Phonzy of the River, as he became known.
Phonzy, son of Feddar, son of Dar. Thon son of Erith, daughter of Raven. Thus was Phonzy noble from both his father's and his mother's line.
This Phonzy, and Magdar in front of him, stood in the center of the throng, his dark hair swept back from his fierce eyes, the grime of battle clinging to his strong arms.
"This was ill-done, Magdar," he said, and silence fell over all who heard.
Magdar reached for the long-handled sword at his hip, but his father stayed his hand.
"Harsh words," the Elder said, "harsh words from he who is as my son these long years of fostering." He gestured to Magdar. "Who is as a brother to my own son, Magdar."
Thon nodded at him who had fostered him.
"Harsh words, yes," Phonzy said. "Harsh words, but true."
The young men, Magdar's warriors, stirred. Magdar's hand fell to the hilt of his blade. The Maid stood off to the side between two warriors, watching all from wide-spaced green eyes.
She did not stir.
"Speak," the Elder commanded.
Gazing into Madness
The flash of golden light filled the room and Sanria looked up to see Velentham staring back at her. His eyes were solidly glowing silver, his face was scratched and his shoulder openly bleeding. His shirt was singed and blackened, but on his face was a grin of triumph. He was breathing heavily and he strode across the room and pulled her to her feet. Without a word he pulled her into an agg ressive kiss, his mouth pressed tightly against hers. He grinned again as he pulled back. "Did you miss me love?"
"I..."
"Of course you did. Of course you did," he repeated. "Just say yes, damn you."
"Y.. yes. I missed you."
"Good," he said, and set her on the bed. Sanria watched him as he paced the room, murmuring to himself as he wrung his hands. She finally got the courage to speak, "What happened to you?"
Velentham's eyes scared her more than anything else and when he dove to the side of the bed, gripping her hands in his, kissing them feverishly, she cringed.
"I fought for your honor, my love. I fought to get us home."
"Fought... who?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does... you're hurt... what happened to the other person?"
"People. Other people. And it doesn't matter. I'll go back to battle with them soon, but it's all for you. Everything I do is for you." Sanria stared at him and his face, once smiling, suddenly grew cruel and pinched. "Don't you believe me? Don't you hear what I'm saying to you?"
"Yes, yes, I believe you and hear you."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?"
Sanria suddenly found herself jerked forward, her nose inches from Velentham's.
"WHY?"
"I, Gods, I didn't mean to look at you like that, I am just..." her mind went into high gear searching for a word. "I'm just worried about you and your wounds - that's all."
"Oh... oh, I'm sorry my love." The smile returned. "I'm just caught up in this feeling."
"What feeling?"
"That we'll soon be on our way home. Very soon."
Velentham lifted her hand and kissed it gently, though the passion on his face never left and his eyes never dimmed. Sanria wanted to tell him that she had no desire to go, she didn't want to leave, but now was not the time to say any- thing. "I love you," he said and looked at her, waiting.
"I love you, too," Sanria said with as much conviction as she could muster.
"I know you do. You see? That asshole is wrong. He's dead wrong about us."
"Who?"
"It doesn't matter. All that matters is he's wrong, I'm right, and you're here with me. Are you hungry?"
"No," she answered, but was still presented with magically created food. "Eat." The command was clear, and Sanria did not want to discover what would happen if she didn't obey. Under the glowing gaze, she bit into the fruit and tried not to think about how sick it made her.
"I..."
"Of course you did. Of course you did," he repeated. "Just say yes, damn you."
"Y.. yes. I missed you."
"Good," he said, and set her on the bed. Sanria watched him as he paced the room, murmuring to himself as he wrung his hands. She finally got the courage to speak, "What happened to you?"
Velentham's eyes scared her more than anything else and when he dove to the side of the bed, gripping her hands in his, kissing them feverishly, she cringed.
"I fought for your honor, my love. I fought to get us home."
"Fought... who?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does... you're hurt... what happened to the other person?"
"People. Other people. And it doesn't matter. I'll go back to battle with them soon, but it's all for you. Everything I do is for you." Sanria stared at him and his face, once smiling, suddenly grew cruel and pinched. "Don't you believe me? Don't you hear what I'm saying to you?"
"Yes, yes, I believe you and hear you."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?"
Sanria suddenly found herself jerked forward, her nose inches from Velentham's.
"WHY?"
"I, Gods, I didn't mean to look at you like that, I am just..." her mind went into high gear searching for a word. "I'm just worried about you and your wounds - that's all."
"Oh... oh, I'm sorry my love." The smile returned. "I'm just caught up in this feeling."
"What feeling?"
"That we'll soon be on our way home. Very soon."
Velentham lifted her hand and kissed it gently, though the passion on his face never left and his eyes never dimmed. Sanria wanted to tell him that she had no desire to go, she didn't want to leave, but now was not the time to say any- thing. "I love you," he said and looked at her, waiting.
"I love you, too," Sanria said with as much conviction as she could muster.
"I know you do. You see? That asshole is wrong. He's dead wrong about us."
"Who?"
"It doesn't matter. All that matters is he's wrong, I'm right, and you're here with me. Are you hungry?"
"No," she answered, but was still presented with magically created food. "Eat." The command was clear, and Sanria did not want to discover what would happen if she didn't obey. Under the glowing gaze, she bit into the fruit and tried not to think about how sick it made her.
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