Song of the Magpie "Your dreams aren't important. No child of MINE is going to become one of...of...THOSE people." The harsh words echoed in Magda's ears, driving her like a lash away from the village of her birth. For as long as she could remember, she'd loved the dance. In the summer of her 9th year, a troupe had come to the village for a performance. Naturally, only the adult men were allowed to attend, but she and her playmates had hidden in the loft of the town hall, and watched the performance. At first it had seemed harmless, as the drummers set up a pounding beat. Then the dancers marched out. Eight men, in two rows of four, strode in tempo to the music. Magda's eyes grew wide, as each dancer was stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of loose trousers, tied with a flowing sash. In either hand, they bore a shining sword. In unison they pivoted on one leg, kneeling to face the center of the hall. Their right blades crossed, while their left blades arched high over their heads. As the drums throbbed, they stood, half turning left, half right, so that each was paired with another. The tempo picked up. Blades flashed out, ringing against each other, as sparks flew. The tempo increased, and the clang of each impact echoed in the rafters. Faster and faster they swung, at times passing underneath a jumping opponent, or spinning to greet a new partner. The drums thundered as sweat poured from the dancers' chests, glistening in the torchlight. Magda could not tear her eyes away, as the air screamed with the power of their blows. Blades flashed, drums beat, and then, with a shout, they stopped. At first, Magda thought it was over, but then the drums started again, this time with a more sensuous beat, The star of the show, the legendary Corby, had arrived.. Her hair, bound in a long braid, brushed against the small of her back. All that stood between her and impropriety was a silken tabard, gathered at her waist, which left her supple arms bare. In her arms, she bore a massive curved saber. As bells chimed, she strode amidst her companions, face proud and eyes fierce. Once she arrived in the center of the chamber, she inhaled deeply, and in a ringing voice, commanded "BEGIN!" Again the drums thundered. Again the blades flashed. This time, however, they did not seek their brethren, but the lithe form of the maiden. She leapt, she spun. At no time did blade meet flesh, only steel and air. Every man in the room sat mesmerized by the performance, as was Magda, although not for the same reason. After the drums had faded, and the swords were put away, the crowd dispersed. Magda slipped down the ladder, and breathlessly ran to the camp of the dancers. A friendly night guard took her to Corby's tent. "You saw the performance." Corby stated, as she packed her meager belongings. All Magda could do was nod. "And you want to run away and join us." Again, Magda nodded. Corby sighed. "I cannot teach you. It is not my skill." At this, Magda's face fell. "But..." she remarked, eyes oddly pensive. Hope flared in the young girl's eyes. "When you reach the age of bonding, if your elders allow, seek out the Raven. He taught me and my troupe. No better swordsman lives, save only the Ten themselves, and they know not our art." Corby looked at her young visitor and smiled kindly. "Should he agree, he will teach you all. And perhaps learn a lesson as well." "Thank you, M-m-istress Corby." Magda stammered. "You give me a rank I have not earned." Corby replied, eyes dancing. "But I accept your accolade, in the spirit of sisterhood." She bowed, "Now go, before the village gate closes, and you are missed." Eyes shining with possibilities, Magda left the camp. As the moon rose to it's crest, she ran, clinging to the shadows, barely beating her father home. In her dreams that night, and for many nights to come, she danced in a circle of steel. As summer turned to fall, she often found occasion to go into the woods, where, with a stout branch for a weapon, she tried to emulate her dreams. That very morning, she'd reached her 13th year, traditionally the age where she would chose a mate, a craft, or a calling. And at the ceremony, she clearly stated her choice. And her father gave his reply. Now she ran, with only a cloak to shield her from the elements. The leagues flew beneath her feet, as she ran with the fire of youth, leavened with rage. But as the sun painted the sky with a tinge of coral, she stopped. Hunger, fear, and exhaustion sapped her strength, and she slumped to the forest floor. As she slept, danger grew, in the form of a group of scruffy men. The crew were as lean and hungry as jackals, although as they stealthily circled her sleeping form, feeding their stomachs was not the first thing on their mind. Their leader, a scarred veteran of many skirmishes who reveled in the name Hak, held up a gnarled hand, trying to trace a half-heard sound. All he heard was the wind in the leaves. "Vig," he murmured, "looks like we got ourselves a playmate." The stunted form beside him, twisted in body and mind, leered, and nodded. "Vig like." At his flank, the twin terrors Pir and Pin glanced at each other. Pir (or was it Pin, from here he couldn't tell) moved his hands in a complicated design, implying a fairly acrobatic maneuver they wished to try. Hak shrugged inwardly. Apart, the twins ere vicious killers. But _together_... they were truly diseased. "Leader's right!" he barked, stepping out of the thicket. Magda, the unknowing target of his attention, rolled over onto her back. "This will be funnnnnnn." Hak whistled, straddling the elfin sleeper. A low moaning filled the air. Hak turned sharply, almost tripping over his new toy but his waiting comrades were silent. It wasn't the girl. It wasn't the boys. It certainly wasn't _him_. "Who...?" A sharp crack, like thunder, echoed among the trees. The earth heaved, tossing the bandits off their feet. In the silence, came a bellow of fury. The trees on the eastern end of the glade shook, scattering leaves to and fro, and shattered. As the dust cleared, a bestial form charged into the clearing, dark horns curving like claws in the morning light. In one massive hand, a huge club raised, casting the shadow of doom over Hak. As darkness overtook him, he thought of his mother. The others fared no better. Vig found himself clutched by the neck in a sinewy grip, and raised high over the forest floor. Before he could enjoy the view, he returned to the earth with a sickening thud. Pir and Pin recovered quicker. They drew their blades, and stood back to back. Unfortunately, this merely meant that they were both easily caught by the spinning steel chain, which bound them together, crushing the breath from their bodies. And then, at last, the giant stalked over to the sleeping girl, his steel shod feet crunching the bracken. At her side, they stopped, and he leaned down. Magda awoke to the smell of rich stew. As she sat up with a cry, a rough blanket slipped from her shoulders. "Ah.." a basso voice rumbled, "You are awake." Magda turned, and saw the figure stirring the pot. Leathery mahogany skin stretched over boulder-like muscles, as his treelike arm stirred the pot. What most caught her attention, however, were the creamy yellow horns which grew at his temple., neatly framing his braided black hair. "Wh-what do you want?" she stammered. The minotaur turned and gazed at her with amber eyes. His face was somewhat squatter and flatter than normal, but save for the horns, seemed almost human. "What..." he inhaled deeply, "What rhymes with moth?" "Umm.." Magda replied winningly, "troth, sometimes..." "That's IT" he roared, springing to his feet. Although still somewhat frightened, Magda recalled a story she'd heard, but was disappointed to see the beast wore a simple linen chiton. He rushed over to a small flat rock, and picked up a brush, dabbing it on an inkstone. "You're the flame, and I the moth.." he whispered, "For all of time I pledge my troth. I like it." He turned to the totally baffled maiden. "Thank you, miss..." "Magda, of Southwood." she replied, clambering to her feet for a rough curtsy. "Then thank you, miss Magda. Mit'ra'minos owes you his thanks." He bowed. "But before we discuss how I may repay you, what say we have a little lunch?" The stew was excellent. While Magda had never had stew without beef, one glance at her companion explained it's absence. "So anyway," Mit'ra (for so he preferred to be called) was saying, "I stayed in the Guard for 5 years, out of respect for my herd. But for the last 7 months, I've been fighting in the arena. The money's better, and I don't have to deal with all the red ribbons." Magda nodded, eyes wide. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. "Good Mit'ra.." "Yes?" "Have you heard of one called the Raven?" Mit'ra nodded his mammoth head, "My cousin, Bra'ma, trained with him for a season. Our feet are not made for his style of dance, however." He stomped one hoofed foot in emphasis, jarring a squirrel from the tree above him. It paused and chittered angrily, before climbing back to it's home. "Do you know where I could find him?" Mit'ra gazed at her for a long moment, then nodded again. "So that's the tale of it. Yes, I can take you to him. Although he may not be what you expect." Magda leaped to her feet, "Thank you...oh...thank you!" To Mit'ra's amazement, she hugged him fiercely. Unbidden, a blush rose to his cheeks. "Enough of that, child" he replied kindly, gently prying her loose. "We have a long journey ahead, and as soon as we break camp, we shall begin." All Magda could do was smile. JUST THE BEGINNING...