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Copyright © 1997 David Gullen.
All rights reserved and reproduction without written permission expressly prohibited.
Spring Pavane
His name was Iskander Bey. His tribe, unable to shape the correct
syllables with their underslung jaws and clumsy tongues, called him
Skanderberg.
"I am a lonely one, Mother," he said to the visiting exultant as
they crouched by the fire outside his hut. She poked in the white ash
with a charred stick, idly hooking out a hot round pebble.
She paused to look up at him with her milk white eyes.
"You are loved."
"Nobody else is like me. I have no companions, no brotherhood."
No woman, he thought. These may be my people, but they are ugly and
stupid.
The idea of taking one to wife made him shudder and he winced,
realising his own cruel vanity. The exultant sketched whorls and
radiating lines in the ash with her stick.
"Skanderberg, the Spirits sent you to us. Each month more like you
are born; straight and tall, wise and strong. We are changing, but it
takes time."
"The others are so much younger; babes and children." He squatted
next to her. The pebble had cooled, without thinking he picked it up
and rolled it between his palms. "Why did I have to be the first?
[End of this extract. The full story was published in Broadsword #2,
Winter 1995/1996]
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