by R J Hanson
Dru turned the edge of her lip up in the barest of smiles.
“The drow, the aristocrats among them anyway, live in these mazes as a means of keeping themselves free of weakness,” Dru said as she unapologetically changed the subject. “In these mazes, they assassinate one another. Although it is possible to magically teleport from one’s quarters to the outer cavern and back again, it is looked upon as weak to do so. They hold no courts, there are no trials, and they do not bring suits of law against one another. However, murder, or rather being caught at committing murder, is a most severe crime and punished immediately by death. They all must engage in this societal ritual of grievance resolution. Even the Queen, who by right lives in the well-protected palace in the outer cavern, strolls these passages alone from time to time.”
“And the odd room of many doors?” Silas asked. “That was some sort of test.”
“It was,” Dru said. “The Dark Hall engenders fear in all that pass through it. It is only natural to fear it. The ‘odd room’ as you put it is the Door of Will. There is a force there that seizes upon the uninitiated.”
Dru paused here to enjoy another long drink from her glass.
“That force,” she continued, “penetrates the mind and the soul. It is a powerful place, a dangerous place. For most, their fear of the Dark Hall causes the room to be consumed by the black depths and unknown horrors within. They usually only see a single door through which their escape is visualized.”
“How did I do?” Silas asked.
“You may have inadvertently tipped your hand with A’Ilys,” Dru said, smiling a rueful smile. “You showed no fear; none. When presented with possible escape routes, you did not see a single way out; you saw a variety of possibilities. You did not identify a single place you considered safe but rather were prepared to move in a number of different directions. Instead of allowing impulse to control where your door led, you controlled the outcome to fit your will and not your desire.”
“You said I tipped my hand to A’Ilys,” Silas said. “You did not say I gave myself away to the drow.”
“I did not, because it is not what I meant,” Dru said. “A’Ilys will likely keep that information to himself until such time it profits him to divulge it or trade it. You should know, there is something else A’Ilys knows about you that you do not.”
Silas responded by keeping his face blank and tilting his head slightly. Dru was pleased with his confidence.
“You have never been to A’Ilys’s quarters before,” Dru continued. “You have never had them described to you. Yet, you managed to place us exactly at his doorstep. That is a remarkable talent.”
“Then the room, the Door of Will, could be utilized for a number of traveling needs,” Silas said as much as asked.
“Yes, assuming one was willing to cross through the black of Dark Hall.”
Silas stored that fact away in the vast library of his disciplined mind.
“You will need your rest,” Dru said. “Tomorrow A’Ilys will begin training you. You will learn everything he is willing to teach you. In the meantime, I assume you’re hungry.”
Dru gestured to Larkhill, who stepped into the hall and returned shortly with two covered dishes on a tray.
“Fresh elf meat is, if you will pardon the expression, divine,” she said.
Silas, bruised and gasping for air, staggered back from A’Ilys. He stood bent at the waist. He was tempted to call on Shezmu’s powers to restore himself. The drow calmly lowered his sabre and tucked his dagger back into the sheath concealed within his sleeve.
They were standing in an inner chamber, a training room, of A’Ilys’s home. The chamber was warded against scrying and teleportation spells. A rack of at least fourteen types of weapons stood against the wall near the single door to the chamber. Today the chamber was lit with magical fire. Silas’s training in infravision was yet to come.
“You have a powerful mind,” A’Ilys said. “The achievement of becoming the first Lord of Chaos since the upheaval of the world is not to be ignored. However, of those possessing such powers then, none survive. Think on that. Those powers are the blade. Your body and mind are the hand that wields them. Your body and mind must be strong, agile, and adaptable. You must learn to use the Hidden Hand in combat and negotiation. Again!”
With that, A’Ilys flipped the tip of his sword toward Silas’s exposed side. Silas spun, using his left arm to knock the blade off course. Instead of moving away from A’Ilys, Silas continued his spin inside of the drow’s weapon and hauled his own shrou-sheld in a sweeping arc at A’Ilys’s side. A’Ilys lowered his sword arm and ducked under Silas’s blade. With remarkable speed and agility, A’Ilys rose behind Silas’s swing, produced his dagger from within his sleeve, and struck Silas on the back of his right arm.
The edge of the dagger did not slice through the skin. It did, however, leave another red mark that would be a bruise by the same time the following day. The dagger, like all the other weapons they sparred with, had been enchanted to prevent it from breaking the skin. This simple spell allowed those practicing to use their own proper blades in sparring without the risk of an unintended wound.
“Why didn’t,” Silas worked hard to recover his breath. “Why didn’t you strike my neck? Or try for… or try for my eye or armpit?”
“You have not been listening,” A’Ilys said. “Our way is patient. Our way is attrition. We have centuries to master our techniques, whereas you surface dwellers live a few hundred years at the most. We have no need to take risks and hurry battle. Our way is to wear down. Our way is to gradually weaken. The drow fight in such a way that the actions of one limb conceal the actions of another. While one hand is parrying or feigning a thrust, the other is preparing the actual strike. On the battlefield or in a lord’s court, you must learn to use the Hidden Hand. You would have seen a thrust to your eye or slash to your neck. You might have even seen a thrust for your exposed shoulder cavity. However, your arm blocked your view of my actual strike. If an intended strike can be seen, it can be countered. Had that been a cut to your arm, you would begin to lose strength in it. You would be fighting against time, needing to end the battle before you bled to death. You may be wondering if our style is better than your own. In answer, I offer the fact that a Silver Helm, formerly a lord of the Tarborat front, now fetches my wine.”
“How does that happen?” Silas asked.
“I bested him in battle and took him prisoner,” A’Ilys said.
“I mean, how do you control him?”
“Ah,” A’Ilys said. The drow warrior studied Silas for a few moments as if deciding something. “It is a spell.”
“A spell you trust with your life?” Silas asked.
“Yes.”
Silas had no doubt there was much more to it. However, A’Ilys made it clear he had revealed all he was willing to on the subject.
“Now, go take a meal,” A’Ilys said. “We’ve made progress this morning. Eat, take a rest, and this afternoon you will read.”
“Why are you willing to teach me?” Silas asked.
“Because you are my property,” A’Ilys said matter-of-factly. “The better educated you are, the more value you have.”
Silas quirked a smile at that.
“You believe your laws of property bind me?” Silas asked.
“I believe I could kill you at will,” A’Ilys said. “You are powerful, and I am no fool. I do not take you lightly. However, I could kill you, and I am comfortable in that fact. Furthermore, I believe you are bound by your Mistress and her word. She, in turn, is bound by her need for us; her need of refuge.”
Silas was tempted to ask what she sought refuge from but decided against it. He would only show his ignorance, and the drow might not know the true answer. Dru would tell him when she was ready.
Chapter II
Outlawed
“Have you thought of a name to use?” Jonas asked Dunewell as he tossed him a ring that would identify him as a member of House
De’Char.
Dunewell pushed the ring onto the king finger of his right hand. He didn’t like it but supposed he would have to get used to wearing a ring as part of his new cover.
They had set up a small camp a few hundred yards off the main road north of Ivantis. It was full dark now, and they spoke in quiet tones over a low burning campfire. They had traveled several hundred leagues south, yet winter’s chill still hung in the air. They had split a pheasant Jonas had taken with an arrow, and Dunewell had roasted. Now they lay in their bedrolls near the dying fire.
They were on the trail of an assassin and would be in Ivantis the next day. Jonas, a very large man clearly of the race of Lethor, was over seven feet tall and likely outweighed Dunewell by a hundred stone or more. His hair was black and tinted with gray. His eyes were clear and light blue. The kind of blue that made Dunewell think of the waters that washed upon the glaciers of Janis. Jonas was using his well-established alias of Ruble, Steward of House De’Char of Moras. As far as anyone else knew, Jonas was scouting other cities for potential trading contracts.
Dunewell was just over six and a half feet tall and weighed nearly three hundred stone himself. His eyes were an emerald green. He had trimmed his beard and was allowing his blond hair to grow. He had kept his hair cut short, as was the custom of the Silver Helms, all his life. The unkempt shag of it now bothered him profusely.
Dunewell had been accused of crimes in Moras. However, due to the fact that he had been in the King’s service at the time, his crimes also became a matter for the crown. That meant there was no place in all of Lethanor for him to use his given name safely.
“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Dunewell said.
That, of course, was a lie. Dunewell had thought of little else since being presented with the fact that he could no longer use his proper name. Each time he thought about having to use another name, it shamed him. That shame led to anger soon thereafter.
Whitburn, the champion bound with Dunewell in spirit and form, counseled him often against that anger. The anger, after all, was the result of pride. Pride was a sin; pride was a danger. Dunewell had given his oath against it.
“That life is behind you now,” Jonas said. “Even if you proved your case, the King could not admit that he was wrong. If he could be moved to clemency, and that’s a big if kid, you would never be recognized as a Silver Helm again. You certainly would never wear the cloak of an inquisitor again.”
Dunewell only responded with silence.
“Moras is your past,” Jonas continued. “Your oath, your true oath, is to the Sword Bearers. It is no easy yoke to bear, but bear it you must. Those other things, the titles, the respect of other kingsmen, those are only trappings. Only dressing for the shop window.”
Dunewell knew Jonas was right. He knew what he said was true. It didn’t change how he felt about the people of Moras, though. They were surrounded by the corruption that Moras was built on. Furthermore, there was Stewardess Erin to consider. His mind could not let go the puzzle of her attempted charm or of who could have taught her such magics.
“How about Rutger?” Jonas said at length. “I knew a Rutger once. About seventy years ago.”
“What?” Dunewell asked.
“For your name,” Jonas said. “How about Rutger?”
“Was he a good man?” Dunewell asked.
“Lords no,” Jonas said. “The man was a scoundrel through and through. Maybe if you wear the name, you’ll bring some decency to it.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” Dunewell said. “This assassin we hunt; tell me about him.”
Jonas saw the change of subject for what it was and decided to let the issue of Dunewell’s alias drop… for now.
“The Sword Bearers put me on his trail,” Jonas said. “He was hired by an inquisitor of Ostbier to kill a templar of Fate there. I’m sure the inquisitor was only a stalking horse for whoever wanted the templar dead. However, that end of it is not our concern. The Sword Bearers will investigate that. Our mission is to find the assassin. We know two facts only. One, he was hired through a contact in Ivantis. Two, he doesn’t work cheap. His asking price for a templar of Fate is three hundred gold coins.”
Dunewell took a moment to gaze up at the stars and take in the smell of the small fire. It was still winter in the southern lands, but the climate and smells, perhaps even the company, reminded him of camps during the summers in Tarborat.
“You were a Silver Helm?” Dunewell asked.
“You should know there’s no such thing as a ‘used to be’ Silver Helm,” Jonas said. “But to answer your question, yes. And yes, I fought in Tarborat in the King’s army. I served from the fall of 1550 to the summer of 1569.”
“How did you know I was going to ask about Tarborat?” Dunewell asked.
“Because young soldiers always do,” Jonas said. “Your next question will be why I served nineteen years and not the full twenty. We don’t know each other well enough yet for me to answer that question.”
“You’ve worked with the Sword Bearers since then?” Dunewell asked.
“For the most part, yes,” Jonas said. “I have worked for others from time to time.”
“Like a mercenary?” Dunewell said with an unintended note of derision in his voice.
“Well, I killed for them for money,” Jonas said. “So, I suppose you could put it that way.”
“Anyone in particular?” Dunewell asked.
“Employers or targets?”
“Targets, I suppose,” Dunewell said.
“Assassins,” Jonas said. “I hate them. If a noble or merchant has lost a loved one or valued comrade to the work of an assassin, they come to me. I hunt down the assassin, find out who hired them if I can, and then kill them.”
“Just assassins?”
“Yes.”
Dunewell was quiet for a time listening to the sounds of the forest and the wind stirring frozen branches.
“Who did you serve with in Tarborat?” Jonas asked.
“Scores of soldiers,” Dunewell said. “I think I know what you mean, though. It seems there are always a few that you gravitate toward. A few that you tend to join on volunteer missions. There was Sir Brutis; he’s a King’s Knight now, Sir Channes, of Stamdon, Sir Ellidik, of the Sheld Fleet, Sir Sandoval, of Gallhallad, and Lord Velryk, he was also from Gallhallad.”
Dunewell heard Jonas suddenly shift within his bedroll at the mention of Lord Velryk the Just. It was quiet for several moments. Dunewell waited. He’d questioned Jonas about his past quite a bit in the two months since they’d left Moras behind them. Dunewell had always, even before inquisitor training, had a talent for guessing the mind of another. However, Jonas had been a closed book to him. After all, Dunewell had been in the King’s service for twenty-six years, four of that as an inquisitor. However, Jonas had been a Silver Helm as well and had a total of almost one hundred years of service; much of that time spent hunting assassins.
“When did you see Velryk last?” Jonas finally asked.
“About fourteen years ago, I guess,” Dunewell said. “He retired to go home to his family. I heard the King even offered him a special commission if he would stay on.”
“His family?” Jonas asked.
“Yes,” Dunewell said. “He had a son, I think. His wife died in a climbing accident, and he went home to raise his son. I think that was only part of it, though.”
“Oh?”
“A friend of ours, Lord Kyhn, betrayed us and killed ‘Dik, Sir Ellidik I mean,” Dunewell said. “Lord Velryk and Sir Ellidik were pretty close. I think he lost his taste for the front when Sir Ellidik died.”
“Shiloh didn’t die in a climbing accident,” Jonas said. “She was killed by assassins from Tarborat sent by Ingshburn himself.”
“No, not Shiloh,” Dunewell said. “His second wife, Courie.”
“I hadn’t heard that he’d remarried,” Jonas said. “I suppose over time everything drifts apart, breaks away, and decays.”
> “So, you knew them?”
“I served with some of those you mentioned,” Jonas said.
Dunewell had expected a vague reply, but it still rubbed against the coarse grain of his interrogator’s mind.
“I knew Kyhn was a born traitor the day I met him,” Jonas continued. “He didn’t… he just never smelled right to me. I tried telling Velryk about him. He wouldn’t listen. He just said every man should be judged by his actions and his actions alone. He was always too self-righteous for his own good. Well, I guess he finally got the proof he needed about Kyhn. Too bad it cost ‘Dik his life.”
Jonas hid it well, but Dunewell could hear the deep anger in Jonas’s voice.
“Before you go on, you should know I count Lord Velryk as a good friend,” Dunewell said.
“You’re right, kid,” Jonas said. “No use holding grudges. You’re familiar with the tenets of Bolvii?”
“I am.”
“Then I suppose you know we are commanded to forgive all offenses every ten years,” Jonas said. Then, as if speaking to the cold night air and no longer to Dunewell, “I should have forgiven him eight times over by now.”
“Forgiven who for what?” Dunewell asked. “Lord Velryk?”
“Every time you call him Lord Velryk, it stirs my ire,” Jonas said. “Before you go on, you should know that.”
“Fair enough.”
“Get some sleep.”
The next morning, they were in the saddle before the sun crested the rise on their left. They had their breakfast, dried fruits, and beef jerky, while they rode. The air was cold, but a cloudless sky promised a coming day of sunshine and warmth. Dunewell began to realize he missed the salt smell of the sea. They had broken camp and had been on the road for more than two hours before a word was spoken between them.
“Velryk,” Jonas said, surprising Dunewell, who had been keeping a close eye on the tree line to their east.
“What?”
“Velryk is who I should have forgiven,” Jonas said. “Someday, I may tell you why. I may not ever tell you.”
