by R J Hanson
Dunewell gathered two fist-sized pieces of flint that he’d found along the river’s edge. He’d cut away his pant leg from the knee down on the right side and tied it into a knot on one end. He put the flint in his makeshift pouch along with four smoked fish.
“I think I can make the climb out of here,” Dunewell said. “It will be difficult, but I believe I can do it now.”
“Good,” Belyska said. “Mark the place up top and return with a rope to lower down for me. I can get by for a few days.”
“Not without a fire or anything to eat,” Dunewell said. “No, I’m making the climb with you in the harness.”
Belyska could only gape at him. The descent nearly killed her, and Dunewell weighed much less then than she weighed now. It had been a rough few days, but she still weighed at least two hundred and thirty stone.
She had considered climbing up several feet, then around the face of the cliff to the north to reach the plains and forest below the plateau. That route would make their return trip to Ivantis, or the nearest farm or ranch, close to six hundred leagues. Six hundred leagues without cloaks. Six hundred leagues without boots.
“The problem will be once we arrive at the top of the plateau,” Dunewell continued. “We have four smoked fish, and no way of carrying water.”
“That’s the problem?” she asked.
“I can make the climb,” Dunewell said. “Don’t worry about that. What I’m concerned about is how far it is to the first farm or ranch. How many days of walking before we reach one?”
“If we could manage fifty leagues a day, two days,” Belyska said. “The climb, though. It’s too much of a risk.”
She hadn’t realized it, but Dunewell noticed the unconscious way she moved her hand over her stomach to protect it. Whitburn didn’t verbalize it, but he confirmed what Dunewell suspected. There was the safety of a child to think about as well.
“The wolf was a sign,” she said. “The wilderness will provide.”
Dunewell nodded and walked to the north. He walked to the end of their private shore, where the edge of the river crashed against the stone of the cave. The ceiling was much lower here, only about twelve feet from the sand.
“Wait here,” he said.
Dunewell leapt straight up and caught the outer edge of the ceiling with his fingertips. He began inching his way around the rocky surface until the cave was out of sight. Several long minutes passed while she waited, holding her breath.
Dunewell found a prominent ledge four feet up from the ceiling of the cave. It was not wide enough for a foot but did offer a good handhold. However, the rock was under a constant spray from the river. A freezing, bone-chilling spray that made each of his fingers slip. He climbed higher for a better look and to get out of that spray. He made himself climb ten feet before looking. Still no sign of a shoreline. He made himself climb another ten feet up and twenty feet over. He couldn’t risk climbing any higher than that. A fall from any higher than that…
He whispered a prayer to Bolvii before turning to look over his shoulder again. There it was. Twenty to thirty feet below him and perhaps seventy feet to the north. A grassy shoreline honed away to a needlepoint by the river’s edge.
It took him only a few minutes to make his way back to Belyska and their cave. Belyska. His mind’s eye held her pure beauty.
She has an oath, as do you, Whitburn said/thought.
And our child? Dunewell responded with anger.
You swore an oath, Whitburn said/thought. You have no child.
Then why allow our coupling?!
A dangerous rage welled in Dunewell’s heart. He blinked away hot tears as he began his climb back to the cave. He halted for several more minutes once he reached the icy spray of the river, allowing it to punish him.
He dropped to the sand of their cave, soaking wet and shivering. Belyska threw the last of their wood on the fire and then ran to him. She rubbed the muscles of his shoulders and chest and pulled him close to her next to the fire. They stood there, holding each other, isolated from the world both had known. They held each other on their private island of pain and love. They both wept.
Chapter V
Lords of War and Chaos
“You performed quite well,” Queen Jandanero said as she reclined on her throne. “For a man, that is. A’Ilys speaks highly of you and your means of handling the situation with the surface elves. Our priests of Prechii loathe you, of course. I assume it’s because you torture one of their mentors within your flesh. Either way, I take both of these situations as a recommendation of your value and monstrous nature.”
Silas thought Queen Jandanero was much like the drow language in that she seemed ever the contradiction. She often appeared relaxed, almost uninterested in her surroundings. Yet, any fool could see how much importance she placed on spies and assassins. Her personal guard consisted of the bulky, although very dangerous, constructs that were always with her. Those monoliths of steel held together by potent alchemy were things of an obvious nature and were capable of only brute force. Yet, her chief advisor, A’Ilys, was her Master of Spies and, by his own admission, did not possess a head for military tactics.
They were gathered in the Queen’s audience chamber in the outer edge of the vast palace that occupied the center of the great cavern. It was constructed of the same white and black marble that made up much of Moras. Silas, who had occasion to study ancient architecture, thought the floor of this chamber had initially been the floor of some more magnificent structure likely hurled here by the gods during the Battles of Rending. He noted that the floors were beautifully polished and well fitted but had been fitted using a different technique than that used on the walls and columns of the chamber.
He also noticed something else. The Cully Doors in Moras, and the secret latches that operated them, were usually of the original buildings. Silas was certain he’d just discovered a Cully Door, or a very large hold-stone, in the floor of the Queen’s audience chamber. He filed that information away on a shelf in his mind-room.
Silas was tempted to speak. The Queen left a long pause hanging in the air, cheese in a trap. Silas wanted to trigger the trap just to prove that he would and, had it been only his head in the proverbial noose, he would have. However, it was not only his head. His mistress, Lady Dru, had taken on significant risk in accepting him and, in doing so, had placed her own head into that noose alongside his. He loved her for that and, thus, kept his mouth closed.
“You’re aware of my associate, the Warlord Rogash?” Queen Jandanero asked.
Silas nodded, not taking his eyes from the floor. Since the encounter with the mages from the Blue Tower, the restrictions on his powers had been lifted. Of course, he was instructed to use them judiciously. He had not told anyone, not even Lady Dru, about Shezmu’s near escape. That was a situation he would need time to sort out, and doing so among the drow seemed a very bad idea, even to him.
Still, he did utilize the minor aspects of his powers without much trouble. Among those was his ability to see in multiple planes and spectrums in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree arc whether his eyes be averted or not, whether his eyes be closed or not. He quietly exercised that power now.
Silas noticed something that he had not caught before. The four constructs that stood near the Queen were all made of high-quality steel inlaid with ribbons of roarkor. Each carried a large weapon crafted of mercshyeld, a mattock, battle axe, great hammer, and a Shrou-Hayn, one of the enormous greatswords of old. In and of themselves all this information was interesting and certainly required further study. However, one of the four, the one that carried the Shrou-Hayn, was different from the rest.
Silas could see the same alchemical magic required to animate the armor, as in the other three. His perception of other layers of the world around him showed him the purples and greens of the arcane energy, wrapped and bound in a bright gold string of force, that gave the constructs life. But there was something else, something different, within the armor of the
fourth.
“He will want to meet you,” Queen Jandanero continued. “His caverns are not far from our own, but the way is dangerous. There are creatures in these mountains that heed neither my command nor his. Rogash himself is intemperate, and his control of his clan is haphazard. I will grant you the privilege of traveling under the sign of my rule, but that may not save you. See that you are properly prepared for the journey.”
Silas nodded, again keeping his eyes affixed to the floor in front of him, but he did not take his attention from the fourth construct. Within the black armor of the fourth, Silas could see a deep red glow that filled the suit of plate armor. It was bound together on the surface of the armor with the purples and greens inlaid with bright gold lines of force, but, while the others were empty inside, this one was filled with the red energy.
“A’Ilys, see to it,” Queen Jandanero said.
She mentally commanded her entourage, and the four suits of armor moved in concert around her. The fourth one, the one that had so drawn Silas’s attention, moved slightly differently though. It turned its head before changing direction. It was looking around, and the armor moved in response to the movements of the red cloud within, not the other way around. The armor wasn’t really filled with red energy, the armor was layered over the red energy.
When the Queen left the room, A’Ilys walked over to Silas and Dru as they rose from where they had knelt before the Queen. Silas noted immediately they both wore somber expressions.
“Well,” Silas said.
“Rogash is…” A’Ilys began but seemed not sure how to continue.
“He’s dangerous, violent, and has a childish sense of humor,” Dru finished for A’Ilys switching from the drow language to the common tongue. “He’s the product of a mating of ogre and dwarf, although I’m not sure how that set of circumstances came to be. He is allied with Queen Jandanero, but their alliance is tacit at best. He raids the countryside to the east and south into the Suthiel. Those raids bring unwanted attention to the drow coven. His ogres are undisciplined and consume far more resources than they’re worth.”
“That’s putting it a bit indelicately,” A’Ilys said.
“Then why allow them to remain?” Silas asked.
“Rogash is formidable in combat, and his ogres make excellent fodder, should it ever come to that,” Dru said. “Some years ago, this drow coven split from another, the Black Lance near the Nolcavanor mountain range. That division was not exactly amiable, as I understand it. So, in addition to the regular concerns about paladins and shyelds, Queen Jandanero must be ready to defend against the invasion of another drow coven as well.”
“So, why the concern about me meeting him?” Silas asked, still not understanding their concern.
“He knows that you are a Lord of Chaos,” Dru said. “He has a basic means of evaluation. He will want to do battle with you to estimate your worth. If he can kill you easily, then he will.”
“I see,” Silas said, his trademark smile returning to his lips.
That night, or meditation cycle according to the dark elves, Silas sat on the floor in his chamber, legs crossed, and eyes closed. That was the state of his body. He was actually in his mind-room. Silas had grown quite skilled at maneuvering in the physical world around him while his consciousness conducted its own business within. However, what he was attempting would require his full attention. He was experimenting with Shezmu’s memories.
Conjured tools and devices, many of which he’d invented the design for himself, hovered in the air around Silas in his mind-room. Shezmu was strapped to the familiar table with multiple chains and cables of conjured lexxmar. Silas mounted a steel cage on the fallen champion’s head with a series of long screws and bolts set in rows running along both hemispheres of Shezmu’s skull.
This was his third attempt to secure Shezmu’s skull in a fixed position before moving on to brain surgery. Silas wasn’t even sure if Shezmu had a brain in the more traditional sense, but it was worth investigating. However, the demon proved quite wily at shifting the shape, nature, and position of its head to prevent Silas from getting a proper hold upon its malleable skull.
Silas had observed that the surface area and mass of the head remained the same through each alteration caused by the fallen champion of hate. He conjured hooks and spreaders at the ends of each screw or bolt and altered his own body to take on four more limbs. Those changes made, Silas tightened multiple screws and bolts in many different directions simultaneously. Silas reflected that the procedure was more akin to catching a jellyfish in a box rather than the preparatory protocol for surgery.
Silas peeled back the outer layers Shezmu generated to protect his brain. Silas found no proper skull to speak of, but thicker and thicker layers of hide, some of which were ribbed with thin objects Silas associated more with cartilage than bone.
Silas began to probe Shezmu’s brain with savage accuracy. He had discovered, in elevated species of animals and humans, different portions of the brain controlled different aspects of the mind.
There was even a technique perfected by the Ussa. The technique called for a thin spike to be hammered with precision through the nose and into the brain of a subject. The procedure rendered the higher functions of the brain inert. It had been employed to make safe wizards and sorcerers who had served their community but, because of age, were beginning to suffer from dementia. Powerful spell casters who had trouble recognizing reality. Imagining the mayhem senile mages could cause made Silas chuckle to himself.
He searched and probed Shezmu’s brain extensively, and he believed he had possibly caused the fallen champion to develop a permanent speech impediment. However, he had not been able to find the demon’s memory center. Silas had hoped to prevent Shezmu from developing new memories, which, in turn, would make it much easier for him to trap the demon. He could use the same method over and over again without Shezmu remembering any of it. Thus, the demon would fall into the same traps over and over again.
His thoughts returned to the procedures the Ussa had used to varying degrees to resolve brain triggered problems and events. He recalled there had been some limited success with a procedure to fix the ‘curse’ of the Vile Twitch. It was an affliction Silas himself had suffered from as a child. However, instead of being viewed as a medical condition, Silas’s ailment was treated as a blight upon the soul. Of course, the only methods the church was familiar with in curing those soul-blights were beatings and torture.
Silas did more than chuckle at that thought. He laughed a full-bellied laugh. They had tried to exorcise an imaginary demon from him instead of attempting to cure him with a medical procedure. Now he had an actual demon within him, which he hoped to keep trapped with the aid of a medical procedure. The irony struck him as quite funny, and he laughed for several long minutes.
While he was laughing, his hand must have twitched slightly because, once the fit had passed, he noticed that he had nicked something and Shezmu was now blind in his right eye.
Silas thought about the Vile Twitch and wondered if he was operating on the wrong brain. From his mind-room, he called forth a representation of his own brain and began to examine its inner workings. He noted the scar tissue from excess stimulation, known more colloquially as torture, resulted in some interesting changes to the brain’s structure.
After several minutes he found what he was looking for; the section of the brain that caused the episodes of seizure. The network of channels that carried impulses and commands from one location of the brain to another was beautiful to Silas. He intuitively understood the flow and design of it. The one portion of the brain, his brain, cut byways and back alleys into some of those channels, disrupting the flow of thought and control. He could also see how the brain had developed so that the proper channels had shifted and grown away from those misdirected lanes. In fact, his brain had successfully isolated itself from this area, effectively placing the misfiring nodes in a form of quarantine.
Silas smiled to himse
lf and began his work. He duplicated the twisted and confused mass of overlapping lanes and channels and conjured several pieces of tissue laden with the same patterns. He reopened Shezmu’s brain and inserted the created tissue in several different pathways and root channels, many linking the brain to the creature’s spine.
The effect was immediate. Shezmu’s entire form contorted into multiple seizures. Silas found the display very interesting. Due to the fact that Shezmu could alter his shape and the function of his muscles, his seizure wasn’t uniform; that is to say, his body didn’t lock up the way Silas’s had when he was a child. Instead, different parts and portions of the demon’s body vibrated and contorted on their own at a different frequency than all the others. Instead of one living thing suffering a seizure, it looked more like a group of creatures bound in a tight bag of skin and each having their own type of seizure.
Back in his chambers in the home of A’Ilys, Silas, no longer of House Morosse but still the young physician, smiled.
********************
They had traveled for the better part of a day, Silas believed. The direct route from Queen Jandanero’s cavern and her coven of the Dark Hammer, a favorite symbol of the demon prince Prechii, to Rogash’s domain should have been no more than an hour’s walk and only a small bit of climbing. However, as the Queen had said, many creatures lived in the deep places of the world. Some of them were beyond mastery. Thus, they had traveled a much longer, much safer, route to Rogash’s cavern complex.
Silas was tired from the events of the meditation cycle, but the outcome had been well worth it. He found he could access more of Shezmu’s powers with much less effort. Time would tell if the operation on the demon’s brain would diminish its powers or constitution. Silas had a few theories about that, but decided theories would be meaningless without trial data. If half of what he’d heard about this Rogash were true, there would be a number of trials.
