by R J Hanson
“Because I’m givin’ it to you, ya’ dolt,” Rogash said, glad the conversation had turned away from the scholarly lecture it was about to become. “I put the colors of that house you talked about, Wellborne I think, I put the colors on the hilt; the gray Roarke’s Ore disc centered by a blue sapphire. I can change that in the future if you need it done. I made this,” Rogash also produced a long dagger from his belt, “to match it. It’s made of the same stuff and has that house emblem on the same spot on the pommel. Smaller sapphire on the dagger, though.”
Silas took the dagger and saw that it did indeed have the colors of House Wellborne on the hilt, which matched the rapier. Both weapons were inlaid with silver and Roarkor, which beautifully accentuated the black steel of their construction and hinted at his former House colors of silver and black. They both rose from their seats and stepped away from the table toward the door.
“This is…” Silas’s words caught in his throat.
What he almost said was it was the most thoughtful gift, the most beautiful gift he’d ever received. What he almost did was choke up and hug Rogash, the Warlord of Clan Jet Hammer, a half-ogre. Silas couldn’t believe he had just stumbled to the precipice of such an abyss.
“Aye,” Rogash said, waving his hand dismissively. “They’re good weapons, for skinny arms that is. I can’t have you running around up there with those vile wretches of Moras armed with a tin blade and paper shield, now can I? Hellmog made scabbards for them. See him on your way out. Just you be sure to get back here as soon as you can. Those babies may need their nurse-maid.”
“I will return when my Lady bids it,” Silas said.
Rogash turned, took a step, and then turned back to him.
“Is it true that you murdered your father and mother?” Rogash asked.
Silas was taken aback by the straightforwardness of the question. He should not have been. Straightforward was Rogash’s key virtue, with the notable exceptions of his tactics and his strategy at Scepters and Swords.
“Yes,” Silas said suspiciously, not sure where this part of the conversation was going.
Silas was not ashamed of the fact. He was actually a little surprised it hadn’t come up in conversation with Rogash before now.
“I also murdered my father and my mother,” Rogash said. “There is power to be found in the act, in passing judgment on those that brought you into the world. You are powerful, friend Silas. You need no demon skin for that.”
Hellmog was a product of an ill-conceived idea Rogash attempted early on in his breeding endeavors. He was the product, the only living product, of an ogre and a drow. He was an unfortunate looking creature, even in Silas’s eyes, that stood only four feet tall and weighed less than one hundred stone. He was completely hairless, and his skin was a mottled black. His eyes shone a deep red regardless of what spectrum Silas viewed them in, and his movements were deceptively quick. He served as Rogash’s personal assistant and had proven himself quite skilled at leatherworking. Silas also suspected Hellmog to be one of Rogash’s chief spies.
In all the time Silas had lived among Clan Jet Hammer, he had learned a good deal about ogre society, how the clan operated, and a number of other details likely not known by any drow. Yet, he had no idea where Hellmog came from, when he arrived, nor where he disappeared to when he left. He seemed to show up when you were looking for him and remained unseen, even unseen by the many abilities of a Lord of Chaos, the rest of the time.
As Silas was overseeing the loading of weapons, armor, and tools to be carted to the mines of House Morosse, Hellmog appeared at his elbow.
“Warlord Rogash offers these,” Hellmog said in a raspy, broken attempt at the common language of men.
Hellmog handed Silas a new weapons belt of innocuous design equipped with scabbards for the rapier and dagger. Silas accepted them and placed the rapier-dagger set in the scabbards. He wrapped his old belt around his great-grandfather’s shrou-sheld and put it with the other cargo that was being hauled to the drow caverns instead of the House Morosse mines.
He hadn’t concerned himself with a weapon, although he did still have his glass rider’s pike hidden in his bracer, because he could call upon the scimitar, Dreg Zylche, at any time. It occurred to him that he’d not had occasion to show Rogash that particular trick, and, he decided, perhaps it was best kept a secret. Silas had been on the verge of hugging Rogash earlier that day, but he had also been prepared to kill him only moments before that.
Two days of walking and climbing and enduring the smell of the ogres carrying their wares brought Silas and his small caravan of monsters to the outer reaches of his mines. They were really no longer his mines, of course. He had turned over ownership to Dru before his untimely ‘death.’ However, time and distance had softened his heart about bearing the name Morosse. It had only been a little more than six months, but Silas had lived such a new and strange life in that time.
He was a firm believer in one of his own theories about the human brain and the perceived passing of time. Silas proposed, he had actually written a thesis on the idea, the human brain doesn’t instinctively measure time. It can be taught to do so, of course, but it is not something that comes naturally. He further proposed the chief function of the brain was to recognize and match patterns. He believed the brain was in a constant state of ‘if x then y.’ He’d used the example that as a child, one might have observed a red glowing pot over a cooking fire. The brain, not having the information yet, does not understand the red glow to indicate heat and, therefore, pain. Thus, when you touch the red glow of the pot and experience extreme pain, your brain takes note of that outcome. So, if you see a red glowing coal in the fire, your brain extrapolates the strong possibility that it will also be hot and cause pain if touched.
In the example given above, the brain is in an excited state and, therefore, is recording every detail so the information can be used in the future for further pattern recognition. Silas also noted that pain is the more effective teacher when it comes to forcing the brain to remember and/or recognize a pattern, but that is another treatise altogether. While the brain is hyperactive, perceived time seems to slow because so many details are being recorded. This is also the reason individuals suffering from physical torture always assume much more time has passed than is actually the case.
Conversely, if the brain is in an environment that it knows, or believes it knows, to be of recognized routine, perceived time speeds up. The brain is experiencing less new stimuli, and therefore the individual feels as though time is passing quicker than normal. Thus, in youth, time is perceived as passing slowly, whereas older, more experienced, individuals perceive time as passing rapidly.
Given the circumstances of the previous six months of his life, therefore, he’d perceived much more time passing than a mere half-year.
Silas led his caravan to the meeting place in the mines and then dismissed the ogres to return to their caverns. Dru had taken care to supply the small alcove. There was food – dried fruits, bread, and salted meat, not the good stuff –, water, soap, three lanterns, mirror and basin, and a proper bed. Silas smiled when he saw there was also a small bookshelf fully stocked with lexicons on the subjects of history, geography, sorcery, herbalism, and alchemy.
“All that beauty and brains, and thoughtful to boot,” Silas said out loud to the mute stone that surrounded him.
He bathed, shaved, and read about the history of the Kellmarshee, the horsemen that ruled the plains of western Tarborat. After an hour of reading, it occurred to him that he hadn’t spent a moment anywhere since leaving his home city of Moras that he didn’t hear the ringing of hammer on anvil or pick on stone. Silas looked into his mind-room to check in on Shezmu. He found the fallen champion in the continued throws of eternal spasms and seizures. Silas took a moment to lock eyes with the mighty demon and then returned to himself. The silence and imagined weight of thousands of tons of rock hanging above him escorted him to a deep and peaceful sleep.
Th
e following day, minutes after sunset, Silas, using his alias Cambrose of House Wellborne, and Lady Deliliah, Stewardess of House Morosse, were escorted into the private audience chamber of Lady Evalynne in the heart of Moras.
The room somehow seemed smaller to Silas. It was brightly lit with many magical lanterns burning in ever-fire. Or, perhaps Silas just thought of it as bright since he’d spent over half a year living underground. He noticed that Uriel-Ka, Lady Evalynne’s wizard and advisor, remained far off to the side and stood with his hands held, protected he likely hoped, behind his back. Silas couldn’t help wondering if the wizard had found a means of replacing his missing finger. The finger Silas had bitten off and eaten in this very room the previous winter.
“UK,” Silas said cheerfully. “It is good to see you, my good friend!”
The wizard snarled at Silas, turned his eyes to Lady Evalynne, and then lowered his head.
“I like the look of these new pieces,” Lady Evalynne said as she entered the chamber from a hidden room in the north corner.
Silas also remembered her as seeming larger before. She was, of course, very tall and muscular. Lady Evalynne had not been given Moras to rule, she had taken it by her own hand. She also seemed much more attractive than Silas remembered. It finally dawned on him that she was clearly here now to make a deal with them. Lady Evalynne had learned the nature of the outcome when she made demands of Silas or Dru. She was here now to convince, cajole, and seduce. Skills at which she was quite adept. After all, she had not taken, and kept, Moras only by the strength of her sword arm.
“I have received tentative inquiries from General Verkial’s camp,” Evalynne continued.
Evalynne’s tone was comfortable, confident, and teasing all at once. Silas also noticed she had a way of shifting when she moved so that her dress accentuated her desirable form. It was subtle, but, Silas assumed, likely very effective on most men.
“It would seem that the General is of the opinion Moras would be willing to trade with him, under the table as they say, disregarding the embargo placed on Tarborat by King Eirsett,” Evalynne said.
She appeared nonchalant, but Silas saw that she was slyly watching what sort of reaction her words brought from him and his mistress. Evalynne knew they worked with the dark elves, but perhaps that was all she knew. She was fishing to see if their associations with the ‘evil’ races made them allies or enemies of Tarborat. Oddly enough, Silas hadn’t given it much thought, himself.
“What sort of goods is the General in the market for?” Silas asked.
“The usual things,” Lady Evalynne responded casually. “Preserved foodstuffs, hardtack, rope, oil, canvas, and whatever armor, weapons, and potent herbs we might be willing to sell.”
Silas turned and partially bowed to Dru, “my Lady, if you’ll permit me.”
Dru nodded after only a moment’s hesitation. The hesitation, of course, was for Evalynne’s benefit. Dru had discovered Silas uniquely trained and conditioned for such politics and trusted him in these matters completely. Well, perhaps not completely. Silas did have a wild and chaotic streak in him that seemed to be drawn to mischief.
“We have arranged for me to treat with Tarborat, unofficially, on your behalf,” Silas said. “What about this situation has changed?”
Lady Evalynne arched an eyebrow and curled the edge of her lip in a seductive smile. Silas, of course, was unmoved by her feminine wiles but decided to let her believe he was taken in.
“The trade proposed by General Verkial is to be with him and him alone,” Lady Evalynne said. “Sales to Tarborat have primarily been through pirates operating out of Dead Horse. The bulk of Tarborat’s trade went through Broken Time until it was captured by Lethanor in 1565, almost a hundred years ago. General Verkial asks the trade agreement be arranged in Wodock, cutting Tarborat, and Ingshburn, out of the deal entirely.”
Silas tried very hard not to let any emotion show through at the mention of the city of Wodock. He thought this development must be providence. Wodock, of course, was the only city in the far northwest corner of the known world. There were also many legends and tales he’d read about the fabled mountain range that lay north and west of Wodock. Tales of heavenly chariots.
“I’ll need solid crews, good vessels, and sound cargo,” Silas said. “I’ll also need to know something of Moras’s troops in Tarborat.”
Lady Evalynne’s attitude changed abruptly.
“Did you not hear me?” Evalynne asked sharply. “Verkial wants to cut Ingshburn out. That changes the nature of the entire venture dramatically.”
“Why?” Silas asked, a bit impudently.
“Because,” Evalynne began in a condescending tone, “if Ingshburn is cut out of the deal, he will likely retaliate!”
“Yes,” Silas said. “True enough. I suppose you expected some shock or resistance from us in this matter. If that was the case, then I’m sorry to disappoint you. In fact, I would think it would sweeten the deal for all of us.”
“How so,” Evalynne asked, now intrigued by whatever scheme was festering in Silas’s mind.
“Simply this,” Silas said. “If Verkial is making a move of his own, he and his lands will be an excellent new market for goods. If nothing else, he will need to supply whatever troops he can muster to separate himself from Ingshburn. Furthermore, Ingshburn will be more concerned with the loss of Verkial than with any deal for trade falling through. Even if Ingshburn wanted to exercise some malice against us, how could he? He has barely managed to fight Lethanor to a stalemate. Verkial splitting away, and possibly even attempting a coup, will only weaken him further. Therefore, I’ll need solid crews, good vessels, and sound cargo. I’ll also need to know something of Moras’s troops in Tarborat.”
“Why the information about troop movements?” Evalynne asked.
“If I am to treat for you, I cannot do so in the blind,” Silas said. “Furthermore, I have an idea that might play to even greater advantage. You determine your troop strengths and movements in Tarborat, do you not?”
“I do,” Evalynne said.
“Excellent,” Silas said. “The King will want an answer as to why you might wish to reposition them. You’ll tell him that you are acting on information from some of your spies. You only want to use your own troops in case the information proves false and leads to significant casualties. Could you do that?”
“I could,” Evalynne said, narrowing her eyes as if she were hoping she could find a way to see through Silas’s forehead and view his plan for herself.
“Wonderful,” Silas said in a cheerful voice that made Uriel-Ka’s guts twist. “Wonderful. How soon could the ships and crews be ready?”
“I said that I could,” Lady Evalynne replied coolly. “I did not say that I would. We have yet to discuss the loss I’ve suffered in denying trade to the Blue Tower. Nor have we discussed threats the wizards there have levied. Thus far, their threats have been idle, but my captains do lament the loss of the wizards’ coins.”
“Are you familiar with the tale of the Twin Chariots?” Silas asked.
Evalynne, who had not yet grown accustomed to his unusual methods of changing and redirecting a conversation, frowned for a moment and then said, “no, I can’t say that I am.”
Silas awoke to the pain of what felt like broken glass grinding from his back to his lower left abdomen. He rolled unceremoniously from his bunk to vomit onto the wooden floor of the captain’s quarters. The pain seemed to be a symptom of a barb in his kidneys, sometimes passed through painful urination, but he was afraid it was much worse.
He had been at sea for over a month now and still had another month to go before arriving at Wodock. Outside the small island of solitude, which was the private captain’s quarters, the ship, Lucky Tides, was slashed and tossed by a violent storm. It seemed the storm had come from nowhere, but Silas couldn’t be very certain about that. He couldn’t be very certain about anything.
The provisions aboard were plentiful, for natural man. However
, he had failed to take into account the particular nourishment Shezmu, and thereby he, would require. He needed to go to his mind-room, but the constant pain and nausea had weakened him.
He thought, for a time, the illness would pass, and he could regain his strength before facing Shezmu. He had been wrong. He grew weaker every day and had no idea what state Shezmu was in.
Silas wiped the vomit from his chin and tried to brace himself for what he must do. He had read about techniques of meditation practiced by a group of monks in Ivantis. The technique was very similar to another that was commonly practiced by everyone, from aristocracy to the warriors to the clerics of the Ussa. It was a technique Dru knew well and had taught him. In fact, he had used aspects of those different techniques, methods of concentration and disassociation, in constructing his first mind-room where he had baited and trapped Shezmu.
Silas pushed himself up from the floor and rolled to a sitting position. He bent his legs under him and lay his arms out before him on his lap. As he closed his eyes and attempted to relax, another geyser of pain from his back caused his body to bend and spasm. Vomit spewed from his throat and forced itself out his nose in violent torrents.
Silas desperately wanted to faint and was fighting the pull of peaceful unconsciousness when the whole of Lucky Tides bucked underneath him, throwing him hard into the wall and drawing blood from his nose and lower lip, mixing the tastes of copper and puke in his mouth. The floor of the ship tilted and rolled Silas toward his bunk; back through the puddles, he’d wretched up, creating a mixture of blood and vomit. Silas managed to get a handhold on the edge of his bunk just as the floor tilted again, threatening to throw him back across the room. Silas then noticed that the temperature had dropped significantly. Just as he was registering this fact, the raging storm tore away the shudders of his small office and quarters; the interior was pelted with hail and icy sea spray.
The gales of wind and water charged throughout the undefended quarters flipping tables, tearing books from shelves, and lashing his skin with the fury of the freezing sea. Then Silas heard and understood. A rumble of voice in the wind explained.
