by R J Hanson
“I will,” Silas said with a nod. “There is another matter to discuss that may be of an even more delicate nature.”
Silas tilted his head to the crowd inhabiting the tavern.
“Perhaps a more private venue?” Silas asked.
“Get out,” Verkial said.
He did not raise his voice much above the quiet din of cups and cutlery. Yet, his command was heeded, and heeded immediately. Within moments only the four at their table remained. Even the barman and tavern girls had seemed to evaporate.
“Proceed,” Verkial said once the building was cleared.
“I have a proposal that may benefit your coup and serve Lady Evalynne,” Silas said.
The lines around Verkial’s eyes and mouth tightened. Hallgrim paused his hand, which was halfway to his mouth with a fresh mug of ale.
“It is no coup,” Verkial said through clenched teeth. “That would imply betrayal. I am taking what is mine.”
“A poor choice of words then,” Silas said, smiling. “I assume your maneuver to separate from Ingshburn’s forces will cause you to face a two-front war; Lethanor on one hand and Ingshburn on the other.”
“Was there a question in there somewhere?” Verkial asked, his eyes still very unkind. “Be aware, your drawn out, diplomatic way of speaking is starting to irritate me. My man here, Hallgrim, was quite impressed with your display earlier today. Do not think either that, or your position with Evalynne, would prevent me from tearing your head from your shoulders. Don’t think because we sit here with a vampire, I am in any way hesitant about pulling off your arms. I keep Lord Kyhn in his place in my ranks, and I doubt I would have much trouble with her.”
Hallgrim set his mug on the table and rested his hand on the hilt of his great hammer.
“To the point, then,” Silas said, unnettled by Verkial’s remarks and tone. “Your position on the island of Wodock should remain relatively untroubled, but your holdings in Tarborat will be costly to maintain. Lady Evalynne is prepared to move her troops, a considerable force, to the western portions of Tarborat, where she will be the chief legion from Lethanor facing you. While the front between your troops and hers will appear to the rest of the world as hotly contested, you will actually link up a supply line. She can send future goods and supplies purchased by you through her men on the front in Tarborat. She will also position her forces to press against Ingshburn’s armies on her eastern front. Thus, instead of you facing two fronts, Ingshburn will be pressed on two sides. This will also resolve any concerns about shipments from Moras to you being observed or seized.”
“You’re pretty clever,” Verkial said with a hint of genuine appreciation in his voice. “Now’s the time you make your ask.”
Silas smiled, and Dru arched her eyebrow and tilted her head toward her Chaos Lord.
“The way I understand it, there are no significant mines on this island, and there has never been any effort at establishing them,” Silas said, drawing a curious look from Verkial and Dru. “Once you reveal your intentions to Ingshburn and seize Wodock as your own, I would like exclusive rights to mine the mountains here.”
“You don’t look like much of a miner,” Verkial said.
“My associate would send along dwarven slaves to do the actual mining,” Silas said. “I believe it could be quite profitable.”
“No slaves,” Verkial said in a tone that left no doubt about debating the point. “There will be no slaves in my lands. Not mine and not yours.”
“Very well,” Silas said. “I’m sure we could come to some understanding with hired miners or perhaps make an arrangement with the dwarves we currently hold.”
“Done,” Verkial said. “Exclusive rights to mine the mountains of Wodock Island are yours.”
“I’ll have something drawn up…” Silas began but was cut short by the sharp shake of Verkial’s head.
“There’ll be no written laws or contracts in my domain,” Verkial said. “I speak plainly and require the same of others. We have a deal. That’s all that’s needed. If you think a piece of paper could persuade me at a future time to change my decision about something, you are wrong. Dead wrong. If you doubt my word, then there is no point in pursuing this further.”
“You expect me to trust you?” Silas asked.
“I expect you to understand that if I decide to kill you, no piece of paper will alter the course of my blade,” Verkial said. “Should I die, no piece of paper will carry any weight with my successor. Should you die, no piece of paper will hold me to anything I do not choose to be held to. Our words are our accord.”
“Done,” Silas said simply.
“Done. Now, put away your tea and have a real drink with me,” Verkial said as he waved toward the bar, though no one could be seen tending it.
“I don’t partake of wine or ale,” Silas said.
“I don’t trust a man that don’t drink,” Verkial said, the edge returning to his voice.
“I don’t give a tinker’s spit if you trust me or not,” Silas said, matching Verkial’s tone.
Several quiet moments passed between them. Dru took another sip from her glass of wine. Hallgrim drew his feet beneath his chair, positioned for a quick rise.
“In fact, if you would trust a man just because he chooses to dull his wits with ale, then you’re a great fool, and we have no need of your business,” Silas said.
Everyone at the table heard the large and mighty Hallgrim gulp.
Slowly a smile began to spread across Verkial’s face. Verkial seemed to be expressing actual approval of Silas’s words, but Silas decided it was still very unsettling to see this man smile. There was something in the lines of his face that made it appear more a smile of a dragon than that of a man.
“Lady Dru, you and Lady Evalynne have chosen well in your selection of ambassador to Tarborat!” Verkial proclaimed as he quaffed the rest of his ale.
Hallgrim relaxed and drained his mug as well.
Chapter X
What’s an Omen?
After two days of resting and resupplying in Bolthor, Dunewell and Jonas boarded a vessel, the Sea Trollop, bound for Split Town. They had discovered Dunewell’s horse near a white rose bush, of all things, the morning after the omen and the skinshifter attack. The horse’s reins had become entangled in the thorny stalks of the beautiful bush. The journey back to Bolthor had taken them almost two weeks in which they traveled almost a thousand leagues across untamed lands.
It was the first week of Eheno, the fifth month of the year 1649, and Stratvs was fully awake from her winter slumber. Almost seven thousand leagues away, in the western coastal city of Modins, a young warrior named Roland wrote a letter home, a letter to his father.
Bolthor, a large port city on the southern coast of Lethanor, was bustling with activity. Crops and goods bound for seagoing vessels poured into the city from the northern road, and sailors and merchants flooded in from the sea. Bolthor was what Dunewell thought of as a new city. Bolthor had been established for hundreds of years. However, having grown up in a city so rich in history from the time before the Battles of Rending, such as Moras, Dunewell thought of Bolthor as a recent settlement.
Dunewell was glad to see the watchmen and inquisitors of the city seemed professional. Their uniforms were clean, their weapons oiled, and their hair and beards close-cropped and neatly trimmed. In noticing them, Dunewell felt a pang of regret, or sinful pride, in realizing he could never again wear such a uniform.
Having spent the developing years of his life in a harbor city, Dunewell knew a great deal about seagoing vessels. A great deal for someone that did not really know anything about sailing at any rate. Armed with that knowledge, Dunewell did not care for the Sea Trollop.
He noticed that many of the ropes should have been replaced a season or two ago, she had collected more than her share of barnacles that the crew had neglected to clean off, and mold grew in the corners of more than one sail. Making these observations, he bade the captain wait for him and prom
ised that he would cause no more than an hour’s delay. The captain, who seemed in no particular hurry about anything that he did, consented with a nod.
“Where are you off to?” Jonas asked.
“I want to drink from the river one last time before we go out to sea,” Dunewell said.
“Expecting trouble?” Jonas asked.
“Always,” Dunewell said. “But that has nothing to do with this. Look at that ship. Given the shape of her, or her crew for that matter, I’ll be surprised if she makes it halfway to Split Town before coming apart on us.”
“They’re cheap, convenient, and headed our way,” Jonas said. “What more do you want?”
“Reliable rigging for one,” Dunewell said.
Dunewell ran north out of Bolthor to get beyond the waste and filth the locals poured into the River Whynne. Several leagues north he found a small oxbow. He lay down on his stomach and drank deeply from the flowing waters that had not so long ago saved his life. He took another great draft from the river and then rolled over on his back to stare at the summer clouds forming in the blue sky. His days with Belyska in the cave by this same river seemed to have happened ages ago. He wondered where she was and if she was thinking of him. He wondered if he would ever know more of her or of his child.
Dunewell rolled back over and took another deep drink from the river. Then he rose, completely refreshed, and started for the docks of Bolthor.
Now, once again traveling as Steward Ruble and Esquire Rutger, the pair were off to sea. The captain, a rangy fellow named Jimms, said the voyage to Split Town should take them no longer than three weeks and likely less than two, depending on the wind. Dunewell again wondered at the likelihood of making it to Split Town on this vessel at all.
“I thought your House would have ships here?” Dunewell asked Jonas as they stowed their gear and belongings in the cabin they must share.
A cabin designed to accommodate only one.
“There were two scheduled to be here,” Jonas said. “One left early to fill an unexpected order from Thorvol. The other, I’m told, was held up in Gallhallad. A delivery of timber was overdue and caused a delay. Why? Are you still worried about the soundness of this ship?”
“No,” Dunewell scoffed. “I’ve encamped with you enough to know I don’t want to be cooped up in here with you when you begin that awful snoring of yours.”
Jonas smiled then. Dunewell realized it was the first time he’d seen Jonas smile. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He had seen him wear a smile to ease the nerves of some and to raise the ire of others. He had seen Jonas use a smile like some men used a hammer or a pry bar as a tool. Yet, he hadn’t seen him smile because he just felt like smiling. Now that Dunewell thought about it, Jonas had seemed almost happy about something since they’d set foot on the ship.
“I hadn’t planned on sharing the bunk with you,” Jonas said. “While you sleep, I’ll remain on deck to keep an eye on the horizon, and vice versa.”
“Do you expect trouble?” Dunewell asked.
“Always,” Jonas said, smiling again. “Remember, these lads think us merchants and aristocrats. Let’s keep it that way.”
Dunewell noticed that smile again. Jonas was glad of something, but Dunewell couldn’t guess what that something might be.
“I’ll remember,” Dunewell finally said.
He wanted to ask Jonas what had happened to place him in such a good mood, but, at the same time, didn’t want to snuff out his friend’s cheerfulness by bringing it to light. Dunewell decided to accept it as a blessing.
“Well then, do you want the night shift or the day shift?” Dunewell asked. “I can see just as well at night with no need of a lantern or torch…”
“I’ll take the night shift,” Jonas said quickly, cutting off Dunewell in midsentence. “I prefer the quiet.”
“Very well,” Dunewell said, not sure what Jonas was up to. Yet, he knew he was up to something.
On the third day at sea, Dunewell discovered the cause of Jonas’s mirth. He awoke to screams coming from above and below deck. Dunewell rolled out of his bunk, instantly awake and aware. With a thought, his hammer leapt to his right hand and began to glow as the magical lines of holy runes traced themselves along the haft and head of the sturdy weapon. Dunewell extended his left hand, and his shortsword levitated to him. It was then that Dunewell noticed Jonas’s weapons belt rolled and stowed neatly in the corner.
Jonas had not taken the time to have his longsword reforged, but his shortsword was left behind as well. Sailors might have scoffed at a merchant wearing a longsword, but no one would have thought a shortsword unusual. So, why had he left it behind? Dunewell thought.
We’ll ask him when we find out what the screaming is all about, Whitburn thought/said in response to Dunewell’s question.
Dunewell was still getting used to conversing with Whitburn. More often than not, he forgot that Whitburn was a party to every thought that crossed his mind.
Dunewell stepped toward the door when it burst in scattering splinters of wood all about him. The hiss and smell of a vampire were unmistakable.
One of the sailors, Dunewell thought his name was Lou, thrust himself through the doorway, vampire fangs leading the charge. Dunewell drove his shortsword through the vampire’s throat with practiced ease. An efficient jerk of the blade to the side and Lou’s head fell to the left while his body fell to the right.
Dunewell now realized he hadn’t seen Lou since they left Bolthor. In fact, there were four or five of the crew he hadn’t seen since casting off. Four or five?
There are fourteen…, no, now there are thirteen more aboard ship, Whitburn thought/said. One is a master.
“You’re telling me this now?” Dunewell asked, unintentionally out loud.
You… rather, we didn’t look before, Whitburn replied.
Dunewell’s flesh hardened and became as plate armor. Jonas would have been above deck, in the open, the worst place to face a vampire. Dunewell had hunted a few and knew enough to know the best place to fight a vampire is in tight quarters, so their range of flight was limited, and their ability to appear as only a shadow was less of an advantage.
Yet, there was one aboard ship that was capable of great leaps, and there was at least one aboard ship that could see through their shadows with divine clarity.
Dunewell checked both directions of the narrow hallway and then turned for the steps leading to the deck. As he emerged from the hatch, he saw Jonas backed up against the rails at the prow of the ship, six vampires hemming him in.
The prow dipped and bobbed with the motion of the sea, making an attack by flight very tricky. Dunewell wondered if the seas had been calm if Jonas would even still be alive. Dunewell watched as Jonas, fighting with a broken plank in one hand and a sharpened belaying pin in the other, thrust the splintered end of the plank deep into the chest, and the heart, of one of the vampires. Now there were five.
As the vampire fell under Jonas’s attack, Dunewell realized he heard laughing and singing. He heard Jonas laughing and singing. Dunewell thought he’d discovered the reason for Jonas’s cheer and eagerness to take the night watch. Jonas had known there would be a vampire attack. The fool had known vampires were coming for them and said nothing!
A clamoring from behind him alerted Dunewell that whatever struggle had taken place below deck was now over. The smells and hissing coming from the hatch let him know there were no more men left alive behind him.
In one great leap, Dunewell bound from midship to land next to Jonas at the prow. If they were the only two left, they would need to fight side by side and not divided.
“I was afraid you might miss the whole dance,” Jonas shouted to Dunewell over the din.
Jonas feigned toward another vampire with the plank and then thrust the sharpened belaying pin into the heart of another. Now only four faced them, but a horde of the undead creatures would be on them soon enough.
Dunewell struck out with his hammer at one, crushing i
ts head and the upper parts of its spine, and thrust his now enchanted shortsword into the heart of another, slaying both with swift efficiency.
“The master?” Dunewell asked between blows.
“Up in the rigging,” Jonas said, smiling. “She wants us worn down before she engages.”
Jonas laughed again and sang a line from a song Dunewell did not know.
“Up the rigging goes a lad, down from the sails comes a man,” Jonas sang. “He tastes the sea, he tastes the flood, he tastes his end, he tastes his blood!”
“What are you so happy about?” Dunewell asked as he slashed the head from another vampire and then parried a claw with his hammer.
“The master up there doesn’t know the likes of us don’t wear down!” Jonas replied.
Jonas stabbed the splintered end of the plank into another of the undead beasts, shattering the impromptu weapon with the attack. The creature fell, and Jonas shifted the belaying pin forward.
“Here,” Dunewell yelled as he tossed the shortsword.
Jonas caught it without a glance toward the thrown weapon, snatching it out of the air with practiced ease. A swift backward slice with it and another vampire's head rolled along the deck.
The rest of the horde arrived and pressed in on them. For several long moments all either man could do was defend as claw and fang slashed at them from all sides. Then, acting on instinct, Dunewell called forth the power and presence of Whitburn.
Blue flaming wings sprouted from his shoulders, and a blue-white light shone from his eyes. His aura blazed with the power of Bolvii. Vampire after vampire began to explode into smoke and flame under the assault of that holy visage. In a flash, only the master was left.
Dunewell turned his eyes up to the creature, seeing for the first time that it was a woman. Her hair was a dark blue/black, and her skin ashen. She was clad in dark blue silks and plate armor, a long, curved sword, Dunewell knew was sometimes called a katana, strapped across her back, a grin on her blood-red lips. She narrowed her eyes, almond-shaped eyes akin to the Ussa people of the Disputed Isles. In life, this woman had been beautiful. She held a single hand up as a shield against the bright holy flame that engulfed Dunewell, but she did not shrink away. This one was powerful.
