by R J Hanson
Jonas enjoyed another ale, taking far too long to finish it for Dunewell’s liking, and rose. Jonas walked to the bar and placed a silver coin flat against the oft polished surface.
“Thanks to ya’, Jimmi,” Jonas said with a tip of the hand to the man tending bar.
The barman, no young fellow and quite overweight, smiled, nodded his own head, and gathered the coin from the bar. Jonas walked from the closed tavern into the afternoon sun of Split Town.
It seemed like only days ago when Dunewell wondered if he would ever be warm again, and now he was sweating on the sunbaked streets of a southern city. A rivulet of sweat gathered at the back of his neck and then overran the small bulge of his spine, streaking fine dust down the inside of his shirt.
“Do you know an Inquisitor by the name of Ranoct?” Jonas asked when they had walked more than three city blocks from the tavern.
“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” Dunewell countered.
“Don’t be stubborn,” Jonas said. “Do you know him or not?”
“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” Dunewell repeated, letting the heat add to his aggravation.
Jonas clenched his teeth, then opened his mouth to make a quick reply and let that reply die on his tongue. He had decided long ago he would not be his father’s son, although some days keeping to that decision was more difficult than others.
“A Paladin, Puetian, and a Templar, Viern, both of the church of Fate made a move against the faction we just spoke with, and were preparing to make a move against the governor and Lord Moudir himself,” Jonas said after a sigh. “They were working with a High Cleric by the name of Sviellel. Now an inquisitor, Ranoct, holds the estate and monastery of Fate that sits north of the city.”
“How…” Dunewell began but was stopped by Jonas’s upraised finger.
“You don’t have to jump in every time I pause to take a breath,” Jonas said. “You were going to ask me how I gleaned all that information. The thieves in Moras have their own means of communication. The signaling language I’ve been teaching you. The thieves’ cant.”
“Yes, I recall,” Dunewell said. “It’s comprised of code words and hand signals, so the watchmen don’t know what they’re saying or planning. But I saw nothing like that taking place in there.”
“Shadow Blades have a language very similar to that,” Jonas said. “Only it is much more complicated.”
“You’re telling me you signaled with one of them while we were in there?” Dunewell scoffed. “I would have seen it.”
“No,” Jonas said simply. “You would not have, and, in fact, you did not.”
“The scout at the table, that was your man, your spy?” Dunewell asked.
Jonas nodded.
“Coen,” Jonas said. “He’s proven himself quite clever and useful.”
Dunewell frowned at that and began to open his mouth.
“Don’t bother,” Jonas said. “You’ve ordered men into battle, men that died because of your orders. So, let us not pretend that my use of the Witch Hunter is any worse than that. Yes, I have manipulated his sense of honor and loyalty so that he might serve my needs. Needs that further society as a whole. Don’t pretend you haven’t given a rousing speech to send men to war; men who had no dog in the hunt until you, or others like you, came along and told them they needed to be soldiers. That’s no less manipulation than I’m guilty of.”
“Then why do you defend it so?” Dunewell asked, believing he knew the answer already.
“There is much to the Lady Rakshas,” Jonas said, dropping the subject altogether and forcing the conversation along more agreeable lines. “She is more dangerous than she appears.”
“What’s more dangerous than a Shadow Blade?” Dunewell asked, letting go the fact that Jonas ducked his question.
“Two,” Jonas replied. “Jimmi is not that barman’s name.”
Chapter XIII
What Dreams May Fall
“Are you insane?” Lady Dru asked.
“That depends on your definition,” Silas said matter-of-factly. “Defining sanity is a task that has daunted many. Depending on which philosopher…”
“Shut up,” Dru snapped in a rare moment of emotional outburst.
She took a deep breath and slowly released it. Silas always found this particular exercise of hers amusing because she didn’t actually need to breathe at all. He also found it interesting how strong the old human impulses and habits were. For, according to her telling, she had been a vampire longer than Silas had been alive. She had been turned into a vampire even before his father had been born. Yet, here she was, taking deep breaths to calm herself and center her mind.
Silas understood the physiological benefits of a deep breath for a human. The increased air in the lungs had a way of invigorating the brain, slowing the pulse, and focusing the mind. Thinking about those things brought him to wonder, and not for the first time, exactly how Lady Dru’s brain functioned. He understood the human brain about as well as anyone ever had. However, vampires did not obtain fresh air by any means other than taking it from the fresh blood of their victims. He also knew that vampires could function normally for weeks without having taken in fresh blood. That being the case…
“I said, describe the gem again,” Lady Dru apparently repeated.
“It’s called the Drakestone,” Silas said, glancing at his notes.
He didn’t really need the notes, for he had committed all the details to memory, but he did not want to make any mistakes at this delicate juncture either.
“It is of black and red emerald, approximately eight feet by twelve feet by twenty feet,” Silas recited. “It weighs approximately, and this is my estimate, sixty thousand stone.”
“I haven’t been in every corner of the Blue Tower, but I can tell you I never saw anything like that,” Dru said as she clicked her fingernails on her teeth.
“Assuming a number of situations fell favorably for us, it could be moved in the same manner large ships are moved over land,” Silas said. “Getting it from the Blue Tower to the shore and loaded onto a vessel would be the easy part. Getting it through the mountains of Wodock, that might prove difficult.”
“You don’t think strolling into the Blue Tower, killing hundreds of mages and wizards, and finding the boobytrapped dimension where they’ve stored the thing won’t be difficult?”
“No, my Lady,” Silas said, bowing. “I was only referring to the physical obstacles we must overcome.”
“You’re certain it couldn’t be teleported?” Dru asked again.
“I am not,” Silas said, his head still lowered. “However, Isd’Kislota was very specific on that point. He said the powerful clerics from before the Battles of Rending found it and were somehow able to move it. They manipulated it to control the old drakes and to heal them. According to him, in the final days of the Rending, the sorcerers from the Blue Tower took the gem from the temple in Nolcavanor and secreted it in their Keep. But, neither he nor any dragon he knew, ever saw the gem moved by means other than hundreds of templars and their warhorses pulling it in a wagon the size of a siege engine. He also said they were careful not to touch it with their bare hands, and he had seen a few inadvertently brush flesh against gemstone to disastrous results. He claims…”
“Yes, yes, it’s the only remaining piece of the mold created by Merc and Roarke to fashion the first dragons,” Dru said as she began to rub her temples. “You do have a tendency to ramble on. We need the Dragonstone to free the dragon…”
“We also need to figure out how to get him out, but I have…”
“Do not interrupt me,” Dru said with a deadly tone. “As I was saying, we need the Dragonstone to free the dragon, and we need the dragon to seize the Blue Tower and get the Dragonstone.”
“Perhaps Lord Verkial…”
“Not likely,” Lady Dru said as she began to pace in her lavishly furnished rooms in Wodock.
Verkial had established himself as lor
d over Wodock and had taken possession of the Keep, dubbed Raven’s Nest much to Silas’s chagrin, which overlooked the pirate city. Verkial had offered Lady Dru quarters there for her and her Chaos Lord, and she had graciously accepted. She had no doubt it was a means of keeping her from mixing with the populace of Wodock and to monitor her communications to some degree. However, none of that concerned her. What concerned her was someone getting their hands on this dragon before her.
“You’re certain no one will happen across him any time soon?” she finally asked.
“Not certain, no,” Silas said. “I said he’s been there for almost three thousand years, and I was the first soul he’s spoken with in that entire time.”
“He’s never encountered the Kellmarshee, or any other natives?”
“No, my lady,” Silas said as he began to wonder how many times he would have to answer these questions.
“As many times as I ask them,” Dru said absently. “Remember, you are my Chaos Lord, and your mind is open to me.”
Silas smiled and bowed. It was not a threat; his mistress was too distracted for threats. She was merely reminding him of his place, and in a much gentler fashion than most would have.
“Rogash and his dwarves will be needed to engineer some means of extracting this star-iron you speak of along with the dragon without causing the whole mountain to come down on us,” Lady Dru continued. “Thus, we’ll have to include Clan Jet Hammer. In doing so, we will have to include the Black Hammer Coven of drow as well, for A’Ilys will certainly know of this news within hours if not minutes of our meeting with Rogash.”
Dru was pacing now. The excitement of being so close to her decades' long pursuit and the aggravation at the obstacles that continued to mount in her way drove her back and forth across the floor. Meanwhile, her mind, exceptional in its own right, worked over the problem.
“We will return and speak to Rogash about a deal with the dwarves,” Dru said as she stopped, mid-stride, and apparently arrived at a decision. “We must have a deal with them, so we don’t cross Verkial by importing slaves. Then you will take me to Isd’Kislota. I will speak with him directly to confirm our deal. We will teleport the dwarves in to begin shoring up the crevice that surrounds him and the star-iron. They will need supplies, mining equipment, guards that can be trusted…”
“You do control House Morosse,” Silas pointed out, hoping not to raise her ire by interrupting her again.
“Yes!” Lady Dru exclaimed. “I do tend to overlook that. So, supplies and equipment should be no trouble at all.”
“I would suggest drow perimeter scouts and a few ogres for heavy lifting, and in case there are dealings with any ogres from the surrounding area,” Silas said.
Lady Dru turned her eyes on him, and a smile curled at the edge of her mouth.
“How do you propose we compensate Queen Jandanero and Warlord Rogash for the use of their subjects?” she asked.
Silas, deep in his mind, thought to make a mental note of this situation. It seemed Lady Dru could only read his surface thoughts and not search his memories without considerably more effort. For she had known what he was actively thinking earlier but had not seen all his plans.
He took a moment to breathe in the smell of the Keep’s previous occupants rotting in the sun; their heads mounted on the gate only a few yards outside the window. It would be Tetobier soon and a full year since he began this part of his life by taking the lives of his parents. Silas smiled again. How proud his father would have been.
“They will both want shares of the star-iron,” Silas said. “Our uses for it are limited, but they will seek to fully capitalize on the precious material. The joint venture will require them to either strengthen their bond and treaty or murder one another. Either way, that bit of unrest will be settled. As the star-iron is harvested and worked, we can use the coin made from it to procure the mercenaries and rogue mages we’ll need to storm the Blue Tower. If we agree to turn the tower over to Lord Verkial when we’re done, we might even see significant support from that quarter. No need to explain to him what we seek there beyond revenge for your years of slavery, and I’ve no doubt he would see the tactical advantage of holding the Blue Tower, not to mention its many mysteries.”
Dru nodded her assent, but it was not without reservations. Verkial was dangerous in his own right, and his witch, who had unfortunately remained a mystery to her, was hard to gauge. Verkial had expressed knowledge of events, and enchantments, that were beyond any warrior’s skill to identify or understand, and he had plainly stated he relied on a witch. Yet, there was no sign of her in his camp or Keep. Dru had no way of knowing how skilled, how dangerous, she might be.
Furthermore, the fact that Lord Kyhnneare served Verkial was another significant factor. Where Lord Kyhnneare went, so did Engiyadu. They were reportedly working with Daeriv in Lawrec to the south of Wodock, and Daeriv was, according to scouts of Lethanor, still in Ingshburn’s service. This meant that someone was wrong, and someone was being betrayed. Either way, only a fool would discount such potentially dangerous foes. It would be wise to keep them in mind.
“Very well,” Lady Dru said. “Let us go meet a dragon.”
Chapter XIV
Oaths or Duty?
“Please, just keep reading your notes,” Dunewell whispered over the top of the heavy crossbow he held.
His words slipped through the lantern smoke that filled the stuffy room, just loud enough to reach the ear of his audience.
“I have a heavy crossbow leveled,” Dunewell continued. “We both know I wouldn’t kill you, but a bolt to your leg would hurt and slow you down for days.”
“Dunewell?” Ranoct asked into the dark that loomed just beyond the lantern light of the High Cleric’s office.
Ranoct, a Great Man of even larger stature than Dunewell and twenty years his senior, set his quill back into the inkwell. Then he placed a gold and ivory paperweight, clearly from a set the former High Cleric kept displayed on his desk, on the notes before him to mark his place. His eye strayed over his right shoulder in the direction Dunewell’s voice had come from.
“It is,” Dunewell said quietly.
Dunewell stepped forward into the lamplight keeping back enough to ensure his face, now covered in a beard, and his hair, now much longer than it had ever been, were not seen by his old brother in arms. Ranoct smiled when he saw that what Dunewell had said about the crossbow was no bluff. Ranoct’s plate armor was mounted on an armor rack across the room, along with his shield, but his footman’s mace leaned against the edge of the desk, and his shortsword rested easily in its scabbard on his left side.
“The King has a writ of binding out for you,” Ranoct said as he laid his hands, palms down, on the table, and spread them apart from one another. “A King’s warrant is no easy thing to avoid.”
“True enough,” Dunewell said, relaxing a bit when Ranoct didn’t move for a weapon right away.
“Did you really kill him?” Ranoct asked.
“I did,” Dunewell said.
“You must have had a good reason.”
“I did.”
“Care to elaborate?” Ranoct asked, a bit irritated.
“Sorry,” Dunewell said. “I’ve been traveling with… well, the circles I’ve been traveling in aren’t given to sharing information, and I’m afraid I may have picked up a bad habit or two. I killed him because he was guilty. Guilty of murder and worse.”
“What’s worse than murder?”
“Using the authority of a just office to do it,” Dunewell answered.
Ranoct nodded his agreement.
“Come in with me then,” Ranoct said. “There’s no need in the King, in the people of Lethanor, losing such a good man over something that can be reasoned out.”
“You’re not talking me into manacles,” Dunewell said, a bit lightheartedly. “I’ve seen you do it before. It’s a talent that amazes me, but not a trick I’m falling for. I need to know about who was behind the High Cleric’s
designs on Split Town.”
Ranoct, pretending to react in surprise, turned himself fully around to view the part of Dunewell that was in the light. Dunewell had no doubt Ranoct was surprised to learn he knew such protected details of his case. But Dunewell knew Ranoct better than to think any surprise would cause a physical reaction other than to draw a weapon or raise a shield.
“Your turn doesn’t fool me any,” Dunewell said. “Now, tell me about the fellow. Or, perhaps even better, I’ll tell you about him. He’s tall, almost your height, and a Great Man. His hair is long and black, and he has blue eyes. He’s probably still clean-shaven and looks to be between you and I in age. He was likely wearing a black mercshyeld breastplate with matching bracers and greaves over gray pants and shirt. Am I getting close? He carried a longsword and a matching dagger. How did I do?”
“How could you know those things?” Ranoct asked. “Could you be in league with…”
“You should know better, friend,” Dunewell said, his feelings hurt that Ranoct could think him guilty of such an act. “I know those things because I am hunting him. His name is Slythorne.”
“I didn’t have a name on him,” Ranoct said. “How do you know his name?”
“I’ve been…” Dunewell smiled and cut himself short. “I’m holding the crossbow, so how about we agree that I ask the questions for the time being?”
Ranoct smiled.
“Is he close?” Dunewell asked.
Ranoct shrugged and subtly, very subtly, moved his forearm over a section of his notes that lay on the table before him. Notes that were, as was Ranoct’s custom, very organized.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Dunewell said. “If he were far, you wouldn’t bother covering your notes. If he’s close, and I learn the location, I might be able to move before you and your men are ready and steal the arrest from you.”
Ranoct smiled and lifted his arm from the notes and gestured with it.
“I think off to the northeast…” Ranoct began but was interrupted by Dunewell’s curse.
