Bloom of Blood and Bone

by R J Hanson

  “If your hand strays any closer to your mace, I’ll put a bolt through your knee,” Dunewell said, observing that Ranoct’s pointing took his hand directly toward the resting place of his mace and not truly in line with the northeast.

  Ranoct sighed.

  “He was communicating with the High Cleric, Svelliel was his name, by means of an enchanted hand mirror,” Ranoct said. “We only had the one brief contact. He knew Svelliel was dead but was surprised when he saw a Kingsman on the other end of the mirror. Someone else was involved here, of that, I have no doubt. Someone damaged their attempted coup and managed to turn them on one another. I think…”

  “I think you should get back to the topic of his last known location,” Dunewell said, interrupting Ranoct again. “And keep your voice down. We both know I’m going to have to clout you on the head or put a bolt into your leg before I leave here tonight. Let’s not bring anyone else into it that I’ll also have to injure.”

  Ranoct shrugged his agreement.

  “I think to the northeast,” Ranoct said.

  “You said that,” Dunewell said. “You were also telling the truth about that, hoping the truth would distract me from your footman’s mace.”

  “He was in an encampment,” Ranoct said, unperturbed. “The stars in the sky behind him showed him to be looking to the southwest. I know it’s not always required to look in the same direction with those enchantments, but most that use them tend to do it anyway, subconsciously. I could hear gulls in the air behind him, meaning he was near the coast. He looked a bit too foppish for someone who regularly lived in an encampment, so I think he was staging there for a swift move here if necessary. My guess is not more than fifty leagues away. That was two days ago, though. Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “No,” Dunewell said.

  The single syllable response had the desired effect, and Ranoct turned to face Dunewell fully and offer a sharp retort. When he did, Dunewell hit him.

  Dunewell’s right fist collided with Ranoct’s considerable jaw. Driven by the might of a champion, Ranoct Siege-breaker, Ranoct Arrow-eater, Ranoct Dragon-slayer, was sent sprawling to the floor, unconscious.

  “Have any trouble?” Jonas asked as Dunewell entered their room at the Flagon Foam.

  Jonas was sitting on his bed and had just finished pulling off his boots. The smell of ale was heavy in the small room, but Jonas didn’t appear to be drunk. Dunewell noted the empty pitcher and mug sitting on the table next to Jonas’s bed.

  “Much less than I anticipated,” Dunewell said as he closed and locked the door behind him. “Ranoct is no fool and very dangerous.”

  Dunewell removed his own weapons belt and hung it over the bedpost. He took a seat and began to remove his own boots.

  “You’ve said,” Jonas’s words were clipped and a bit sharp. “Do you have his location or not?”

  “Sorry,” Dunewell said, getting one boot off and setting it on the floor. “I guess I’ve picked up some bad habits from my traveling companions. Ranoct believes he was in an encampment roughly fifty leagues northeast of here. That was two days ago.”

  Dunewell expected Jonas to jump up, pull his boots back on, and demand they leave at once. Jonas’s calm demeanor was surprising at first, and then gradually became unsettling.

  “So, a good night’s rest, a hearty breakfast, and then a long ride,” Jonas said. “We could be on him by this time tomorrow.”

  “You really expect to get a good night’s rest in this place?” Dunewell asked.

  It wasn’t the real question Dunewell wanted to ask but knew direct questions would only get him stonewalled.

  “I like the noise,” Jonas said, lying. “It helps me sleep. Besides, the Steward of House De’Char can’t be seen practicing the habits of a hermit in such a trade city as Split Town.”

  Dunewell managed to get his other boot off, but instead of reclining into his bed, he leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and looking directly at Jonas.

  “You’re not going to tell me why we’re staying here tonight, are you?” Dunewell asked.

  Jonas opened his mouth to reply but then closed it again.

  “No,” Jonas said simply after a moment’s reflection. “No, I’m not.”

  “Very well,” Dunewell said as he rolled over into his bed. “Let us see what rest may come.”

  “You’re going to let it go that easily?” Jonas asked, clearly surprised.

  “Yep,” Dunewell said as he closed his eyes and drew his arm over them.

  “Now I’m confused,” Jonas said.

  “Yep.”

  Dunewell walked through the dark wood alone… alone? No, not alone. There was a shadow lingering just at the edge of his vision. A shadow that burned behind his eyes like a fever and trespassed throughout his mind.

  “Belyska,” the shadow said. “That is good to know. Ah, and a child yet to be born. How nice. Oh, you’ve been naughty. You can’t go back to Moras now, can you. Mustn’t risk facing a loyal watchman or inquisitor with your name on his writ of binding. That’s just fine. Can’t leave Lady Belyska all alone in Ivantis, now can you. That would be the height of unsuitable behavior for a father-to-be.”

  Dunewell tried to reply, he tried to raise a question, but his mouth and body would not respond to his call. His parted lips would utter nothing more significant than a whisper.

  “Let us see what we can learn about these vampire attacks,” the shadow said in a coaxing tone. “You are excellent at taking notes, aren’t you?”

  Dunewell could feel the old case, Medaci’s case, being perused in his mind. He saw a significance attached to the BT noted on the slips…

  Then he was nowhere. Out of nowhere came the cold and an overwhelming sense of vertigo. He was in a black marble tower, his only company the biting cold and the smell of death. There was one window on the north wall, but he was afraid of it. He knew, he somehow knew, the window would only show him how high up he was, and that thought terrified him.

  He couldn’t leave the center of the great black tower. The entirety of the hateful structure balanced on a single stone, leagues below. A move, a breath, could begin the tilt of the horrible tower. It would fall, and he would die. But it would not fall quickly. It would fall for days. He would spend hours and days in terror as he plunged to the ground below in the titanic crash.

  He fought to control his shivers for each vibrated throughout the tower all the way down to the small stone on which the monolith delicately balanced. The tower trembled, and every day of his life shuddered in the bricks and mortar. A scream rose in his throat as the tower slowly began to tip.

  Light flooded him. Strength surged in his limbs. Faith bolstered his heart. The dark tower was melted away like wax before the flame of Whitburn’s holy blue light.

  Dunewell’s armor shone bright in the glow of that holy flame. The weight of his hammer in his right hand and the cleverly curved hilt of his rider’s pike in his left comforted him. Dunewell looked across the Silver Helm training yard, the yard where he had seen his first death, to see the shadow sitting atop a black-winged steed. The light from the blue holy flame forced detail into the shadowy form until Dunewell could clearly see Slythorne’s face. Dunewell had never seen Slythorne but knew without a doubt he was looking upon the master vampire.

  “Hurry on, Lord of Order,” Slythorne whispered. “You have women and children to protect.”

  Dunewell raised his hammer, began his charge, and his battle cry roared from his throat.

  Dunewell jerked awake in the dim light of the tavern room he shared with Jonas. Whitburn was with him in an instant, hardening his skin and clearing his vision. Four men, watchmen, stood swords and maces held ready.

  Dunewell rolled from his bed just ahead of a cutlass that slashed through his mattress. Hitting the ground, he worked to reverse his role as the head of a mace swung for him. The mace just clipped his shoulder, but the barbs tore through shirt and skin.

  Dunewell
placed his hands on the underside of the bed and shoved with divine strength. The bed flew up and crashed into the watchmen, knocking three of them against the far wall and the fourth into Jonas’s bed… Jonas’s empty bed.

  Dunewell leapt up and grabbed his hammer from where it rested against the wall nearby, and the weapon shone forth with an enchanted blue light. The rest of his weapons, which had been hanging on the bedpost, were now scattered about the room.

  He would have to work hard to keep from seriously injuring these men, who were only trying to do their duty. That would make keeping himself alive even more difficult.

  The door to his small room burst open, and two crossbow bolts sliced through the air. Dunewell’s speed was incredible, but not quite enough. One bolt scraped his thigh, drawing a thin line of blood, but the other struck the back of his left hand, punctured it, and rendered it useless to him.

  The crossbowmen both dropped their weapons and charged in drawing their cutlasses as they came. Dunewell, pushing the pain in his left hand aside, drove his hammer forward with his right hand, slapping one sword aside with the head and then twisting it quickly to push the other blade aside with the haft. He rolled the hammer around the blade and struck the wielder’s jaw with his pommel. The strike brought a hissing sound from the watchman’s jawline as the man was knocked back against the wall and then slumped to the ground, unconscious.

  Dunewell quick-stepped back and held his hammer at the ready. He brought his left hand to his mouth and bit the end of the bolt tearing it free. The bolt hissed, and pain roiled into a lightning blast that shot up his arm and into his brain. The first four watchmen were still trying to gain their feet, but the remaining one that had fired a crossbow came in on him quickly. He spit the bolt from his mouth and swung the hammer down to slap the blade that was gliding toward his heart.

  Instead of another quick-step back, which would have been the tactically sound option, Dunewell continued his forward momentum. He drove his forehead directly toward the charging watchman and felt the man’s nose crunch against his skull. Dunewell pulled his leg up quickly and kicked into the watchman’s gut, driving him out the door and over the railing of the balcony.

  Dunewell heard a few shouts from the tavern floor below and wondered for a moment why only six had come for him and how long it would be before reinforcements would arrive.

  Dunewell moved to the next two watchmen, both on their hands and knees, and struggling to rise. Dunewell punched down with his hammer, striking a hand that clutched a sword hilt and crushed the bones in that hand. He jerked his knee up hard into the face of the next man, hitting him with enough force to drive him over backward and back into the wall behind him. Four down, two to go.

  These two had regained their feet and were ready. As a cutlass thrust forward aimed at his chest, a mace swung from his lower left toward his ribs. Dunewell pushed his hammer forward, driving the cutlass blade high. He had to jerk his head to the side to keep from being stabbed in the face. He slapped down with his left hand at the mace, a reflexive move that drove the mace out to the side but sent fresh screams of pain from his wounded hand.

  The next several moments Dunewell worked feverishly to fend off the attacks of these two watchmen. Dunewell had known good watchmen, had known skilled watchmen, but these outclassed any he had ever met. They worked in tandem, one thrusting while the other swung, one parrying while the other feigned and slashed. His blessed speed and strength were the only reasons he had survived thus far.

  The task was made even more difficult because Dunewell forced himself to avoid those moves, those attacks, that could result in the serious injury or death of these two men.

  The point of the cutlass came in again, driving at Dunewell’s neck. The head of his hammer was out of line, so he shifted up with the haft of his weapon to push the blade high. As he did so, the head of the mace crashed against his ribs. He felt a few of them break as his breath was forced out of his lungs. In the midst of that pain, he felt the edge of the cutlass slice through his brow and skip off skull.

  Dunewell managed a quick-step back, but both watchmen closed as he moved. Blood began to run into his right eye, stealing half of his vision. The mace and cutlass came in again; again, he deflected some of the force of the attacks, but not all. Another slice to his shoulder, and another clout to his elbow. He saw his opening, several openings, in fact, to kill these men. He made his decision then. He would die before taking an innocent life.

  He fought, parried, ducked, and endured. Still, the watchmen pursued, not tiring, not slowing. The cutlass blade came in at his shoulder but rolled under his hammer’s parry and cut deep into his right forearm. As his hammer dropped from his hand, the mace head crashed into his right knee, pushing the kneecap off-center and collapsing the beleaguered warrior.

  Dunewell kneeled, his right leg laying off to the side in an ugly twist and blood flowing from more than a dozen serious wounds. He closed his eye, the other had already swollen shut, and began his prayer to Bolvii. As he did so, the mace and the cutlass were lifted high into the air. He would die knowing that he had remained true to his oath.

  The sound of gurgling drew his attention from his prayer. He rolled his remaining good eye up to see a crossbow bolt sticking through the eye of one watchman and a shortsword through the throat of the other. Their bodies dropped to the ground, lifeless. Jonas stood behind them.

  “No!” Dunewell screamed. “They were good men!”

  “They were thralls,” Jonas said in an icy and calm voice. “Their minds, their souls, were no longer their own. They belong to another. Did you not wonder why their weapons cut through your skin with such ease? These weapons have been cursed. Cursed by a master vampire.”

  “What?” Dunewell said as he rocked back onto his buttock. “What are you saying?”

  “Slythorne sent them for you,” Jonas said. “I had hoped he would come himself.”

  “These men died so you could set a trap?” Dunewell demanded.

  Jonas calmly walked around the room and pushed the blade of his shortsword through the eye of another watchman. Dunewell struggled to get up, but his leg would not serve him.

  “These men died because Slythorne dominated their minds and sent them to their doom,” Jonas replied coolly. “He intended yours. He somehow knew…”

  Jonas broke off and turned his attention from the next watchman that lay on the ground, unconscious, at his feet, to Dunewell, who sat helpless in a growing pool of his own blood.

  “He was in your mind, in your dreams, wasn’t he?” Jonas asked.

  “You can’t murder these men,” Dunewell said as tears and blood streamed down his face, coating his lips.

  “We must move quickly,” Jonas said, his tone now urgent.

  Jonas stepped to the next watchman and drove his shortsword through his eye as well, this time quickly and efficiently. Dunewell pulled his injured leg before him and forced the knee back into place. His scream caused another bout of commotion from downstairs. Jonas killed the last two before Dunewell was able to struggle to his feet.

  “This cannot…” Dunewell began.

  Then all was quiet. All was peaceful, and the pain settled into a cool pond that gently rippled.

  Jonas stood over Dunewell and opened his hand to reveal the lexxmar dagger he had retrieved from his desk. Jonas rubbed his knuckles then, wondering if he had broken one on Dunewell’s thick skull.

  Dunewell awoke to the smell of coffee, bacon, and eggs. He moved slowly, expecting an assault of pain at any moment. Yet, none came. He rose slowly and traced his fingers over the many wounds from the night before. All had healed. He then moved his attention to the man squatting next to a small campfire.

  “What did you learn?” Jonas asked without turning around.

  “What do you mean?” Dunewell asked as confusion and anger battled for the rudder of his emotions.

  “Slythorne was in your head,” Jonas said. “He wouldn’t get close enough to enthrall you like he d
id those watchmen. But he was close enough to get into your mind. That’s how he knew to send watchmen. When a mentalist gets into your head, it’s not a one-way flow of information. You can always glean something from them. What did you learn?”

  “But my injuries…” Dunewell began.

  “I thought you were a Silver Helm,” Jonas said in the harsh tone usually reserved for the sergeants of the Silver Helm academy. “Get your head together! I treated your wounds. One of the markets I trade in is enchanted herbs. Six dead watchmen, enthralled or not, tend to raise questions, so I paid a few people to handle a few things, and I got us out of town. We’re a little more than ten leagues from Split Town on the road to the northeast. Now, think, what did Slythorne reveal? There is always something.”

  Dunewell, trained well, instinctively began to comply with Jonas’s commanding voice. He began to, but then didn’t.

  “You laid a trap that cost six men their lives,” Dunewell said.

  Jonas sighed, and his every manner expressed impatience.

  “Yes,” Jonas said. “I used you as bait and hoped Slythorne would come for you himself. Unfortunately, as it turns out, he’s too much the coward for that. The trap failed, and six men died. Their deaths will mean nothing if you can’t let go your obsession with the ridiculous self-image of a pure Shyeld chaste and true and get to work stopping Slythorne.”

  “Life is more than results and outcomes,” Dunewell said. “We are no different than the evil we pursue if we can’t hold to our oaths and do what is right, what is just.”

  “If you really believe that you’re dumber than you look,” Jonas said. “Either way, I haven’t the time for it. So, are you going to let their deaths mean nothing, or are you going to tell me what you learned about Slythorne?”

  Dunewell was quiet for a long moment, deciding whether or not it would be a sin to beat Jonas within an inch of his life. Eventually, reason took over, and he elected to allow his inquisitor’s mind to work.

  “He said something about…” Dunewell started, and then the realization struck him.