Whetstones of the Will

by R J Hanson

  “Seen to,” Ivant responded with a wave of his hand.

  “But your fall,” Willock said, undeterred by Ivant’s reassurances. “Few saw it, but I was among them. I can’t believe that worked and that you survived it!”

  “My King,” General Willock continued. “You should know that the churches, all of them, withdrew some time ago.”

  Ivant looked at Willock, his expression making it clear that any conversation about a lost lance was over.

  “How far back did they withdraw?” Ivant asked in a dangerously quiet tone.

  “They didn’t… they teleported away, vanished, my King,” Willock said. “Lord High Paladin Maloch showed up with Master Templar Truthorne and met with the Supreme Pontiff, Lynneare. They mustered over five hundred men around a large black pearl, about the size of a horse’s head, and then Lynneare cast some spell. No spell of a cleric either. This was arcane magic. The pearl exploded, and they all just disappeared, teleported away.”

  “That’s a mighty spell indeed to move that many men,” Vech said. “And an expensive component to burn up just to cast it.”

  “They must be on their way to Nolcavanor,” Ivant said as his eyes stared off over the seas.

  Vech had often seen Ivant stare off into the distance like that when he was thinking. It was as if he could see with his eyes the thoughts, the logic, as it fell into place while he reasoned.

  “We are here with only a small contingent holding the capitol,” Ivant continued, slowly as the plans of their enemy became plain to him. “I think Lynneare means to move on the Keep of Nolcavanor itself. He’ll bring his mount as well. We’ll need to be ready for a battle with a dragon.”

  “Truthorne, seize Lord Ivant, for he is no longer a king of anything. The kingdom that was, is no more,” Supreme Pontiff Lynneare commanded.

  When the Master Templar hesitated, Lynneare raised a single eyebrow that transformed his whole face into a sneer. King Vech and General Willock, Julian’s bow hanging from his shoulder, stood to either side of Ivant, and both slid their feet to blade their stances to Lynneare and those sworn to him.

  They had caught up to Lynneare and his entourage exactly where they expected to find them. They were in the highest tower of the cathedral dedicated to Time in the capital city of Nolcavanor. It had been a bloody fight, and there was still so much left that must be done.

  “Your command would cause your Master Templar to violate an oath he made to me before Father Time, and in Time’s cathedral,” Ivant interjected. “In the once great temple of Ivory Rose, he vowed never to raise a hand to me or my kin.”

  “That is blasphemy!” Lynneare roared on the edge of losing control. “Blasphemy, and it will be added to your Scroll of Charge and Accusation! Your blood will be required to atone!”

  Ivant curled the edge of his mouth into a smile; a smile that confused all present except for King Vech. Vech knew that smile well.

  “You don’t get to decide what is or is not blasphemy,” Ivant said coolly. “You are to teach the word of Time, the way of Time, and heal and care for those in your charge. The power of command is not given to you in His laws, nor mine. The power to call for blood is not given to you in his word, nor by mine. I am the ruler and protector of our nation of Great Men. I am the one who will seek justice for Julian and my other slain scouts, dead at the hands of your murderers! I call for blood, and I now call for yours! You are not welcome in this house! Get ye hence!”

  Thunder seemed to come from the distance and from within each stone of the magnificent structure. Every eye, except those of Ivant which never left Lynneare, searched their surroundings for the source, the potential threat that sound might herald. The air charged with palpable primordial energy. All in the room felt the weight, the power of banishment from the rightful king.

  The Lord High Paladin, the elf known as Maloch, instinctively drew his magnificent paired shrou-shelds. Lynneare, his skin beginning to lose its color and black curly locks of hair of which he had been so proud fell in clumps from his head, screamed in defiance and wrapped a boney hand around a pillar of the Hourglass. Truthorne, acting out of habit to support and defend his Supreme Pontiff, reached to support Lynneare, lending him his strength and will.

  The banishment, the curse, traveled along the Hourglass as a visible blue/black light poured out of Lynneare’s eyes and mouth, swam down his shriveling arm, and rushed across the Hourglass. Once the whole of the curse washed within the Hourglass, it then reverberated and magnified as it burned back into the raw flesh of the Most High Cleric and Master Templar.

  Thousands of years and leagues from that terrible scene, young Roland jerked awake, his body sheathed in an icy sweat. He could still feel the effects of the Hourglass, a powerful totem he had only ever touched but the once, stirring in his soul, as he awakened from a dream he struggled to understand.

  Chapter I

  Dark Strangers

  Four dark figures crouched on a rocky ledge hundreds of feet up and watched the Blue Tower with their long-glasses. It was late fall of the year 1650 of the Age of Restored Great Men Kings. Although spring, violent and icy winds still cut at the four and caused their cloaks to whip frantically at their unsecured edges. Lord of Chaos Silas Morosse, Lady Dru, Warlord Verkial, and Field Marshal Hallgrim, promoted from Captain for his work in bringing Wodock to heal, each studied the stones and mortar of the Blue Tower. Each hoping some vulnerability would reveal itself.

  “An assassin would be a better choice, a Shadow Blade even better than that,” Verkial said as he took the long-glass from his right eye and collapsed it down to a six-inch tube and slid it into his leather pouch. “Yes, I have troops, but sending them against the sorcerers of the Blue Tower would be like shoving the hands of a child into a sausage grinder. I need an army to hold western Tarborat and Wodock. I don’t need anything in the Blue Tower.”

  “We’re not proposing a direct assault, nor are we suggesting a protracted battle,” Silas said as he put away his long-glass. “We should only need your men for transport. I believe we can move the item much like shipwrights move vessels over land. I think…”

  “It would fail,” came from a deep and rich voice behind the four conspirators.

  They all turned, Verkial hauling out a barbed Shrou-Hayn and Hallgrim slapping a second hand to the colossal battle hammer he carried. At the same time, Dru and Silas began to silently prepare spells. They all looked upon a tall figure concealed within the folds of a heavy cloak of black wool. The character extended one boney ring finger and pointed toward Hallgrim.

  Dru barked the final command word of her spell, but as she did so, her mouth was slammed shut by some outside force. Silas reached within himself to access the powers of Shezmu and found a stranger sitting on the throne of his mind-keep. Verkial took a single, faltering step, and then, when the dark figure stuck out his king finger and thumb, found himself bound by invisible chains of magical power. Hallgrim’s eyes rolled in his head, and he collapsed to the stone. Verkial, in spite of himself, worried for his Field Marshal until he saw the steady rise and fall of Hallgrim’s chest and heard him begin to snore.

  “As I was saying, it would fail,” the dark figure said again as he lowered his pale hands and clasped them before him within the folds of his black coverings. “You seek the Drakestone, and it cannot be found by going from room to room, looking in closets and pantries, and so forth. Furthermore, gaining entry into that citadel is possible by the skills and magics you possess or command, but it would be costly. Might I suggest an alternative?”

  The magical bonds and restraints of mental domination relaxed enough for Verkial to stretch his neck and Dru and Silas to organize and think coherently once again. Of course, this creature’s message, and Silas was sure he was a creature and no mere man, was emblazed in their minds. They wouldn’t be able to forget his words for days, if ever.

  Silas could smell the sea on the mysterious figure’s clothing; he and Shezmu could smell human blood on his breath. S
ilas wondered, deep within in his thoughts to avoid them being easily read as Dru tended to do, just how much power this person could command. He also wondered if such powers could be taught and learned.

  “I will assume by your silence you are willing to hear me out; I thank you for your courtesy,” the dark shape within the cloak whispered. “And, to answer your question Chaos Lord Silas… Dreg Zylche.”

  To Silas’s complete shock, and horror, Shezmu’s magical blade fashioned of an ice drake’s claw appeared in the thin and pale right hand of their visitor.

  “You see?” the stranger asked. “If I wanted you dead, you would be dead. I understand that is difficult for any of you to accept, for none of you would have gotten this far on your various journeys had you been willing to accept such concepts with such little evidence. Therefore, let me say this…”

  He gestured with his hand and dismissed the wicked blade back to the ethereal plane from wince it came and continued. Silas conducted a quick mental inventory to find the blade returned to his possession. Silas decided it best he keep his teeth together, as his brother Dunewell used to say, and hear what this man/beast had to say. Also, he didn’t want his words to give away even more than his plainly read thoughts already had.

  “I assure you, I mean you no harm and am interested in your success,” the dark figure said as he turned to look past the four and toward the Blue Tower. “None of you would take that at face value, nor should you. Thus I offer this explanation; there is a wizard in the Blue Tower; perhaps you’re familiar with him. His name is Eljen Unglau. I have decided it is time for him to pay for his offenses toward me and mine. I have decided he will pay with his blood and soul. Furthermore, there is another coming. He is rising against you as we speak, although some of you do not know of him yet. Some of you do.”

  It was at this point that the mysterious creature’s eyes, only his eyes, became visible and gleamed with a bloodred glow within the deep cave that was his hood. They locked with Dru’s exotic eyes and lingered for several heartbeats.

  “The Drakestone will do you little good against him when he comes, but there is another whom he fears, and rightly so.”

  “Another?” the words popped from Dru’s delicate, if vicious, lips before she could catch them. “Who? Please, who?”

  Her naked desperation shocked Silas and, he had to admit, frightened him a bit. Anyone the powerful and skilled Lady Dru feared was someone to walk a wide path around.

  “In time,” the dark figure said with a wave of his hand. “In time. Warlord Verkial does not trust me. I don’t believe he will come to trust me either, but I do believe he will come to believe what I have to say and that I mean him no harm.”

  “You’ve talked all around it, and yet you’ve actually said nothing,” Verkial spat. “Now, get to the point or get out of my business.”

  “Just so. I know where the Drakestone is kept, and I know how to get to it. It is held in a dimensional rift on the three hundred and forty-second floor of the Blue Tower. Now, before you begin your detractions, there are more than one thousand levels of that venerable tower; however, magic is the only way to reach most of them.”

  As the stranger spoke, Silas noted Dru nodding her head in affirmation. “There are vast levels of the tower that are only accessible by different magical means. That much is true,” she said.

  “I am aware your alliance is in its infancy,” the dark figure continued. “What I need from you is for you to form a lasting bond. Very soon a great power, a great evil, will be released on the world, and I will need your help to stop it.”

  “You want us to believe that you seek to prevent the release of great evil?” Verkial asked, his incredulity plain.

  “Is it so hard to believe that, if for no other reason, I wouldn’t desire any competition?” the creature retorted.

  Verkial shrugged at that and nodded.

  “Of you three, only Lord Verkial could enter the room where the Drakestone is held, for it is heavily warded against evil,” the stranger continued. “Of you three, only Lady Dru of the Disputed Isles could hope to shield her mind against the rebuking waves of mentalist energy that assail all who enter the secret chamber. None of you three know how to transport the Drakestone once access is made. I can make arrangements for all those requirements to fall into place.”

  “So, we’re to sit here while you go get this Drakestone, a rock I’m not even sure I want, and trust that you’ll bring it to us once you have it?” Verkial asked.

  “Ah, this complicates things a bit,” the dark stranger said as he waved one boney finger back and forth at Dru and Silas. “You didn’t tell him about Isd’Kislota, did you?”

  Verkial shot a glare at Dru and Silas. A glare Dru did not bother to return and that Silas answered with only a shrug and a smile.

  “He’s within the mountains of Wodock,” Silas did finally say. “If he is to be owned, he belongs to me, per our arrangement.”

  Lady Dru tilted her head and raised a single eyebrow.

  “Of course, when I say he belongs to me, I mean in such a way as I, and all that I own or control, is the Lady Dru’s to do with as she pleases.”

  “Very well,” Verkial said, surprising them all with how well he took such news. “What is an Isd’Kislota, anyway?”

  “He is an ancient and powerful acid drake,” the tall, dark figure replied. “He fought against the gods during the Battles of Rending.”

  That information raised Verkial’s eyebrow but garnered no further response.

  “Soon, you will be sorely pressed by Ingshburn’s forces,” the stranger continued. “You will need Isd’Kislota and the support he can offer. Thus, whether you wish to admit it or not, you, Lord Verkial, will need the assistance of Lady Dru. A dangerous villain is pursuing Lady Dru. She will need your help very soon. Other things are in motion that I will not tell you about because you wouldn’t be able to understand them.”

  “Try us,” Silas said, his devil-may-care smile twitching at the edge of his mouth.

  “Very well, I’ll re-phrase,” the stranger said, his voice growing above a whisper and seeming to resonate in their bones. “I am Lynneare, Warlock of the Marshes. I will tell you what you need to know, when you need to know it. You will do something for me, and you will allow me to retrieve the Drakestone for you. I am the Original Betrayer, I am OathBreaker, and I am not asking for your help; I’m demanding your service.”

  As Lynneare spoke, his hood, as of its own accord, flew back from his shaved head to reveal his pale visage. His words were heavy with magical power, and his eyes burned with an intensity that caused them all to inadvertently gulp air down their suddenly dry throats.

  All eyes went wide at that declaration. This dark figure, Lynneare, had shown his absolute power over Silas and what he thought were considerable defenses. He had shown his strength in binding both Verkial and Hallgrim, in spite of the wards placed on them by Verkial’s witch, with ease and deft speed. He had stilled Lady Dru’s tongue, and her mind for that matter, against any chance of casting a spell or uttering an incantation. His power had been demonstrated, but none had guessed the person in black robes before them could be the legendary Lynneare.

  “I will assume your silence is indicative of your appreciation of the grave nature of your circumstances,” Lynneare said pleasantly. “That is good and will save you grief and us time. I will retrieve your Drakestone for you and properly arm you against the Blue Tower. In fact, I will assist you when the time comes to assault it. You, young Lord of Chaos, will speak with Lady Evalynne of Moras. An assassin is coming to Moras. He will attempt to bribe the Lady for some considerations while operating in her city. She needs to understand it is imperative that she agree to whatever conditions he sets, but then communicates those conditions to you immediately. Furthermore, if he should ask her for any information, she is to relay that to you as well. Make sure she understands that when you say imperative, it means that you will tear down her house and her soul, stone and muscle,
iron and bone, piece by piece over decades if you will is not heeded. You will not use my name, none of you will, nor will you mention to any that are not here any word of our arrangement.”

  Silas nodded slowly; his devilish smile gone like the snows of winters past.

  “Lady Dru, you think you know the nature of the one that comes for you,” Lynneare said as his eyes, those deep-set and ominous eyes, shifted from holding Silas to rest on her. “I tell you now that you do not. The drow queen, Jandanero, is in possession of a Dark Guardian.”

  Silas had to admit to himself that he enjoyed seeing Verkial’s reaction to that announcement. Verkial was not one to ever look surprised, much less fearful, but both emotions flashed across his face at the news that the drow controlled a Dark Guardian. Silas was also a bit surprised to see it was news to Lady Dru. He caught the tell-tale sign of her lovely eyes widening a bit at the mention of the deadly creation. Silas hadn’t actually known, not for certain, but he had suspicions since noticing the unusual nature of one of her constructs that carried her throne. Suspicions that were now confirmed.

  “You need to convince her somehow to allow you to borrow the being for a short time,” Lynneare continued. “I would imagine she will not agree to such an arrangement without significant recompense. You are a capable woman. I leave that to you to negotiate. I will meet you at Isd’Kislota’s cave with the Drakestone when you have possession of the Dark Guardian. I will require it for a period of no more than a single month.”

  Lady Dru, feeling no confidence whatsoever, nodded without hesitation, or the appearance of any doubt.