Whetstones of the Will

by R J Hanson

  “I was invited by another,” Maloch said. “Neither Sir Roland nor Lord Velryk knew I would be attending. When I arrived in the company of another guest, I approached Sir Roland and told him I sought redemption. I offered him my friendship, and he accepted. It is interesting that you, both of you, wear a totem of the white rose. Sir Roland was knighted for rescuing Shrou-sheld Blancet and gifting it to Prince Ralston. He also gifted him the armor of Lord Mandergane. I’m sure you both know the significance of Lord Mandergane’s colors, the crest of House Ozur, and the white rose. I’m surprised neither of you has a feather of a red raven to accompany such a totem.”

  “What guest?” Jonas and Dunewell asked in unison.

  Maloch had attempted to move past this part of the conversation and onto something he hoped Jonas and Dunewell might find intriguing. Maloch knew a good deal about both of them but did not appreciate their skills as trained interrogators.

  “Let us put the answer to that question aside for another time,” Maloch said with a plea in his eyes. “Please.”

  Dunewell looked to Jonas, who only shrugged. It seemed that Dunewell was the only one genuinely interested in the answer to that question, for Jonas had written off anything Maloch had to say as just another lie from a drow.

  “There is a forge in the Black Lance caverns of Nolcavanor,” Maloch said, moving once again to another subject. “I assume you would wish some time to forge a new WarriorBlade?”

  “You’re a Lanceilier?” Dunewell asked of Jonas.

  Dunewell was well aware of the special rank of Silver Helms. They were very rare, but he had seen one once in Tarborat. They were Silver Helms chosen for special training in the magics of mentalism, imbuing them with spells and enchantments useful to a professional soldier and commander.

  Among those special skills and spells was the ability to forge a Shyeld-Hayn. A special weapon that would only heed the call of its maker, and that was inscribed with potent magical runes. The lanceilier had to be tied to the forging of the blade, in some way binding his blood or his flesh to the weapon. Had the silver longsword broken by Jonas in the fight against the skinshifter been a shyeld-hayn? Could that have been why he was so deeply wounded?

  “What I am is tired of this drow running his mouth about matters that are not his business out in the open,” Jonas said with a noticeable edge to his voice.

  Perhaps nettling him with the Lord Velryk talk wasn’t such a good idea, after all, Dunewell thought.

  Perhaps not, Whitburn replied.

  “We are unwarded and unprotected,” Jonas continued. “Sorcerers or assassins could be scrying our campsite this very moment, listening in on every word you utter, and you carry on as though we were as safe as in mother’s womb.”

  “You wear your totems of the white rose, and Daeriv wouldn’t know to search for us, any of us anyway,” Maloch said, hoping to set Jonas’s mind at ease.

  “So, it’s Daeriv, that wizard in Lawrec; you’re worried about?” Jonas said, satisfied that his trap had worked so well.

  Dunewell, now seeing precisely what Jonas had done, had to appreciate the guile of the man.

  “Yes,” Maloch said with a resigned sigh. “Yes, and no. He is on a path, a dangerous path, that will threaten many.”

  “That’s the necromancer Sir Brutis was traveling to Lawrec to put down,” Dunewell put in. “He was going to advise Prince Ralston and aid General Maddit.”

  “Brutis is a good man,” Jonas said, a little more at ease now that he had more information with which to work. “Prince Ralston is as well, for all that’s worth.”

  “Sir Roland, your nephew, also stands with them,” Maloch said. “Shall I get back to the forge?”

  “Please,” Jonas said. “It would seem I will be needing a new shyeld-hayn sooner than I had thought.”

  Two days of travel brought them to a clearing where several rotten giant heads were mounted on pikes in a circle around an old campfire. Jonas guessed the camp, and the heads, to be at least a year old, and perhaps two or even three.

  Three days after that, they arrived at the source of the mighty Whynne River. The sound of the waterfall had been in their ears since the day before their arrival. Dunewell remembered the river well, for it had saved him and almost killed him.

  “There’s a stair that begins behind that grove of trees,” Maloch said, pointing across the great waterfall and wild river to its opposite bank. “Any thoughts on how we should get across?”

  Maloch had to yell, for the roar of the waterfall was so loud regular conversation was impossible. The sound of crashing water even penetrated their bones, causing their frames to vibrate with the force of it.

  Dunewell yelled for Maloch to repeat himself. He had followed Maloch’s finger to the grove across the river but had heard none of what he’d said about it. Maloch began again but stopped at Jonas’s upraised hand.

  Jonas took a moment to focus his thoughts and called forth a spell he’d not used in decades. In moments the thoughts of the three were linked together in an ebb and flow of telepathic communication.

  Jonas had been considering this possibility since agreeing to travel to Nolcavanor. The advantages offered by the telepathic link were apparent on the battlefield and could easily be seen by any observing the perfectly coordinated movements of small squads led by lanceiliers. However, given they would be facing drow in their own territory, the black dark of under-mountain, Jonas decided the ability to communicate without having to speak or even whisper outweighed the drawbacks of allowing Maloch limited access to his thoughts. It also offered each of the three a bit more protection against magics that would seek to read their minds or influence their actions.

  Ah, that is much better, Maloch thought.

  Yes, much, came from Dunewell.

  This will prove to be quite interesting, Whitburn interjected, shocking both Maloch and Jonas.

  You hear the voice of that… of your champion? Jonas asked.

  Of course, Dunewell replied. How did you think it worked?

  I don’t know that I had thought about how it would work, Jonas replied, unable to mask his regret at casting the spell. He also thought he recognized something about Whitburn, but he could put his finger on. Furthermore, he certainly didn’t want to think on it too long while his mind was connected to the other two… the other three actually.

  I was saying there’s a stair beyond that grove of trees on the other side of the river, Maloch thought. It leads up to a cavern entrance behind the waterfall. It’s over twenty years since anyone has been in that cavern or that part of the tunnel complex. There’s a secret path that will lead us from there to my private forge. I don’t know how much of the materials there would have been looted, but there should be something there worthy of a Shyeld-Hayn.

  Even if there’s good steel there, it would take days, several days, for me to forge a proper Shyeld-Hayn, Jonas thought.

  Maloch smiled.

  Oh, that’s a great idea, and truly amazing, Dunewell thought. A spell that somehow halts time around us so, even if it’s several days within the spell, only a few hours pass in the rest of the world.

  I didn’t realize that was ‘out loud,’ Maloch replied. This will take some getting used to.

  You two are getting too far ahead, Jonas began.

  The stair is on the other side of the river, Whitburn finished for him.

  How much rope do we have? Dunewell asked.

  We only have about forty feet in our kit, Jonas replied.

  I have almost eighty feet, Maloch thought.

  Do something with the horse and then tie a harness for yourselves, Dunewell thought to them without taking his eyes from the sheer mountainside. Secure anything we won’t need here as well, so we are carrying only what we need.

  Jonas and Maloch moved as one, Jonas leading the horse into the forest in search of an area where he might be safely hobbled and Maloch checking large stones nearby for clefts that might hide their packs. Of course, they already knew
what Dunewell was thinking.

  Dunewell walked to the mighty river that roared out of its womb nearby. The great and powerful Whynne that had saved him, and nearly killed him. Dunewell laid flat on his stomach, plunged his head into the freezing waters, and drank deeply from the replenishing torrent. He could feel Whitburn swelling within him as his strength was renewed, and his muscles, physical and spiritual, surged with power.

  Dunewell tied the end of Maloch’s rope around his own shoulders and chest and began his ascent up the sheer rock face, driving his fingers into the stone when no ledge or other purchase could be found. Maloch watched Dunewell’s climb in amazement. Maloch had known of the Lords of Order, and had known those of the Old Code reputed to be bound with champions, but he’d never witnessed the power of one before. Now he stood in awe.

  Jonas, who’d witnessed Dunewell’s feats firsthand, still stood next to Maloch and marveled at Dunewell’s climb. Jonas knew, just knew, if he could only get Slythorne trapped in a room with him and Dunewell, he would have him. His revenge would then be complete.

  As Dunewell passed seventy feet from the beginning of his climb, he looked back to see Maloch and Jonas secured in their harnesses and those tied to the other end of the line. Dunewell searched for and found a ledge that would hold both Jonas and Maloch a little more than twelve feet to his right. Dunewell, in one great swing, hurled his weight up from his handholds to land on that ledge. Once in place, he began hauling his two companions up the side of the mountain hand over hand almost as fast as either would have been able to rappel down the same cliff.

  In just a few heartbeats, Dunewell had pulled Jonas and Maloch up to the ledge where they both grabbed hold as soon as they were within reach. Just as Maloch and Jonas were getting their elbows onto the ledge, Dunewell leapt back toward the waterfall and traveled thirty feet with ease before catching an outcropping of stone. Dunewell swung back and forth on the small outcropping two times and then launched himself out of sight from his two companions underneath the blanketing mist of the waterfall.

  Jonas and Maloch had heard, or rather saw, Dunewell’s thoughts clearly. The river was wide, far too wide to cross, at the waterfall’s terminus but narrowed dramatically the farther up one traveled. Here, only about one hundred feet off the ground, the distance across the waterfall was less than eighty feet. It just required that someone make the climb in the dark roaring world that existed between the falling water and the slick black stone of the mountain behind it.

  There was a heartbeat of time when the sun disappeared from view, and Dunewell’s whole universe became a thundering blackness of icy stone. Then Dunewell saw through Whitburn’s eyes, and the shadow of his surroundings evaporated to reveal his environment in remarkable detail. The telepathic connection between the four was so strong that Maloch and Jonas saw it too.

  Dunewell had no trouble hurling himself from one handhold to another as he rocketed across the mountain face. In only a few brief moments, he was across the waterfall and standing on the stair Maloch had described. Dunewell wrapped his end of the rope around his forearm twice and then took hold with both hands. Just as his grip tightened, Maloch and Jonas leapt for the waterfall.

  The weight of the two warriors, combined with the force of the waterfall occasionally striking them, was considerable. No man, nor any group of three men, could have remained fast against that pull. Yet, Dunewell was more than man. He hauled on the line as Jonas and Maloch swung clear of the water and past the stair, halting the momentum of their pendulum swing and bringing them back to the hidden path.

  Dunewell paused for a few moments then, not because he needed to catch his breath but because it looked to him as though Jonas and Maloch did. He gave them a slow count of ten and then began hauling them up the stair to the landing where he now stood. Then, without a word for none was needed among them, Dunewell started up the stair at a rapid pace while Maloch and Jonas worked their slow way up behind him.

  As Dunewell reached the end of the length of rope between him and his two companions, he would stop on a landing and haul them up to catch up to him. Then he would continue his quick ascent. Dunewell continued this routine until they were all standing on the top landing where King Lucas of the House of Thorvol had lost the first of his men to Nolcavanor two decades prior. A place where a man once called Kelmut the Fierce had killed the two Slandik standing with him and disappeared into the dark places of the mountain.

  Chapter III

  Dark Deals

  “Will we discuss Slythorne now?” Silas asked from deep within his heavy winter cloak and blankets.

  Dru’s only response was to turn her head only slightly, just enough to pin him with one slitted eye. She sat on a prominent outcropping of rock overlooking the river Olithyn and the huddled city of stone and liars known to the world as Moras. His dark silk gown flapped against her toned legs and hips, driven violently by a harsh winter’s wind. The chill did not bother Lady Dru, however, and she let the wind have its way with her dress and lush black hair.

  Her eyes scanned the mountainside and plains below them for any sign of Slythorne or his scouts or assassins. Of course, none that Slythorne would employ would be so unprofessional as to be spotted from such a vantage point, but she sat sentry just the same.

  Silas, not immune to the ravages of the environment as his mistress was, was wrapped in his winter cloak and few extra blankets. A fire would have been out of the question, even if they weren’t watching their back trail for the infamous Slythorne. However, it was not the first discomfort Silas had weathered, nor would it be his last. He accepted the chill stoically and allowed himself to be glad he would be returning to Moras.

  Dru had prepared a letter for him, or rather for Cambrose of House Wellborne, to stay at House Morosse. The letter also offered access to all the House and grounds had to offer during his stay. For Cambrose was in Moras to negotiate a trade deal with House Morosse and would need to travel freely from the manor to the mines. Furthermore, this trade deal would involve Lady Evalynne in so much as she would handle some of the shipping issues for the two Houses. The cover was solid enough to keep from arousing any suspicion from the watchmen or inquisitors. Not that they couldn’t have been easily bought for the most part, but Silas had always felt bribery the tool of the unskilled.

  “If we are not going to discuss him, then might I enumerate my concerns for your safety?” Silas continued when he saw that he would receive no verbal response from his Lady.

  “We have discussed your concerns.”

  “If it please, my Lady, we have not. I have told you about them, yet you seem unmoved by them.”

  “Then perhaps you should stop trying to move me.”

  “My Lady, your wellbeing is tied directly to my own,” Silas reminded.

  “Your concern for my safety is born solely of your own need to protect your own neck?” Dru said with a scowl.

  Silas averted his eyes, opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and closed his mouth again. Dru regretted the words the moment she spoke them. She knew, absolutely knew, that Silas loved her. She also knew that she loved him. Nothing romantic had passed between them, but they shared a love that only those cast out by all others could share. A love that recognized the only people they had in this world were each other. Yet, it was not in her nature to apologize, nor would it be in Silas’s to expect one.

  “I care for you, my Lady,” Silas finally managed. “I care for you and wish to know you, to truly know you. I understand how hard that must be to believe, but I understand your inner loneliness. I foster my own variety of that loneliness. Forgive me if I go too far, if I offend.”

  “You do not offend,” Dru whispered in a much softer tone, but she could not bring herself, couldn’t allow herself, to turn and look at him. “Put your mind to the task before you. You have a difficult negotiation to navigate. You are adept, but still a novice at a game that Lady Evalynne mastered before you were born. On the other front, you must convin
ce Rogash of our plan. I know you two seem fond of each other, but there is still a fair chance that he may decide to eat you.”

  “I wouldn’t say we were fond of each other, not exactly,” Silas replied, working to keep his teeth from chattering as he spoke. “I think it is just that we understand each other on some level, which is a rare thing, for there are not many like us.”

  “I’m sure the priests and clerics are glad of that,” Dru said, managing to interject a bit of humor into this dour conversation. “It has been long enough. If anyone had tracked us from the last point of teleport, we would have seen them by now. Get yourself to Rogash’s clan, and I’ll do whatever I must with the drow.”

  “Do you think you will be able to convince Queen Jandanero to loan her Dark Guardian?” Silas asked. “I suspect she will be quite angry that anyone even knows of its existence, much more so that they should want access to it.”

  “The Queen is not unreasonable,” Dru said, still scanning their back trail. “I just have to find a way for the proposal to benefit her position.”

  Dru rose, made one more scan of the entire horizon, and began down the broken trail to the drow caverns. Silas stood up behind her and bundled his pack and blankets into one large mass that he tucked under his arm. Then, after she was several steps away, he turned to watch her leave. He stood for several long moments watching her, watching after her, before her voice reached into his mind.

  You have much to do, Lady Dru’s voice resonated in his head. Be about it.

  Silas smiled and started down his own rocky and broken trail toward a different cavern. Not quite four leagues away was the entrance that led to the caves of clan Jett Hammer and the home of Rogash the Warlord. Rogash, commander of ogres and giants, wielder of Time’s End, a mighty battle hammer, and hopeful progenitor of a race of half-dwarf and half-ogre peoples, was also a friend to a certain Lord of Chaos.