by R J Hanson
In using Whitburn’s divine sight, Dunewell had noticed a faint glow about the white rose that he wore. He noted the same aura around the totem Jonas wore. It didn’t give off any light that the normal eye could perceive but a soft, magical hue. He still did not understand what had transpired that moonlit night when he and Jonas had witnessed the struggle between the red raven, the great snake, and the wolf pup amidst the white rose bush. He had not taken the time to consult a shaman or a witch hunter, but he had no doubt the event was somehow significant.
Dunewell was no novice to the use of stealth and had, in fact, led several successful scouting missions in Tarborat. Maloch also proved to be remarkably quiet when he wished to be, passing through the darkness light a black feather through a moonless night. Yet, neither of them held a candle to Jonas’s capabilities. Had it not been for abilities borrowed from Whitburn, Dunewell would have lost Jonas completely. Dunewell considered the decades Jonas had spent hunting the greatest assassins ever to walk the low streets are dark alleys of Stratvs. He supposed that when you made that your business, you either learned to be quiet, or you weren’t around long enough to learn much else.
After almost an hour of negotiating tight turns, blind tunnels, deadfalls, windlass traps, and false floors, the three arrived at a wall of masonry that appeared to be a partially buried segment of wall from the Nolcavanor that was. Maloch looked it over carefully and finally found the triggering device for which he’d been searching. Dunewell heard a series of light clicks behind the wall, and a portion of it swung away silently to reveal a hidden passage.
Maloch paused at the entrance and noted a single strand of long white hair that had been disturbed by their passing. He also pointed to another tripwire and pressure plate just within the portal.
This is good, Maloch thought to the others while holding up the single strand of hair. None have passed this way since I last secured it.
Personal escape route? Dunewell asked.
No drow is comfortable with three exits when he may have four, Whitburn and Jonas thought in unison to the group.
This caused Maloch and Dunewell to turn as one to stare at Jonas, for Dunewell couldn’t very well stare at Whitburn.
It’s a common saying, Jonas said.
Whitburn was peculiarly quiet.
Among who? Dunewell asked.
Seeing that they weren’t going to get an answer to Dunewell’s last question, Dunewell and Maloch turned back toward the hidden pathway.
To answer your first question, my people knew my chambers, and many of my better thieves and rogues thought they knew my other routes as well, Maloch thought. However, when one is the leader of a drow coven, one can never be too careful about listening in on the barracks or at the wine cask about budding coup attempts. Thus, this passage.
The stalked through the tunnel for less than one hundred yards, not covering more than perhaps a third of that as the raven flew south to north. The final turn brought them to three concealed doorways.
Two are decoys and are heavily trapped in case someone had discovered this tunnel and sought to murder me in my sleep, Maloch thought to the group. The one on the far left is the true pathway into my private chambers. Chambers which are very likely to be inhabited.
And your plan is to kill whoever is in charge of your coven and, in doing so, create instability? Jonas asked.
Yes, Maloch replied.
Wait here, Jonas said. Don’t make a move without me.
Jonas’s tone, and mental communication even more than verbal could carry a definite tone, was one of command and absolutes. Dunewell and Maloch, both soldiers in their hearts, knew an order when they heard one. They waited for several minutes, monitoring Jonas’s travels through the tunnels via the telepathic link they all shared. Something changed then, and Jonas was there but no longer there. Dunewell started at that, worrying that something might have happened to him, but Whitburn held him in place.
Do not fear, Whitburn imparted to Dunewell. He has moved into a silent place, but he is not injured in any way.
Maloch picked up on the thoughts from Whitburn and nodded, still not comfortable with the idea of Jonas alone in the depths of Nolcavanor. Dunewell had never liked the underground places of Stratvs. The idea of millions of tons of stone hanging above him and waiting to crush him, never to be heard from again, was not an idea that comforted Dunewell. It surprised Dunewell to learn that Maloch, after so many centuries underground, actually found the same sensation comforting. The open places of the surface world, particularly the plains and flatlands, troubled Maloch. He had the feeling that Roarke’s anvil, Stratvs, might just let go of his soul, and he would drift up from the world and into the darkness beyond the clouds, alone in the vastness of that empty black place.
Then Jonas’s thoughts, but no his presence, returned to their minds.
I’m coming up the tunnel, Jonas imparted to them.
Gradually Jonas’s presence also returned in their unusual mind/hive. Moments later, he came back into actual view carrying a drow dagger marked with the broken hourglass on its hilt. It did not escape Jonas nor Dunewell that Muersorem’s symbol, the UnMaker’s mark, was a broken sword. Yet, in the forming of this coven, Maloch had chosen to instead defile the Hourglass symbol of Father Time to mark his soldiers, weapons, and property. Maloch, sharing in their thoughts, hung his head in shame.
Stand aside, Jonas thought to them. I’m going to use this dagger to kill your friend in there. Then we’ll let the madness of drow versus drow play itself out for a bit. Do you have any good trackers? I mean really good?
There are several in the ranks of this coven, Maloch replied.
Good, Jonas replied as he palmed the dagger and quietly padded toward the door on the left.
You’re not going to murder the person in the next room without call or challenge, are you? Dunewell asked.
But of course, he already knew the answer to that question. It was in Jonas’s mind as plainly as if it were in Dunewell’s own. Jonas paused, both he and Dunewell wondered for a moment if they were going to have this argument about the virtues of murder, and then Jonas continued toward the door. Maloch, due to his mental tie to the other two, absorbed every argument these two men and brothers-in-arms had ever had about the cause of chivalry versus the pragmatism of what must be done to save lives. It was an argument Maloch knew well, for he had often faced the same internal struggle.
Jonas crept into the master room of the underground chamber on feet quieter than any cat’s. The room was dimly lit by a single candle whose light only came to the main chamber after reflecting from the polished stone wall within. The paltry light would not have been enough for anyone to see by properly; however, these three were not just anyone.
Across from the portal, they crossed was a bed large enough for an ogre and plush enough to satisfy even the most foppish of royalty. Amid the silks and feather stuffed pillows of the bed lay their target, a large and well-muscled drow. Though almost all drow took great pride in their long, flowing white hair, this one wore his hair cut very short in the style of the Silver Helms. He slept soundly while the two scanning the room could read the road map of pain and battles passed in the scars on the drow soldier’s arms and upper back.
Next to the bed on the right was an armor tree that held a beautiful set of black steel plate. A mercshyeld tipped spear, and short sword hung in a weapons belt on the same tree. Farther to the right was a washbasin, mirror, and the door to the rest of the living quarters.
The coppery smell of blood was thick in the air and mixed with the odor of urine. Those scents stood in dramatic contrast to the luxurious décor before them.
To the left of the bed was a passage that led around to an alcove. That alcove served as a closet from wince the candlelight trickled. Across from that passage was a whipping pole. Dunewell looked past Jonas to see two young human girls, perhaps fifteen, certainly no more than twenty years old, chained together on that pole. Blood had scabbed at their noses a
nd busted lips. Their clothing, little that there was, was soaked in urine. Their arms were pulled above them while their heads drooped in the sleep of exhaustion.
That was when Maloch discovered that emotions, as well as thoughts, could be communicated through their telepathic link. Dunewell’s reaction to seeing the captives was so loud, so profound, in Maloch and Jonas’s head that both jerked and feared the entire complex had heard them. Of course, outwardly, Dunewell didn’t so much as twitch an eyelash.
There is a pattern on the carpet to the right side of the bed, Maloch communicated to Jonas and Dunewell. It looks like a flash of black lightning. Follow it carefully for the floor is heavily alarmed and trapped.
Dunewell, his emotions pulling him one direction and his morals another, watched as Jonas crept over the carpeted floor to the sleeping drow. Jonas eased each foot down in slow succession, testing the surface for the slightest resistance of a tripwire or pressure plate. As he moved to within a single stride of the bed, Jonas flipped the dagger around in his hand so that it was now poised for a thrust. However, Jonas discovered that the bed was too large for him to reach the sleeping drow from its edge, meaning he would have to climb onto the bed as well. Jonas knew that move would almost certainly alert the drow soldier turned commander. So, with another quick flip of the dagger, Jonas reversed his grip again and hurled the blade with a deft and practiced jerk of his arm and snap of his wrist.
The point of the blade sunk deep into the soft flesh between the top of the drow’s spine and small opening at the base of his skull. The drow spasmed only once and then fell still, forever. Jonas climbed onto the bed then, removed the dagger, and twisted it violently against bone as he did so. This deed caused a small piece of the blade to break free of the dagger and lodge into one of the drow’s vertebrae.
Dunewell and Maloch went to the two young girls who, now awakened, sat with their eyes wide and vacant. Jonas moved to the chamber door and ensured the inner bolt was secured.
“You’re safe now,” Dunewell said to the two girls. “We are here to rescue you from them.”
Both girls stared blankly at Dunewell, responding by only shifting their eyes to Maloch and then turning them back on Dunewell.
They’ve seen too much violence, Dunewell thought his two companions. I’ve seen it before. We need to get them out of here and to safety.
Maloch moved off toward the closet and returned a few moments later with silk shirts and heavy wool cloaks for them. When they saw the girls would not be responding, Dunewell and Maloch moved to remove their stained and soiled clothing and replace it with what Maloch had brought from the closet. However, when Maloch moved to help them, one of the girls twitched violently and let out a small gasp. Maloch nodded to Dunewell and stepped to the door where Jonas stood.
Dunewell helped the two girls out of their clothing and into the silk shirts. Although it was warm in the chambers of the master, both girls drew the cloaks around them tightly and shivered beneath them.
Leave me their soiled clothing, show me to that forge, and then cast your spell, Jonas thought to Dunewell and Maloch. You two will need to get them back to Ranoct.
Ranoct? Maloch and Dunewell responded in unison.
Yes, Jonas replied. He’ll have no choice but to get them to safety, which means he’ll either have to divide his force or divert his route altogether. Either of those possibilities is good for us. You’ll need be crafty about it, though. I’d leave those two in an open glad and, when Ranoct and his men approach, sneak around them and be prepared to steal… commandeer three horses. At least three horses.
Dunewell, you get them back to the waterfall, Jonas commanded.
Dunewell replied with a quick nod.
Maloch, while he’s doing that, you show me to this forge of yours.
You’ll be in here alone, out of your element, and against a coven of drow, Maloch thought to Jonas.
You have no idea what my element is, Jonas replied. I’ve handled worse.
I get the dagger, but why the soiled clothing? Dunewell asked.
Was there something in my tone that invited questions? Jonas asked, although it was clear he wasn’t interested in any answer.
Can you bring them into our mind-link? Dunewell asked as he nodded toward the two young girls. We could reassure them…
NO! came from Jonas’s mind with the force of a fist to the nose. Now move.
Dunewell put an arm around each girl and stood them up with him as he rose. He moved silently to the hidden doorway and disappeared into the black throat of the tunnel. Jonas moved over and took up the soiled clothing left behind by the captives and then nodded to Maloch.
Now, show me that forge.
Dunewell worried about the traps and alarms he would encounter on his way back to the large cavern behind the waterfall. He worried that the two young girls would wander about, fidget, or stumble along. He was correct in assuming their absence of agility; however, they did not move without his say-so. Each time he approached a trap or trigger and whispered for them to stop, they did so without hesitation.
Twice he heard drow patrols approaching them from an adjacent corridor. The taller of the two girls, the one with red hair, stayed perfectly quiet and presented nothing but a blank affect. The shorter one, perhaps a bit younger, but it was hard to tell amid the blood and dirt, began to tremble at the sound of the patrols drawing near. A slight whimper escaped her mouth, and she began to shake as though she might fall to the ground.
Dunewell had seen these symptoms before. Fear, and other extreme emotions, would bring on bouts of the Vile Twitch in his younger brother. Dunewell wrapped one great arm around her while the other girl put her hand over the mouth of the younger captive. They held together like that in the absolute black for several long moments, waiting to see if their presence had been detected.
Once Dunewell was confident the patrols had continued on their way, he and his two charges continued their trek toward the outside world. Dunewell, who’d always had a head for mazes and nose for true north, had little trouble retracing their steps back to the large cavern. He moved the girls down the sharply carved staircase to the floor of the cavern and the mouth of their exit. He helped each girl past the final trap, a windlass trap and alarm, and then moved into the tunnel behind them.
The two captives moved through the tunnel ahead of Dunewell while he remained behind them as watch and ward for any drow that might have picked up their trail. As they moved closer and closer to the waterfall, the roar forced both girls to place their hands over their ears. It occurred to Dunewell then that it had likely been a long time since either of them had heard anything louder than the sound of a leather strap striking their flesh, for Dunewell knew well that drow preferred a quiet if not silent environment.
As light began to filter in from the tunnel’s entrance, Dunewell turned back one last time to ensure they weren’t being followed. As he looked to the rear, Dunewell suddenly heard a mewling sound blurt from the direction of the waterfall, the direction of the girls. Dunewell turned and ran. He was bound for the corner that would lead him to the landing at the top of the stair. As he approached, he shadows of figures moving about just beyond that turn.
Dunewell rounded the corner just as the two girls ran screaming toward him. Only they weren’t quite screaming. Their mouths were open, they were clearly terrified, but there was something… Dunewell then realized what was wrong. The drow had cut their tongues out.
The two captives ran past him, and Dunewell could only hope they would slow or stop before they arrived at the trap that lay at the end of the tunnel. Ahead of him, running toward him, were three drow soldiers.
With a thought, Dunewell’s hammer leapt to his hand. The holy symbols of Bolvii blazed from his grip up the shaft and encircled the head of the hammer. The three drow, clearly practiced in fighting alongside one another, spread themselves out. The leading drow hoisted a broad sword for a high attack, while the one right behind him was already sliding to his
knees and bringing two short swords in line for slashing attacks at his legs. The third quirked the edge of his mouth in a smile and leveled one of their deadly crossbows. The third drow triggered his crossbow and launched a dart, very likely poisoned, that skimmed through the air directly toward Dunewell’s exposed neck.
Dunewell, moving quicker than the drow could have anticipated, punched out with his hammer knocking the broad sword high and out of line. In the same move, he stomped down with a powerful kick that caught the second drow’s upper arm and drove it down into the lower, parallel arm. Dunewell attacked with such force that both the drow’s arms were slammed to the floor, the bones within shattering under Dunewell’s boot.
The poisoned dart flew past both the parry and the stomp, however. The poisoned dart jetted through the air and drove its tip against the exposed skin of Dunewell’s throat. To the absolute shock, and horror, of the drow, the dart splintered as if striking flat stone, not even marring Dunewell’s tanned skin. Skin hardened by his will and the power of Bolvii through Whitburn, his champion.
Dunewell continued to move forward and drove the broad sword of the first drow high into the air while at the same time pivoting his hammer underneath that parry. The drow moved to draw a dagger from his waist but could not lay a hand to it before Dunewell struck him in the chin with the pommel of his war hammer. The force of Dunewell’s blow split the drow’s jaw and drove the haft through the roof of the drow’s mouth and deep into his brain.
Dunewell’s stalwart legs, pushed on by Whitburn’s will, drove him forward toward the third drow with incredible speed. The last drow hauled out a morning star and was just swinging it back when Dunewell reached him. The drow shifted his arms in hopes of a parry when Dunewell simply struck out with his boot again and kicked the drow square in the chest. Dunewell’s momentum, as well as the remarkable strength of his legs, shot the drow back and launched him off the landing and into the killing path of the roaring waterfall. The third drow disappeared from sight, never to be seen again.
