by R J Hanson
“Well, I don’t mean your lordly clothes and regal vessel,” the watchman spat back. “Now tell me and be quick about it. Its past time I’m headin’ back to Blackstone.”
“You know Degra, do ya’ good sir? Well, there’s been more than one sailor caught somethin’ he shouldn’t’ve from them tavern girls there. My mate here is looking for that young doctor you got here in Moras.”
Dunewell was careful not to lie but was still unsettled by the deception of his actions and words. However, he knew it was either this or risk killing a good man over the lies of others.
“You’re mate’s missed his berth,” the watchman said. “That young doctor was kilt little more than a year gone now. There’s some that still sells some of his salves and the like, though most of that is spurious. Now, what he’s got ain’t catchin’ is it?”
“No, sir,” Dunewell said. “I’ve been with him a while now and ain’t caught nothing from him.”
“Quite well, quite well. Get on your way then.”
With that, the watchmen resumed their stroll along the docks in the direction of Blackstone Hall. That thought jerked a string of sentiment in Dunewell’s heart. He would likely never again walk the passageways of Blackstone Hall nor hear the morning bell from her tower. Thinking of the visions shown him by the Sands of Time, Dunewell felt small indeed for indulging such self-pity.
Dunewell tied the small boat to the cleat and then hopped up to the dock. Maloch tipped the rather heavy sea-chest up, and Dunewell took hold. Dunewell could have lifted the chest with ease, but to do so might give away his identity and render pointless all their preparations. Dunewell hoisted the chest onto the dock and extended a hand for Maloch. Once Maloch was clear of the boat, Dunewell pulled a piece of parchment and black chalk from his pocket.
“What are you doing?” Maloch asked under his breath.
“I’m leaving a note as to which ship this launch belongs to,” Dunewell whispered back. “It’s custom and should ensure it gets back to its rightful owners.”
Maloch opened his mouth to say something but hesitated and then closed his mouth again. He had enjoyed traveling with a warrior of such good character and high moral standards as Dunewell, but Maloch thought Dunewell could stand to be a bit more mercenary from time to time.
Dunewell scrawled the ship’s name, Cloud Chaser, onto the scrap of paper and pushed it over a protruding nail on the cleat. Then he stood, nodded to Maloch, and started for the streets he knew so well and had once loved.
“Where are we to go first?” Maloch asked, trying to mask his elven tone and heritage.
“There is a young lady here who I must know more about,” Dunewell said, attempting to maintain his sailor’s accent.
“I don’t think now is the time to pursue… those types of interests,” Maloch finally managed to finish.
“She cast a spell on me, a potent one, before I left Moras. The Lord of Order ritual burned the spell away, but it was very subtle and quite powerful. I am no novice to witchcraft, but this enchantment enslaved my thoughts without me even realizing it. Before we face Slythorne, she is an unknown that needs to be resolved.”
“Could she be with the Archives of the Arcana? Or, perhaps an agent of the Blue Tower? I think you mentioned the vampire trouble might somehow be linked to the wizards there.”
“Anything is possible, but she is now the Stewardess of House Theald.”
Seeing Maloch’s confused expression, Dunewell continued.
“The merchant Houses wield the same influence as nobility in the major trade cities and beyond. A Steward, or Stewardess in this case, is the head of that House. She commands an army of guards and dockworkers, and a navy of merchant vessels and sailors. The Houses are also known to employ their own spies and assassins from time to time.”
“Merchants flaunting an authority that should only be granted by the Supreme Pontiff or King?” Maloch asked, unable to hide his disgust at such a notion. “How could such unbridled debauchery not result in absolute chaos?”
“Do you think there is no greed involved when a king grants lands or awards titles? Do you think greed has no place among the clerics and priests who demand collection of tithes? I’ve spent many hours pondering the nature of this system. If nothing else, it recognizes the greed of men and seeks to incorporate that into its function rather than ignore it. In Moras, the coin is mightier than the sword.”
“I think, perhaps, you’ve traveled too long with your sour friend, Lord Jonas.”
“Now, now,” Dunewell chided with a smile curling the edge of his lips. “Glass castles and catapults and all that. All kidding aside, though, perhaps my time with him broadened my view of the world. You haven’t exactly led a life free of malicious acts.”
“True enough,” Maloch responded thoughtfully. “However, I never, not on a single occasion, pretended to be something I was not.”
“So, of the seven sins, today is the first day you’ve committed the sin of deception?”
Maloch’s only answer was to look down at his wrappings and disheveled clothing, and then to chuckle and nod.
Twelve hours later, as Merc’s kiln was setting in the west, Dunewell and Maloch eased their way through the deepening shadows. They were edging their way around the manor of House Theald, careful to avoid alerting any of the staff to their presence.
Dunewell, who had led more than his share of stealth missions in Tarborat, had developed a new understanding of the Quiet Step in his time with Jonas. He moved as silently as the shades that concealed him. His sight allowed him to survey the area around them without so much as having to turn his head.
Dunewell extended his thoughts, his intuition, out from his mind in search of other sentient beings. Thus far, he’d encountered four staff members whose surface thoughts were trivial. However, as he approached the kitchen, he noted the thoughts of two young women who labored to prepared for the following morning’s breakfast. He noted that both were upset that only the staff and guests of House Theald were the only ones to actually eat a meal there. Both worried for their frail Stewardess, who was rarely seen to take any sort of a meal.
As the two warriors crept through the cold twilight air toward the stable, Dunewell sensed the thoughts of the coachman. This poor fellow was lamenting the loss of the young doctor, so famous for his treatment of unusual ailments. It seemed the coach driver, a young man of no more than twenty-five, perhaps thirty, was suffering from acute memory loss. Dunewell, uncertain of how to go about it, attempted to push his mind deeper into the thoughts of the young coachman.
The coachman was afraid of his Stewardess, Lady Erin. That fact was plain to Dunewell, who sensed the emotion immediately. However, he also found areas of fog in the young man’s mind. Dunewell delved into those tangles of thoughts, areas that reminded Dunewell of dark clouds with interrupted flashes of lightning spasming within.
Dunewell pushed through the outer border and examined the memories they held. He saw the coach drive through the low streets of Moras in the black hours of the night. He saw Erin exit the coach and take men, women, and children, sometimes two at a time, into the coach with her. He listened as the coach rolled forward and screams erupted from the unwitting passengers. His skin tightened, and his stomach turned at the sounds of the children screaming. Within the safety of the estate walls, he saw Erin step from the coach with blood on her lips and on her breath. He heard her tell the coachman to clean the handsome carefully, and then to tou-gurr, to forget. He saw, through the coachman’s eyes, the remains of her victims, most notably a blood-soaked stocking and shoe belonging to a child no older than six or seven years.
Dunewell caught his breath and realized that he had physically jerked back as a reflex to distance himself from the magical suggestion. Dunewell recognized the word and knew the meaning, and the power, of the command. It was a word, a command, used by champions, and fallen champions, to wipe the memories of mortals.
Dunewell reasoned that Erin was somehow possessed or
controlled by a fallen champion. Champions could, of course, also use the power, but champions didn’t often eat the living flesh of women and children.
Dunewell motioned for Maloch to follow and moved silently across the stone path. He made his way into the hedge maze that sprawled before the vast estate and followed several twists and turns until they were deep enough to avoid being overheard.
“Stewardess Erin is possessed by a demon,” Dunewell whispered to Maloch. “A powerful demon. I looked into the mind of her coachman. She’s mesmerized him on several occasions to drive her about the city at night so she can… so she can feed; vagabonds, but women and children as well.”
“Has she used him for anything else? Has she used him to recruit soldiers, or weapons, or magical charms of any sort?”
“Not that I saw. From what I gather from the staff, her nightly rides with the poor coachman are about the only times she ventures from the estate.”
“That would explain a great deal,” Maloch replied in the same hushed tone.
“How does that explain anything?”
“Chaos Lords and Lords of Order always appear in pairs,” Maloch said as his mind continued to piece together what Dunewell had told him. “It usually requires years of forging their character before they are ready for the ritual, but there are always at least two. Those two are always drawn to one another. Just as good men will always clash against men of evil.”
“So, she was drawn to me because she, or it, went through the ritual and is a Chaos Lord? It somehow knew I would become a Lord of Order and sought to obstruct my path?”
“I think so,” Maloch said. “But there is something else, I think. Champions, fallen or otherwise, tend to be ponies of only one trick. They were created to carry out specific tasks and thus tend to be very good at that task and little else. That’s part of what makes combining them with flesh so powerful. You or I might find a dozen ways make use of their powers to solve a single problem or vanquish a foe, whereas the celestials only know the one.”
“I’m not sure that’s accurate. Whitburn, the champion bonded to me, is very clever and is a remarkable tactician.”
“That’s odd, for I assure you that is not the norm. Anyway, it sounds to me as though she seems satisfied feasting at night, but has made no other preparations nor ambitious moves. Nothing beyond her single move against you all those months ago. You said she came to Moras from afar?”
“Yes,” Dunewell said, struggling to put together the puzzle before him even though Maloch hadn’t yet revealed all the pieces. “What are you thinking?”
“In the process, the ritual, you are given command of the champion that is bound to you. With Chaos Lords, they must conquer the demon that they bind. They must master them in order to control them. If the subject of the ritual fails to do so, and the fallen champion is not mastered, then they continue to take orders from their prince or god.”
“So?”
“So, I think your Lady Erin was the subject of a failed ritual. She was sent here by her demon prince to prevent you from completing your ritual and to ensure that your brother also faced the trial. Lords of Order and Chaos Lords are drawn toward one another, to be sure, but only after they have completed the ritual. The only way she could have known that it was in your future is if one of the three demon princes had looked into the future and seen the possibility. Prechii, the fallen champion of Hate and Murder, was formerly a servant of Father Time. He likely knows of another Lord of Order and hoped your brother would fail to master the demon that he bound. Then, Prechii would have two servants in Moras, well placed, when Slythorne arrived. As it is, I think he only has one, and the other has the power to stand against him.”
“So, there is another Lord of Order out there,” Dunewell said. “Shouldn’t we seek him or her out then?”
Maloch furrowed his brow and gave Dunewell a questioning look.
“My mother was a mighty warrior in her own right, and my… the woman I love is as well.”
“If time, and Time, allow, then yes, we should seek them out,” Maloch replied. “However, I don’t think we’ll have that luxury. Lords of Order and Chaos are placed by the gods and the demons who serve the UnMaker. They are as pawns on a board not unlike a game of Scepters and Swords. If he, or she, is to be involved in this or to come to our aid, I think their deity would have already arranged it.”
“So, what does all this mean? What does it change?”
“Nothing, really,” Maloch whispered plainly. “Supposition only. Killing her, it, would be the same whether she is possessed by the demon or she is doing the possessing. Only weapons blessed by the gods, or of pure Roarke’s Ore or sectot will injure it. It will be tough to defeat. Furthermore…”
Maloch paused for a long time, as though he was trying to make up his mind about something.
“Furthermore, she’s not the one we came for,” the dark paladin finally finished. “I’m only guessing that she’s here to bolster Slythorne. And, even if that is so, we can’t lose focus on the master vampire.”
“This Slythorne, he likes his traps and his ploys, right?”
“Yes. He’s a remarkable tactician and quite skilled at manipulating his surroundings to his favor.”
“The plan, our plan, was to use this female vampire he’s after to draw him out. He is likely trying to get to her first. He’s also likely expecting us to attempt to use her in just such a fashion. That means he probably has eyes on her waiting on us. She has to be in a protected place because, if she weren’t, he would have left with her already. So, he’s watching her and waiting for our move. If our first move is to take down an ally of his, I think it will put him off balance. I think this has to be our first move.”
“You don’t think we’ll be tipping our pieces?”
“No, I think he probably already knows we’re in the city. If he doesn’t, he will soon. He spotted Jonas and me in Split Town before either of us even caught wind of him. Furthermore, the longer we’re here, it becomes more likely there will be innocent casualties.”
“Very well,” Maloch said with a shrug. “Battlefield planning was my forte; this sort of intrigue is not in my area of expertise.”
“It wasn’t in mine either,” Dunewell said with a smile. “I suppose we all have to move beyond the skills we’re comfortable with if we seek to truly make a change.”
“So, what do you have in mind?”
“The coach house,” Dunewell said. “There is only one way in and one way out, and the only innocent about will be the coachman. If we can surprise it in there, I think we have a good chance.”
Maloch nodded, drew one of his shrou-shelds, and gestured with the other hand for Dunewell to lead. Dunewell led them unerringly from the maze back to the stone bench, where he once spoke to a demon about the possibilities of marriage. He eased his way around the outer hedge and saw the coachman, still at work hitching up his horses. Fortunately, the coachman was a large fellow, though not as large as Dunewell, and wore an all-encompassing black cloak.
Chapter XI
Unwelcome Guests
Steam rose from the nostrils of the horses, their senses having alerted them to danger long before this situation approached its climax. Stewardess Erin, wearing nothing more than a provocative evening gown, strolled through the snow on bare feet with a smile twisted across her face. The gown was new and would likely be thrown into a fire by evening’s end, but House Theald could afford many such gowns.
She sniffed the air and caught several scents among the freezing drafts of the night. Each smell excited her, or, rather, the thing in her. Although she was not holding the reins of her body, she did volunteer for the ritual to become a Chaos Lord. Among her fellow cultists, she was deemed the most likely to succeed in completing the mastery of a demon of Prechii. Thus, the smell of blood about to be spilled pleased the trapped Erin within as much as it did the fallen champion without.
She entered the coach house with a slight bounce in her step, careful to
walk around to the side opposite the figure wearing her coachman’s cloak.
“Why, Inquisitor Dunewell,” the demon said with Erin’s voice. “What are you doing wearing my coachman’s clothing? Were you hoping to proffer your services as my driver?”
Dunewell, knowing his disguise was of no more use, tossed the cloak from his shoulders to reveal his glowing war hammer in one hand and his rider’s pike in the other.
“You’d so willingly cut down the body of this beautiful young girl? It seems like a waste. Furthermore, it doesn’t seem like you to be so willing to take the life of an innocent.”
“Innocent? Young Erin volunteered for the vile ritual that brought you to this plane; of that, I have no doubt. As to why, who is to say?”
“You’d not take my word for her reasons?” the demon asked in Erin’s voice, managing a coquettish giggle. “You’d not hear of the cultists of Prechii that discovered and then violated a temple of Merc? You’d not hear the tale of how Silver Helms aided me in my escape? You’d not hear me explain the pain and suffering that drove young Erin to such lengths?”
“No pain, no suffering can justify treating with demons.”
“Yet you seek to do just that. You seek to justify your brother’s actions; do you not? And I’m not the one in league with the Original Betrayer. I’m not the one traveling with the Knight of Sorrows.”
“Your nights of preying on the people of the street have come to a conclusion,” Dunewell said, tired of this demon’s games.
Dunewell, with a single hop, cleared the coach and descended upon the demon-possessed Erin with his war hammer at the ready. He was prepared for a partial parry or a full out attack with claw or fang from the demon. He was not prepared for what happened next.
As Dunewell descended, Erin screamed in terror and fled the coach house for the front door of her estate. Maloch, also caught off guard by the surprising turn of events, moved from the shadows near the door to cut off her escape, but too late. As Dunewell and Maloch both turned toward the manor, their surprise was complete when they heard a voice call to them from the darkness. Dunewell then knew why the demon had engaged him in conversation. The creature had been stalling.
