by R J Hanson
“That must be hard for you,” Dunewell said, relaxing his shoulders and his jaws. “I’m sorry.”
“It is the nature of the life I have created,” Jonas said. “If any were to know of her, she would be a hostage to fortune. I get to see her from time to time. Two or three times a year. The moment I knew she was conceived, my soul filled with love for her. I could not have prepared myself for how she seized my heart from the very beginning. I have some understanding of how you must feel.”
Dunewell nodded and turned back toward his bedroll. Jonas opened his mouth, reconsidered his words, and closed it again. Dunewell rolled into his blanket, and Jonas returned to his seat on a nearby stump, turning his attention back toward the letter and the news it carried.
The next several days rolled by without a word passing between Dunewell and Jonas. They rode silently through the wildlands of southern Lethanor. The only sounds that came to their ears were the creaking of their saddles and the songs of birds enjoying the spring weather.
“It will be a full moon tonight,” Jonas said as the sun dipped toward the western horizon. “I don’t think we are within his hunting ring yet, but it would be best to be safe.”
“Agreed,” Dunewell said.
“You have the weapons you’ll need?” Jonas asked.
Dunewell smiled and drew his hammer from his side. Since they had left the main road and traveled beyond the witnessing eyes of waggling tongues, Dunewell had carried his hammer and new shortsword openly. Holding the war hammer in his right hand, Dunewell called upon the power of Whitburn, and bright lines of holy power emblazoned the haft and head, imbuing it with mighty power.
Jonas smiled and nodded. Jonas had his own silver shortsword that he carried concealed in his boot, and the longsword he wore was blessed with the holy emblem of Bolvii. There was more to Jonas’s longsword, Dunewell knew, but he decided not to pry. There were only a few types of weapons that would pierce the hide of a skinshifter; iron and steel, no matter how sharp, would be of no use. Silver blades, of course, anything made of Roarke’s Ore, and weapons blessed with holy power were among those that would slay such a creature as the one they now hunted.
“Take the reins of my horse,” Jonas said. “I’ll sleep in the saddle for a while. Don’t let me sleep more than an hour. Then we’ll swap. That should rest us enough so we can both keep a good watch tonight once the sun goes fully down.”
“Why not just continue to ride throughout the night?” Dunewell asked.
“Because we ride thoroughbreds and thoroughbreds won’t do,” Jonas said. “We can’t afford to be seen with proper war horses. We don’t want to excite anyone’s curiosity by pretending to be merchants while so well outfitted for war. To hunt a skinshifter on horseback, we would need an animal trained to act against the strongest of its natural instincts, war horses. I’ve seen a number of good men die because a horse misstepped or bolted out of fright at the wrong time. No, these swift mounts, although excellent for travel, would not serve us well if we were jumped at night or any other time for that matter.”
Dunewell nodded and accepted the reins from Jonas. He wrapped them once around his saddle horn and, looking back up to Jonas, opened his mouth to say something else. He let the words die away unspoken as he saw that Jonas was already fast asleep.
Hours later, Dunewell awoke to the sound of saddle leather creaking under his weight and the rhythmic clop of his horse’s hooves striking soft ground. Yet there was another sound that stirred him to consciousness. He could hear underbrush gently rustling somewhere ahead of him. He saw the night sky was clear, and the moon shone brightly in her glory. On such a night, he would have been able to maneuver without a torch anyway, but because of the powers given him by Whitburn, Dunewell saw as clearly as if it were daylight. More so, in fact.
As the scene was coming into focus for Dunewell, Jonas reined in both horses and took notice of it as well. No more than forty yards to the side of the trail, a rare white rose bush shimmered in the glow of moonlight. The vision was enhanced by the accents of dew upon the snow-like petals lending an otherworldly hue to the unusual flower. The potent aroma given off by the celestial flower was intoxicating. So wondrous was the sight of the white roses; it was several moments before either Dunewell or Jonas noticed the source of the noise.
Caught within the thorns of the bush was a blood-red raven, its wings ensnared by the thorns of the enchanting roses. With each flap of its wing, the raven became even more entangled. Dunewell noted he and Jonas were not the only ones to notice the plight of the raven. A large pale snake with black lines angled about its scales wound its way through the bush; weaving its twelve-foot long body among the thorns and moving its mouth ever closer to the captured raven.
The raven’s struggle was not desperate, though. It seemed the bird had not yet noticed the peril posed by the large constrictor pressing in to add to its troubles. The raven pecked at the thorns and, with each new attack, drew new blood that dripped from feathers of the same color. Dunewell watched the developing scene with great interest but did manage to notice the gasp let out by Jonas. Dunewell didn’t know what Jonas had seen to make him gasp so but placed his hand to his hammer just the same. Then, Dunewell having a distinct advantage over Jonas in this regard, saw something else. Something that made his breath catch in his throat.
While the roses held the raven, and the snake made its way through the thorns toward the blood-red bird, a gray wolf cub, barely weaned by the look of her, stalked in from behind the snake. The cub, creeping low to the ground, focused its jade-green eyes on the large serpent. Dunewell was born a man of action; even without his years of training, he would have been a man of decisive measures. Yet, here he sat, frozen in place as this scene unfolded before him.
Dunewell and Jonas both sat their horses and watched, unblinking, as the three creatures bound their fates together in this enchanting weave among the white roses. The raven suddenly halted all movement causing the snake to pause just outside its range to strike. When the snake ceased its climb, wolf cub also stopped.
Suddenly the raven thrashed violently against the thorns, turned, and pierced the right eye of the snake. The raven cawed out in pain, and Dunewell saw Jonas visibly shiver. The whirl of white scales only accented by the black edges was dizzying as the snake recoiled and twisted about in the bush. Only a moment later, the snake struck out at the raven. The blood-red bird twisted and jerked to avoid the fangs of the snake while its blood flowed freely from its many wounds. With all the viciousness the young pup could muster, it pounced on the tail of the snake, surprising raven and serpent alike. The pup bit into the flesh of the large snake and pulled at its tail with all its forty pounds.
Pulled just a few inches back, the fangs clanked together just short of clamping the raven in the snake’s jaws. Dunewell and Jonas both heard the snap of the snake’s fangs. Jonas gasped again, and Dunewell saw that one of the fangs drew a new line of blood from the raven. The weight of the snake crashing into the nearby thorns tore them from the raven just enough for the bird to make its escape.
The wolf pup would have been far outmatched by the large snake under most circumstances. However, the snake was entwined in the bush. In its pursuit of the raven, the snake had wound itself throughout the bush. Now, as it thrashed to move forward and the wolf pup struggled to pull it backward, thorns began to slice through the scales of the bone-white snake. The long reptile finally viewed the source of its torment with its remaining left eye. The wolf pup seemed not to notice or to care. She continued her assault on the exposed lower quarter of the snake. The raven flapped limply away to a nearby tree.
The snake began hitching its coils about the stronger stalks of the bush. Using those holds for leverage, it began inching its tail into the thorny bush and out of the reach of the vicious little canine. The large snake also began working its maw toward the parts of the rose bush that hung over the wolf pup.
The pup continued to bite and tear at the exposed portions
of the snake, not noticing the ever-encroaching danger of the other end of the beast. The serpent rolled its flesh into coils and poised itself mere feet from the wolf pup’s back legs. As the snake’s fangs shot forward to strike the wolf pup, the talons of a red raven tore the remaining eye from the snake’s head.
The suddenness and violence of the raven’s attack shook both Dunewell and Jonas from the trance that had so completely enthralled them. The snake, now blinded, thrashed wildly as the rose bush drew blood from a thousand cuts. The wolf pup, undaunted, continued her attacks as well, biting and clawing to tear the snake out of the bush. In bare moments the snake fell limp. The wolf pup dined on the meat of a fateful kill. Dunewell and Jonas watched as the red raven carried the serpent’s eye to a nest high in the trees nearby. They listened to the cawing of young ravens as the injured bird dropped the eye into its nest.
The wolf pup, noticing the two riders, dragged the rest of the snake free from the rose bush and deeper into the forest. Jonas and Dunewell sat their horses in silence for several long moments. Dunewell thought of the year of the wolf approaching. He thought of a daughter with his green eyes growing up believing herself orphaned or abandoned. He thought of a young wolf pup fighting the great dangers of the world alone. But perhaps not alone. Perhaps there would be a raven for his young wolf. Dunewell didn’t realize it, but he was crying.
“Does the sign of the wolf or the serpent mean anything to you?” Jonas asked.
The sudden words spoken into the fragile enchantment of their surroundings shocked Dunewell from his caravan of thoughts and emotions. So much so that he drew his hammer half-way out of its ring at his side before he realized Jonas had asked him a question. Dunewell wiped his face and looked around to Jonas.
“The sign of the wolf or the serpent,” Jonas said again. “Do either mean anything to you?”
Jonas was still staring at the rose bush and had not turned to see the tears on Dunewell’s cheeks and in his eyes.
“No,” Dunewell lied. “No, no meaning. You?”
Dunewell knew he could literally lose his tongue for telling a lie. It was part of his oath. Yet, this scene was for him, and him alone. He would not tarnish the beauty of what he had witnessed by burdening it with his rough-hewn words. He would gladly surrender his tongue to keep what he had seen unpolluted in his heart. He turned his mind inward to Whitburn, expecting punishment, or at least admonishment, from that quarter. Dunewell was surprised to find the champion weeping as well.
What troubles you? Dunewell thought/asked.
The fall that must come, the fight he must fight, Whitburn thought/said through tears of both joy and pain.
What fall?
I am not permitted, Whitburn thought/said as he sought to gain control of his emotions.
Not permitted to do what?
I am not permitted, Whitburn thought/said. That is all.
Jonas’s eyes still did not leave the rose bush.
“Nothing comes to mind,” Jonas said, telling his own lie.
Jonas saw the clear signs of the old crest from Ozur, the kingdom his mother and father had barely survived. Jonas couldn’t help but wonder if he even had any family left to struggle against. Dunewell had spoken of Velryk, and there was some mention of Velryk having a son. There was, of course, Verkial to consider. That would indeed be a struggle of life and death.
“‘His is the hand that wounds,’” Dunewell quoted. “The sign of the UnMaker, Muersorem.”
“The bone-white snake was hard to miss,” Jonas said. “We should each take a rose from the bush. Only a fool would turn his nose up at such an omen.”
Dunewell nodded, and they both dismounted and walked carefully forward. Each drew a dagger from their waist and cleanly cut a single white rose from the bush. Jonas cut the stem of his rose short and tucked the flower in his cloak at his breast. Dunewell saw this and followed suit.
“It matches your House,” Dunewell said, looking at Jonas adjusting the rose.
Jonas’s eyes shot up and narrowed at Dunewell.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just that it goes with the red and white of House De’Char,” Dunewell said, a bit apologetically. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Oh, of course, it does,” Jonas said as much to himself as to Dunewell. “Of course, it does.”
Both men walked back to their horses; the minds of all three still on the possible implications of what they had seen. Jonas took up the reins to his horse and started to wrap them around his left hand. He paused then, remembering a hard lesson from his childhood. A hand wrapped in a rein is a hand offered to the animal and the whims of Fate. His father had taught him and Velryk many lessons, and this was among them. With a hand wrapped in a rein, you risked the horse bolting and crushing or tearing off the hand. At best, you’d be dragged until the horse was brought to a stop. He uncoiled the leather and held it loose in his hand.
Then the lack of combat experience of their mounts exposed itself with violent posture. Jonas’s horse reared suddenly, jerking him forward hard enough to pull him far off his balance. Far enough that the claws coming at him from the darkness barely stirred the hair that lay over the back of his neck.
The skinshifter, now in the form of a creature neither had ever seen, leapt past Jonas and, with one great claw, tore through saddle leather and hide. The slash laid the stomach of Jonas’s frightened mount wide open.
Dunewell’s hammer jumped from its ring and into his right hand while his left produced the ever-carried rider’s pike. He and Whitburn moved as one to quickstep between the falling horse and the still unbalanced Jonas. Jonas, no stranger to battle or ambush, used Dunewell’s move and momentum. He pressed out with his left hand and pushed off Dunewell’s shoulder to right himself and then spin-off to the side while drawing his longsword and shortsword.
The creature, a large leathery winged reptile with three pronounced claws at the end of each muscular arm, had not run upon them. It had swooped down on them out of the dark of the sky. Dunewell also noticed an unusual, spearhead beak on the creature ridged with sharp bone and two strong legs with razor-sharp talons of their own. He guessed its height to be at least eight yards and its wingspan to be close to fourteen.
With three great flaps of its wings, the creature sailed high into the night sky.
“Can you see it?” Jonas called.
“Yes,” Dunewell said calmly. “Get next to a thick tree. He’s making a wide circle now. If he comes at you out of the dark like that again, he may have you.”
“What are you going to do?” Jonas asked.
“I’m going to be a Lord of Order,” Dunewell said.
Jonas was tempted to cast a spell, but he wanted to see the true extent of Dunewell’s powers. He also didn’t want Dunewell knowing Jonas had been trained as a Lanceilier, not if he could avoid it.
Dunewell replaced his rider’s pike in the concealed scabbard and took out his shortsword. In his right hand, he held his war hammer. Dunewell held them both forth, and Whitburn poured divine power through Dunewell and into the weapons, bringing them alight with enchantment.
The skinshifter circled high into the air, confident in his own concealment. Dunewell watched as the large leathery wings cut across the night sky, arched, angled, and then turned back to the game trail they’d been traveling. Dunewell smiled.
The creature, a creature Kodii could have told them was from the unusual island of Janis and called a kluedet-spethyr or cloud-hunter, tucked its great wings to its side and dove for Dunewell. Dunewell crouched, weapons held out to his sides, and waited.
Dunewell estimated the timing and, just as the skinshifter traveled within eighty feet of him, he jumped. Dunewell, propelled by the powers of a champion of Bolvii, rocketed toward the diving, and now surprised, skinshifter.
Dunewell swung his hammer with deadly accuracy and was completely amazed when the creature shifted and changed, almost instantly, right before his eyes. The skinshifter underwent a sm
all transformation, but an important one. It reduced its own size by at least two thirds, causing Dunewell’s hammer to pass through the air where its head had been. Dunewell lashed out with his shortsword, but only caught the edge of a wing drawing a thin line of blood.
Dunewell, hurling through the night sky on a different arcing path, managed to turn in the air to follow the drive of the skinshifter with his eye. He would land only a few seconds after the monster, but he would be several yards away. Dunewell watched as the creature shifted itself again and began taking on great mass. What struck the ground just feet away from Jonas was a hairless four-legged beast that must have weighed at least five thousand stone. It had one large horn in the center of its head fit to skewer the hull of a warship.
The huge beast hit the ground running and charged for Jonas. Jonas was using the large tree as cover until he was shown the folly of that tactic. The skinshifter’s current form, in some parts of the world called a rhino though Dunewell and Jonas had never seen one, crashed into the trunk of the tree with tremendous force. The roots of the tree surrendered to the brute strength of the skinshifter, and Jonas’s cover came crashing down toward him.
Jonas leapt to the side but was caught by a branch and spun violently about. The skinshifter tossed its great horn to the side and slapped Jonas high into the air. The huge beast tore up the ground around the tree with massive hooves to turn in a tight arc and pursue the wounded Jonas. It appeared there was no need. The Great Man lay on the ground, unmoving, with his breath coming only in great rasps.
The skinshifter charged, its hooves thundering against the short stretch of ground between it and Jonas. The huge beast lowered its massive horn and bore down. In the last moment, Jonas rolled swiftly to the side, stabbing his longsword deep into the fold between the creature’s foreleg and chest. Jonas narrowly dodged the stomping hoof of the huge beast.
Its momentum carried it several yards beyond where Jonas had been laying. The skinshifter crashed into a nearby tree, catching and breaking off Jonas’s sword. Jonas rolled up to one knee and began to stand. He learned then that his left leg was broken. Jonas had fought through worse pain in his life, but no man could defeat simple mechanics. The bone had snapped cleanly and offered no support to the twisted limb that had been his leg.