by R J Hanson
Fruellen narrowed his eyes.
“What do we do with the Sea Trollop once we get her?” Fruellen asked.
Dunewell could tell Fruellen was hoping for a certain answer but skeptical as to whether or not it would come.
“You and Tate here pick twenty men, deserving men, and you take her to Lavon and quick,” Jonas said, and Dunewell noticed Fruellen begin to smile. “I caught that cotton-headed Steward with his breeches down, boys! Sent him to collect the ransom for this one here in a longboat. You should have seen it! He’s bringin’ the ransom to me in Split Town. I thought about takin’ him hostage but figured no one would pay for that Steward Ruble. They’d likely be glad to be rid of him and happy to let me kill ‘im for ‘em!”
This jib was answered with a roar of laughter. Jonas looked the map over carefully and finally indicated a point with the end of a chicken bone, tapping the map to emphasize the spot.
“You lads ‘ill find the Sea Trollop here. Take her and sell her goods in Lavon before word can reach them of her capture,” Jonas continued. “You restock while you’re there and make sure they ain’t forgot the name of Capt’n Noon!”
That brought a cheer from the small group at the table, which roused the interest of the rest of the fifty or so men in the cavern. Rabble they might be, but Dunewell decided they knew well enough not to crowd in on the captain’s table unless bidden.
“Ords, you get ten or twelve to sail Ivant’s Folly,” Jonas said. “We’ll be leaving as soon as I finish my meal.”
The pirates did not hesitate. They each went about their assignments with purpose and enthusiasm. Dunewell reasoned it was likely the fact that there were women in Lavon and Split Town, more than any discipline, that set them to work with such vigor.
Dunewell took a moment to marvel at Jonas. Without any type of enchantment, the man had transformed himself from Steward of House De’Char, to warrior Jonas, to pirate captain Noon. Even knowing the man rather well, Dunewell wasn’t sure he would have been able to pick him out of a gallows’ cast. It wasn’t only his appearance, though. That was the real trick to it, Dunewell decided. Jonas changed the way he walked, the way he talked, his posture, even his seemingly insignificant mannerisms. A Lord High Inquisitor would be hard-pressed to put this man in any cage made of words or cues of deception.
Dunewell wasn’t sure if he believed Jonas when he said that he’d captured two Shadow Blades. Dunewell knew the Sword Bearers had been working to capture one, or find their personal lair, for decades, if not centuries. Most of the world, in fact, all but perhaps three dozen people, believed Shadow Blades a work of fantasy dreamt up by thieves and assassins to scare their children and their rivals. To say you had seen a Shadow Blade was as ridiculous as claiming you had ridden a unicorn, both presumed to be mythical beasts of pure fiction.
Yet, having seen Jonas in action, not just combat, but in his schemes and his fabrications of reality, Dunewell was beginning to think Jonas had not been bragging a lie when making his claims. Dunewell was beginning to think Jonas truly dangerous… to many.
Chapter XI
Slumber in the Mountain
Silas looked out over the edge of the world and smiled. He sat next to a small fire high up in the mountains north of Wodock. He had left the pirate city behind five days prior and now sat on the edge of a great peak near the center of the rogue island nation. The sun was rising behind him, and he looked out over the sea to the west and into the unknown.
Of course, serious studies revealed there was no edge of the world as so many thought. Stratvs was a sphere, just as some other astral bodies that had been observed through spells of long sight or by a long glass similar to those used by sea captains to read the flags of ships at great distances.
His academic curiosity, coupled with a newfound desire for danger and adventure, tempted him to go beyond that western sea. They tempted him to explore that unknown where no man had traveled. The young physician and bookworm, Silas, no longer of House Morosse, sat and longed for the distant horizon.
He threw a few handfuls of green spring grass and leaves onto the fire and waited. The thick smoke began to rise, and he knew it would not be long now. He purposefully turned his thoughts from the horizon to the trail that lay before him.
Jagged crags stood like the edge of a saw’s blade jutting in raw defiance against the blue of the summer sky. He had already climbed to a great height and, thanks to his supernatural strength and agility, in a tenth the time it would have taken anyone else to scale the unforgiving terrain. He had one more peak to climb and hoped to be at its summit by the end of the day. Just one small thing to take care of first.
Smoke from his fire drifted up through the nest of field mice, and soon they came scrambling out of their holes to seek the fresh air of the mountainside and escape the fumes of the green fire. As they clamored out of their hole, Silas scooped them up and swallowed them whole, one right after the other.
He had, on occasion, eaten the raw flesh of different types of livestock, but it seemed nothing was as satisfying as the skin and meat of vermin. With the obvious exception being the flesh of people. Nothing was as delectable as the fatty palm skin of a priest.
With his day’s meal out of the way, Silas began his climb. He bounded across great crevasses and leapt fifty to sixty feet at a time up the mountainside. From dark holes and deep hollows, the hungry eyes of many creatures watched his remarkable ascent. Tentacles wrapped around stone and tested the edge of daylight’s domain. Claws raked against stone sharpening their jagged points. Many ogres hooted and pointed with spears the size of a small ship’s masts. Silas vaulted on.
The summer sun climbed in pace with Silas as both rose toward the tallest peak in the island range. As Silas ascended, he realized he had likely made a mistake. Silas had approached the mountain range from the south, taking the most direct path, and from time to time, his route took him around the edge of an outcropping and offered a glimpse of the mountains to the north. Even in those distance glimpses, Silas could see that the flora and fauna on the northern side offered much more interesting variety.
Silas was as educated in the identification and function of magical herbs and flora as anyone else in all of Stratvs. He had devoted hours and hours of study, cross-referencing tomes, and coupling that information with his own observations and experiments; experiments that his peers were too squeamish to attempt. Furthermore, there was no pride to hold Silas’s curiosity in check. He had discovered, much to his surprise and dismay, that many learned men had strong tendencies to bias their observations with philosophies and attitudes of their background or upbringing. Silas entertained no preconceived ideals that he wasn’t willing to absolutely discard in the face of evidence indicating something to the contrary. In fact, he loved making such discoveries.
Now he clung to a sheer granite rock face, his purchase maintained only by his fingers that he had driven into the stone. He looked north and, using some knowledge of geology and a bit of imagination, could see the path Merc’s ‘chariot’ made when it struck. Thousands of years had passed, and many rains, snows, and seasons of growth had partially concealed its trail. However, from his high vantage point, Silas could see the course several leagues away.
Its edges were softly outlined with the bright colors of exotic flowers and trees. Silas searched for the terminus, but it was still hidden from him by the surrounding mountainous terrain. Even if he didn’t find the so-called ‘star-iron’ as Rogash had dubbed it, Silas had no doubt there would be a host of remarkable flora to explore and harvest.
It was dark by the time he reached the highest peak of the island range. The air had become very thin, but Silas had altered the size and nature of his lungs to accommodate the change. His vision, Shezmu’s vision, was not impeded by the night but the path of the ‘chariot’ was still hidden from him. He loathed sleeping, for he knew that tomorrow would be a day of great discovery. Silas would make discoveries. Discoveries that would mean the doom of many. Per
haps even his own.
Silas stirred to the low whistling of wind passing through a nearby chimney… no, chimneys. He looked around but could not see them. He listened for several long moments noting changes in pitch and tone and timed those with the slight changes in the speed and direction of the mountaintop wind gusts. He decided there must be a network of chimneys and tunnels that, when the north wind blew, played music much like an elaborate flute.
He thought it a shame the way lives were squandered for petty advantages and pursuits of vanity. There was so much beauty hidden in such variety throughout the world. Yet so many were obsessed with their own little corners and pockets of society.
Those were his thoughts as he lay on his stomach, and he ran his hand into the dark and cool depths under a rocky shelf. Presently the mountain snake struck, driving its fangs deep into the flesh between Silas’s thumb and king finger. Silas smiled.
He grabbed the snake and pulled it from its stony lair; its fangs still pumping poison into Silas’s hand. Silas was pleased to see it was healthy and almost four feet in length. His naturalist’s mind cataloged the species and made notes about the nature of its home, the geographic area, and what it likely hunted in the region.
He pulled the fangs from his hand and held the snake up to his face. He opened his mind to the creature and could feel the fight or flight emotions streaking through its small brain. Silas opened his mouth wide and created an image in his mind of a deep hole. He refined the image and made it complete with the smell of mice, a cool temperature out of the hot summer sun, and a means of protection from any predatory birds that roamed the clear blue skies. He projected the image to the snake and released his hold. Like a shuttlecock through a loom, the snake rapidly plunged itself down Silas’s waiting throat. He smiled as he felt the creature land in his stomach and begin to squirm and then thrash about. He dined on the snake’s fear as much as its flesh and fluid.
Breakfast had been a wonderful distraction, but Silas could delay no longer. He was eager to explore. Descending the mountainside went much quicker as selecting his route was much easier, given that he had an excellent overview of the range. Silas jumped from ledge to ledge, angling his approach to get a better view of the termination point of the ‘chariot’s’ path. Shortly after noon, he got his first look at the dark alcove in the side of a mountain.
It appeared to have struck the ground, scored along it for several leagues, and then struck a smaller mountain causing it to skip into the air. The alcove was a little more than two hundred feet from the ground below and blown into the solid rock of the mountainside. Silas examined the alcove for several long minutes, trying to find an approach that a normal climber would be able to make. He finally decided the only means of approach would be from above.
Silas had to backtrack, which cost him most of the day, but he didn’t want to disturb any more of the sight than absolutely necessary. As he reached the peak, a few thousand feet above the dark crou-mountva, night had fallen once again. Shezmu’s vision would allow him to operate normally, of course, but Silas wanted his first view of the find to be in natural light. Thus, one more night of sleep before he could look upon the untouched chariot of Merc.
But sleep would not come.
Silas lay staring at the clouds, cycling his visions to view them in different aspects and colors, for many hours. Sometime around midnight, he sat up, his mind racing with thoughts too sporadic and untenable to be a productive use of his considerable mental powers. He decided to begin a map of his locations and the route he had taken.
Several hours later, as the sun was breaching the eastern horizon, Silas was putting the final touches on his map. He stood, stretched, and began scouting the northern ledge of the peak he had labeled Champion’s Rest on his map. He was unable to view the alcove in the side of the mountain from his current vantage. Nor was there any indication that a series of tunnels or chimneys would offer any hope. Silas resorted to lining himself up with the path left by the ‘chariot’ when it made its fall, although it was much less noticeable from this vantage point.
After several minutes of study, Silas scored the stone ledge with a shifted and hardened finger. Below the mark, he drew the number ‘one.’ This would be his first attempt, after all.
Silas began slowly, trying to disturb the mountainside no more than he had to. He could have bounded down the sheer face of the peak, but that would also risk dropping stone or, even worse, causing a rockslide that might damage or even bury the large alcove below.
The slow climbing was painstaking, but Silas was accustomed to slow, methodical work. He picked his way, inching his toes along thin ridges and wedging his fingers into small crevices here and there. Once, almost halfway down, he happened upon a nest that was a joyous find. The crimson raven, a very rare and hearty species, was native to this part of the world, although in his time here he had not seen a single one. Now he had discovered a nest of them.
He thought to swallow a few of the eggs within and keep two to take back with him, hoping to raise them in captivity so he might study them. A cry from high above him drew his attention from such thoughts. The father of the nest, for with the crimson ravens it was the father than stayed and cared for the eggs, circled him, and warned him with that terrible caw.
Silas thought it odd that the caw of a raven should bother him, but then put the thought out of his mind. He began to conjure an image in his mind. He conjured thoughts of a great serpent, one large enough to swallow a dozen ravens whole. He added large and poisonous fangs, black slitted eyes, and a breath that was a cloud of chaos and death. Then, smiling, he pushed that thought into the red raven’s mind.
Silas was still smiling when the raven folded its wings and dove for him. He was still smiling when it sunk its needlepoint talons into the flesh of his face and his left eye. He was not smiling when the raven tore that eye out. He was not smiling when the raven ripped away a ribbon of scalp that ran along the side of his head and just over his left ear.
Silas slapped out at the vicious bird of prey but found that it was moving fast away from him. It took him a moment to realize the bird was not rising, but rather he was falling. He began to wonder what sort of creature would naturally react so violently to such an overwhelming threat when he heard the sounds of his bones breaking.
Silas had slammed into a ledge that extended no more than a few feet past the northern face of the mountain. His spine, and many of his ribs, were cracked and shattered. The breath was forced out of his adapted lungs, and they were lacerated with the jagged edges of broken rib fragments. Blood flowed from his empty eye socket, torn scalp, and ruptured groin.
Silas retreated to his mind-room just ahead of immobilizing pain. Once inside, he and Shezmu worked to bar the doors and lock the pain and shock out of this room of central command. Doors secured; Silas began to manipulate his body.
He altered nerve pathways into repeating loops and diverted arteries and veins away from the torn and ruptured areas. He withdrew his lungs until they were the size of a child’s fist, and then he began hardening their outer surface.
The frequency of his breathing was forced into an accelerated rate, and the light in his mind-room dimmed. He began to reach out with his mind, searching for anything possessing enchantment. His right foot had landed on something emanating great power. Silas, working quickly, shifted his right foot into a thinner limb, cracking the bones and tearing tendons within. He had no time for slow transformations.
As the foot thinned, Silas slid it from his boot and wrapped the hairy tentacle around the protruding stone his foot had struck. There was a wealth of power in that small stone, but Silas had no time to consider this. He accessed Shezmu’s abilities and began to draw strength from that jagged stone.
Energy, like none Silas, nor Shezmu for that matter, had ever known surged into him. Bones clacked into place, veins and arteries sealed and filled with blood, and Silas’s lungs expanded and took in great drafts of air. All this happened in a second; i
n a flash, Silas was healing, healed.
He opened his eyes… both of his eyes. Silas had an urge to spit as the ragged taste of spoiled eggs filled his mouth, and his tongue felt acrid. Silas, thinking of his alchemy studies, recognized immediately the sensation of sulfur heated with oxygen to form an acidic vapor.
“You have taken from me,” came to him in a deep and gravelly voice from all around.
Silas thought for a moment, a brief moment, the mountain itself was addressing him.
“You have taken from me,” the tremendous voice proclaimed again. “Now, I will take from you.”
Silas rose and was struck dumb with awe. The stone his foot had struck twisted and flexed, and hundreds of years of sediment fell away from it. He followed the forming shape as that stone became a black scaled ridge. That scaled ridge led to a great tail of bigger and bigger ridges and blacker and larger scales.
The sun struggled over a nearby mountain peak and threw its light across the far wall of the alcove that Silas guessed was maybe seventy-five yards wide and at least one hundred and fifty yards deep. The feeble yellow glow shone over an enormous black stone, which was the size of an average Keep and beneath it, pinned to the mountain by it, was an even blacker dragon.
A head the size of a small sloop rose above the meteorite and a single great eye opened to regard him; the slitted gray pupil surrounded by a flaming orange iris was nearly Silas’s height.
“You have taken from me,” rumbled from the great throat of the mighty serpent. “Now, I will take from you.”
“Wait!” Silas exclaimed. “This is too great an opportunity to lose!”
The dragon, not having enough room to maneuver its head but for a small range of motion, arched the ridge of scales above its exposed eye.
“You stand before the mighty Isd’Kislota and speak of opportunity?”