by R J Hanson
“Lord Verkial, I need you to sever your ties with Lord Kyhn, Engiyadu, and Daeriv,” Lynneare said after a brief sigh.
His poster told him he expected an immediate and violent reaction to that declaration. He was right to expect it.
“You deign demand of me the company I keep and the allies I make?” Verkial asked as his jaw muscles tightened, and his voice took on a dangerous edge, even in light of Lynneare’s commanding presence.
“I do,” Lynneare said simply. “Lord Kyhn seeks to betray you as we speak, throwing his support and loyalty to the mage, Daeriv. Under other circumstances, I would leave you to fight that battle on your own and learn the hard way, perhaps even in your death, of Kyhn’s betrayal. However, I have need of your army and your services. Thus, you will cut ties with them. You will say that it is to ensure when Ingshburn turns on you for seizing Wodock and western Tarborat, it will keep him from suspecting them or acting against them. You will gain all the confirmation you will require of Kyhn’s disloyalty when you tell him and Daeriv of your decision to split from them. If they respond understandingly, but suggest you leave some back door open for them, then you will know they play to betray you. If their response is one of puzzlement, anger, and suspicion, then I have counseled you wrong, and they truly intend to stand by your move to seize your own kingdom. Learn for yourself which of the two is the case. Once you realize the truth of what I say, I will need you to begin building underground fortifications in the mountains of Wodock, and subterranean reserves of water and shelter throughout the western Tarborat desert.”
Silas opened his mouth to say something but wisely closed it again when Lynneare raised a single king finger.
“The mountains, per your agreement, belong to Chaos Lord Silas and thereby to Lady Dru,” Lynneare continued. “They will gladly permit you to house troops and supplies there, for it may be the only place of refuge for them, depending on our fortunes. Furthermore, Queen Jandanero and Warlord Rogash will contribute to the construction of the stronghold in exchange for some of what the mines yield.”
Lynneare turned his eyes, those eyes that were at once terrible and sincere, on Silas. Silas responded with another dutiful nod of his head.
“Why?” Verkial asked defiantly.
“Because dark times come,” Lynneare said mildly and unperturbed at Verkial’s impudent tone. “Dark times, dangerous times are ahead of us all. We will make strange allies and unsuspected enemies. We will need a strong fortress, a network of underground routes, and enough stores to feed armies for at least seven years. You have your father’s mind for tactics and military organization, and that is why I want you in charge of building the defenses and securing a mountain stronghold.”
Verkial was clearly stung by Lynneare’s words and his mention of Verkial’s father, but it was a reaction Silas and Dru did not understand. For, how could they understand Verkial’s abject hatred for a man that had so abandoned him? Abandoned him to the whims of the evils of this dark world?
“How will you get the Drakestone?” Silas asked. “How can you? You are, if you will forgive my saying so, not exactly qualified to stroll past holy runes.”
Lynneare, Warlock of the Marshes, the Original Betrayer, and OathBreaker, swept the hood back from his shaved head to reveal his pale skin, strong bones, and charming smile.
“I have my ways, o’ Lord of Chaos,” Lynneare whispered, and then disappeared.
Lynneare’s sudden disappearance surprised and slightly shook Dru and Silas; however, Verkial did not miss a moment before asking, “So, what is a Dark Guardian?”
Hours and leagues later, sitting by a fire under the overhang of a cliff, two of the four ate wild pheasant taken by Hallgrim with a bow. The other two shared the still bloody remains of a huntsman they’d encountered in the forests east of Stamdon and north of Nolcavanor.
Dru teleported them four different times in three different directions before they arrived in this remote part of the forest, hoping to disguise any magical trail that might be sniffed out by the sorcerers of the Blue Tower. Once arriving, they walked for several hours through the forest so, if they were followed, they would have a chance of hearing any from the Tower coming up on them.
“I’m not convinced,” Verkial tearing meat from the pheasant still impaled and roast on the spit. “We should be cautious in our dealings with… with him.”
“Lord Verkial, please don’t get me wrong, but there is a reason you hesitate to say his name aloud,” Silas said. “Furthermore, he offered you a perfectly reasonable and sound means of learning the true intentions of your cohorts in Lawrec.”
“I don’t get it,” Hallgrim interjected.
“He means we can read their plans in their response to a tactical move on my part,” Verkial began to explain but stopped when Hallgrim started shaking his head.
“I mean, well, what’s a Dark Guardian?”
“Fantastic creations!” burst from Silas’s mouth.
He was ever eager to explain, to teach, and the trait was beginning to bore Dru and Verkial as signaled by their eye rolls. Yet, Hallgrim, who seemed ever interested in new ideas or tales, found him quite amusing.
“You see, an alchemist must construct a suit of armor,” Silas continued, very excited to once again have the opportunity to explain the combination of what he had read and what he believed. “The better the material, the greater the Guardian. So, once an alchemist has made the armor, with the help of a skilled blacksmith, of course, a sorcerer imbues it with animation. He basically gives it energy and alters its inert state. Now, you could stop there and have your basic construct. However, if you then find a cleric with powerful prayers, you can summon a champion, or fallen champion as the case may be, to inhabit the suit. The cleric and the sorcerer have to work together to bind the champion to the armor. It is a costly and time-consuming endeavor. Then, if successful, you have a creature that even dragons have been known to fear.”
“They’re not real,” Verkial broke in. “If they were, Ingshburn would have scores of them. It’s just a fanciful tale.”
“Perhaps he has no need for them,” Dru put in. “Perhaps Ingshburn is content letting the lands around him kill as many men and women from Lethanor as his armies do. Perhaps he waits for the crown and the church to once again draw blood against each other, allowing him a window of opportunity.”
Verkial and Silas both opened their mouths only to close them again and recede into deep thought. After several moments, Silas took in a deep breath in preparation to launch another barrage of information. Verkial and Dru both sighed.
“Perhaps Ingshburn spends his resources more wisely than that,” Silas began, to himself as much to anyone listening. “The materials cost alone would be astounding, and he could field a thousand soldiers for a thousand days for the cost of one Guardian. In terms of line breakers, great warriors such as yourselves reserved for difficult missions, he has, or had, you two, Lord Kyhn, Engiyadu, and the elf warrior mage, Gallis Argenti. I’ve no doubt there are others I’m not even aware of.”
“There are others,” Verkial said as he tossed the bones from his meal of pheasant into the fire. “Gallis Argenti isn’t among us… them, though. He’s never been a part of Tarborat. He’s just a vicious criminal. The crown uses his name and ties it to Tarborat to keep the taxes flowing in, I’ve no doubt, but he has never been part of Ingshburn’s plans.”
“Interesting,” Silas replied, tapping his king finger on the point of his chin.
“Not really,” Verkial said, tearing another piece of meat from the spit.
“My Lady, I should be departing for Moras in the morning, with your permission and help, of course,” Silas said, changing the subject. “Unless you’d prefer me at your side when you speak with the drow queen?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Dru responded as she mentally turned over the prospect of negotiating with the drow. “You should take some time and think over how you will approach Lady Evalynne. Our contact with her thus far
has been largely to her benefit, and you had the advantage of significant surprise before. You will not enjoy such an upper hand again. Not with her and not with her mage.”
“Yes, my Lady,” Silas said with a bow.
“So, you do plan to tell Daeriv and Kyhn that you are splitting from them?” Dru asked, watching Verkial’s facial features closely.
“I do,” Verkial said simply.
“You don’t think his recent defeat in Lawrec will cause suspicion?”
“I was clear when I told him putting all his efforts into such an army of undead was unwise,” Verkial said.
“I’ve heard tales about the knight responsible for Daeriv’s defeat,” Dru said, feigning an innocent tone. “You know him, I think.”
“Who?” Hallgrim asked, missing all the nuance of the conversation.
“No one,” Verkial spat, the blood rising to his face in an instant. “That is a subject you’ll not speak of in my presence again, or I’ll take your head, and the head of your Chaos Lord here.”
Verkial’s words were carefully measured, and his tone was deadly and even. The rage burning behind his eyes was plain to each of them. Dru was satisfied that she had identified a weak point in Verkial’s emotional armor and let the point drop.
“See to your business and send me the workers, dwarves, and ogres, you promised,” Verkial continued, unapologetically changing the subject. “No slaves. If one creature arrives in Wodock in chains, I’ll kill the lot of you.”
“You speak very confidently,” Silas said, allowing the edge of his mouth to quirk in the hint of a smile.
“Because I am.”
“Thank you for coming,” Lynneare said as he extended a hand, one cloaked in illusion, to wave for a waitress. “I’ve made extensive use of your services of late. I understand how taxing that must be.”
“Of course,” Ashcliff said, taking a seat opposite Lynneare.
That sat in a small tavern called the Whaler’s Rest in the southwestern quarter of Modins on the west coast of Lethanor. The sun had been down for over three hours now, but the city still bustled with not only those seeking entertainment but those conducting business as well. The business wasn’t cotton, or wheat trade, nor was it the trade of silks, furs, armor, or weapons. It was the most lucrative, and most dangerous, trade in Modins. The trade of information.
The girl, a young blonde creature with an accent Ashcliff recognized, brushed past their table. She dropped two mugs of ale, ale they had not ordered, along the way, and said something about if they wanted wine they were in the wrong tavern.
Ashcliff smiled to himself. She did an excellent job of acting disinterested. She would certainly bear watching. Ashcliff had made it his business to monitor the affairs, all the affairs, of Sir Roland of Lawrec. This young lady, Marnie was her name, was running the weapons shop Sir Roland had established in Modins, and was investing his coin in many other ventures as well. From everything he’d seen, Ashcliff was quite impressed with the young girl. Ashcliff did find it a bit amusing that he thought of her as a ‘young girl’ given that he was no more than three years her senior.
Of course, she didn’t have a hope of recognizing Ashcliff, not that they’d seen each other much anyway, but this evening he appeared thirty years older, forty pounds heavier, and wore the furs of a Slandik sailor.
Ashcliff wasn’t the only one disguised this evening. Lynneare, the Warlock of the Marshes himself, wore the outward appearance of a noble from Moras. His skin appeared a normal tone, he had reduced his height to no more than six feet and had cast an illusion of long and luxuriant black hair that hung in loose curls down past his shoulders.
“Shall we go see the furs tonight then?” Ashcliff asked in a thick Slandik accent after he quaffed his mug of ale.
Lynneare pushed his mug, still full, toward the center of the table, and smiled and nodded. Ashcliff thought it a good idea that Lynneare’s disguise be one of a noble. For Lynneare seemed to have an air about him, an aura of gentile upraising, and an aristocratic behavior that Ashcliff thought would be hard for the ancient vampire to hide.
Ashcliff, in keeping with the role he played this evening, reached across the table, took Lynneare’s mug, and drained it as well before stepping away from the table. He tossed a bronze coin over his shoulder that bounced, rolled, and finally settled on the tabletop. His casual behavior in the presence of one such as Lynneare set his nerves on edge, but he hoped the powerful vampire would not take offense.
Ashcliff led the way to a Slandik vessel he had arranged to use for the night. He’d purchased the entire cargo, bought the sailors aboard several rounds of drinks, and hired a few mercenaries he knew well to stand guard.
Ashcliff strode along the gangplank and noticed Lynneare hesitate briefly at the dock. Ashcliff turned a concerned look to Lynneare, who responded with a casual wave of his hand.
“There was a freshwater current flowing through just now,” Lynneare said, smiling. “It has passed.”
They proceeded below deck among the bales of furs, barrels of salted fish, and casks of whale and bear oil. Once in private, Ashcliff bowed low, and Lynneare dropped his magical illusions.
“You have paid very well in the past, and thus, I am ever at your service, sire,” Ashcliff said.
“I offer you coin,” Lynneare said as he studied Ashcliff’s expressions carefully. “However, I offer you something more than that, as well.”
Lynneare could easily read the young Shadow Blade’s mind, if he chose to. However, he also wanted to gauge the skill of this fledgling assassin as well. He had proven himself valuable to Lynneare in the past, but what Lynneare had in mind for him now would require remarkable precision and excellence without flaw.
Ashcliff maintained a passive expression. He knew that many who sought the services of the Shadow Blades hoped to barter with them after a fashion, knowing they couldn’t afford the high fees demanded by the assassins’ guild. However, Lynneare, the First Cursed, the Original Betrayer, the Warlock of the Marshes, was not just anyone. If he offered something of value, it would indeed be intriguing.
“Your master will be approached about a contract, if his services haven’t already been engaged,” Lynneare continued in his rich, smooth voice. “It will put him in a position to work contrary to my interests. Will that be a problem for you?”
Ashcliff had great respect for Lynneare, for he’d seen him accomplish amazing feats in addition to his well-established reputation. Yet, he’d seen nothing to indicate Lynneare had the ability to spy on One of the Twelve, on a Shadow Blade Master.
Ashcliff started to open his mouth but froze. He prayed he had not given anything away in face or posture. Lynneare could read his thoughts, of course, but Ashcliff would know if he were. The realization of what Lynneare must have done to divine his Master Ashdow’s plans struck Ashcliff like a blast of freezing water to the genitals.
Ashcliff had been the one to retrieve the Hourglass of Time from the ruins of Nolcavanor in Lynneare’s service in the first place. He had been the one to return the mighty artifact to the vampire; however, he had no idea Lynneare would have found a way of using it, and so quickly.
Roland, the boy who had actually touched the Hourglass, had aged decades in seconds, and he was, as far as Ashcliff could tell, pure of heart and purpose. The event had given Roland some sort of precognition, some ability to glimpse near future events, but nothing the likes of what Lynneare must have done to spy on a Master Shadow Blade.
For a moment, a brief moment, Ashcliff wondered if he might be able to learn how to manipulate the potent tool of the gods. He dismissed that thought the moment it occurred to him. He had survived thus far by being very pragmatic. He intended to continue his survival for as long as possible.
“Are you asking me to act directly against him?” Ashcliff asked although he thought he knew the answer.
“No,” Lynneare said as he began to stroll about the cargo and absently examine the facets of the Slandik vessel. “Noth
ing like that. It is your custom, I believe, that you cannot act directly against a master until such time as you seek to unseat him.”
“That’s not exactly correct, but close enough, yes,” Ashcliff replied. “And, to answer your question, it is not a problem for me unless you find that you do need me to act against my master.”
“Excellent,” Lynneare said with a smile as he produced a black leather pack from seemingly thin air. “You will need these. We will be burglarizing the Blue Tower.”
“The Blue Tower?” Ashcliff asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “The same Blue Tower south across the channel from Broken Time? The same Blue Tower occupied by the greatest, and most dangerous, wizards and sorcerers of the last thousand years?”
“Yes, that one.”
“We?”
“Yes. My daughter will be joining us. I believe you’ve met.”
Ashcliff did not hide the curl of his lip into a sneer as Dactlynese entered the hull.
Chapter II
Strange Bedfellows
“You failed to mention your friend, the inquisitor, was so tenacious,” Jonas said as he rummaged through his pack for the last of their jerky.
“He’s a Silver Helm and a King’s Inquisitor,” Dunewell responded. “What did you expect?”
Jonas rode their single mount, a horse stolen from a farmhouse six days prior, while Dunewell walked along next to him on the trail. Technically the horse had been purchased, for Jonas had left a few gold coins in place of its feed sack in the barn, but Dunewell was quick to point out that, in absence of consent, the removal of property was indeed theft.
Split Town was several months behind them now, and Ranoct had quite effectively, and literally, loosed the hounds upon their trail. They were a few hundred leagues north of Ostbier, home to the palace of King Eirsett, and moving northeast to skirt the wildlands. The night before they spent in a campsite last used a few years prior when three boys chased spies toward the ruins of Nolcavanor.