by R J Hanson
“Yes, yes,” Jonas said, not looking up from the pack. “Ranoct Siege-breaker, Arrow-eater, Dragon-slayer. I get it, but I had hoped, being that you two were friends, he might not pursue with such vigor.”
“Have you truly been at your skulking and skullduggery so long that you have forgotten what it means to uphold an oath?” Dunewell asked, as the irritation that had been mounting in him made its way to his tongue. “Have you forgotten what it is to be a Silver Helm?”
Jonas jerked his head around to Dunewell but caught his bitter words in his mouth before they escaped it. He remembered his first years on the road in pursuit of Slythorne and his assassins. He remembered those lonely days of doubting the nature of his soul and his disgust at his own actions and thoughts. He remembered the drunkenness that almost consumed him, and the severe bouts of rage. He remembered feeling lost, feeling alone, and feeling angry that his life as a soldier and a knight had been stolen from him. That had been over eighty years ago, and here he was, still on this course to avenge her death.
How long had it been since he’d really spent any time thinking of her, of his Giselle? Of course, Jonas thought about her daily, but only to keep the fire of rage alive in his heart. He rarely thought about all the wonderful things that made Giselle who she was, likely because he had no one to talk to about her. Who could understand?
Velryk, of course, would understand, for he’d lost two wives, but Jonas had burned that bridge long ago.
“Perhaps…” Jonas began but then paused.
The pause was brief, but Dunewell, a trained interrogator, noted it.
“Perhaps I’m just lost in the woods,” Jonas said as his hand folded the top of the pack closed and then came to rest upon the dagger at his waist. “Perhaps, because my heart no longer points true north, I have come to find myself deep in the shadows of dying trees.”
“Very poetic, Lord Jonas,” a baritone voice said from somewhere a few yards to the south of them. “Inquisitor Dunewell, you’ll have no need of that hammer you so cleverly drew and now conceal under your cloak. I mean neither of you any harm.”
Dunewell took a few steps to the side of the game trail they’d been following. Jonas turned in the saddle so that his body hid his dagger and the hand that hovered near it, from the voice in the shadows. Both watched the shadows for several heartbeats, but neither saw more than the shadow of a tall man wearing a cloak that blended well with the dark recesses of the thick wood and underbrush. They both noted the dark figure hold his hands out far to the side which revealed the shape of two sword hilts at his waist. Dunewell and Jonas both checked the other trees nearby, and a rocky outcropping almost one hundred yards, away for others that might be preparing to ambush them.
Jonas had not taken the time to reforge his longsword, his WarriorBlade, and the pieces of it had been left behind in Bolthor. Forging a new one would take time, materials, and there were spells he had to prepare and cast. He had planned on having the materials brought aboard ship and taking his time during their sea voyage to make a new weapon that would respond to his particular set of spells and enchantments. Unfortunately, thanks to Ranoct’s pursuit, that was not to be. Now Jonas desperately wished he’d taken the time or risked going into a city to forge a new blade. He did not take great comfort in the short sword and lone dagger that he now carried.
“There are no others,” the voice from the shadows said. “I will step into the open, but I think we should converse for a moment first.”
“Why is that?” Dunewell asked, genuinely curious.
Dunewell thought the dark figure could be stalling and waiting for friends to get into position, but he was confident, in this dense forest, they would hear them coming. Furthermore, he was sure they could escape them, however many there were, in the underbrush and wild country around them.
It’s beginning to happen to me, Dunewell thought. I’m starting to think like HIM. I’m thinking about escape and evade rather than confront and capture!
That is the path we are on now, Whitburn thought/said in reply. Nothing remains the same. All things change. Do not be afraid of the growth that comes with it.
“You may find my appearance upsetting,” the shadow said. “Just the same, I hope to assure you that you may trust me.”
“Then you waste your breath and our time,” Jonas said evenly. “Step forward, speak your peace, and let us get on with this whole matter.”
Several slow moments passed as the shadows deepened with the waning of daylight. A breeze stirred the dead leaves of the ground, and the sound of leather creaking resonated through the air as Jonas’s stolen horse shifted its weight from one leg to the other.
The dark figure within the shadows moved slowly, deliberately, from under cover of the trees; his hands still held wide.
“I come to ask you to help me in Nolcavanor,” he said as he continued to move forward. “In return, I will help you find and destroy Slythorne.”
Jonas had been bothered that this chap had managed to get as close to them as he had without him knowing. Jonas had been even more perturbed when this stranger, whoever he was, called Jonas by name. As far as Jonas knew, there were only three other people in the world that knew he hunted Slythorne. Slythorne, the assassin Slythorne had used, and Dunewell. As Jonas was coming to grips with the disturbing fact that the man in the shadows also knew about that, the man stepped forward.
When Jonas saw that he was no man at all, but a drow, he became even more concerned.
“I am Maloch, no longer of the Black Lance,” Maloch said with a slight bow.
As Maloch bent forward, his long white hair spilled out of the hood he wore. He raised one hand slowly and pushed back his cowl to reveal his ebony skin and shining white eyes. Dunewell twisted his war hammer in his hands and scanned their surroundings once again. He’d faced drow in Tarborat and knew they were fond of their tricks, deceptions, and ambushes.
Why did I not sense him? Dunewell thought/said.
He isn’t evil, Whitburn replied. Perhaps he was once, but he no longer bears the aura. I’d like to kill him too, but I think we should hear him out. He has the scent of Father Time’s power and will.
“I bet you have an interesting story to tell,” Dunewell said, hoping his tone would help to calm Jonas.
Dunewell did not miss the fact that Maloch’s shrou-shelds bore the symbol of the Hourglass on their hilts in purest Roarke’s Ore. It could be part of the deception, but if that were the case, it was a very expensive prop.
“I do,” Maloch said, nodding. “I also have a few fresh rabbits, potatoes, and carrots if you would prefer a fresh stew to more… trail food.”
The drow said the words ‘trail food’ with obvious disdain for the dried fruit and scraps of jerky remaining in their pack.
“I don’t think I’ll be eating anything a drow brings me or prepares for me,” Jonas said. “I know of the Black Lance, and I know your name. You’ve been on the front in Tarborat. I understand you once crossed swords with Ingshburn’s captain, Verkial, and with Lord Bessett’s general, Lord Velryk.”
“That is true,” Maloch said. “I have crossed swords with many, including your nephew, the young Sir Roland. I also attended his wedding as a guest this past summer.”
Jonas and Dunewell both scanned Maloch for signs of deception, and both were unnerved when they noted none. Both thought it more likely meant the drow had lied to them, and they were unable to detect it rather than him actually telling the truth.
“I suppose that means Roland is no more honorable than his older brother,” Jonas said. “For who else would have a drow attend a goat skinning as a friend, much less his own wedding.”
Maloch sighed. He had known this would be difficult. In fact, he’d argued with Lynneare about it for days. Yet, no one had drawn blood thus far, and that was much better than he’d expected.
Dunewell, already guessing some relation, now had the proof his inquisitor’s mind sought. Jonas and Velryk were brothers. Jonas was Verkia
l’s uncle and uncle to this Roland, whoever he was.
“In truth is was honor, his honor, that has brought us to the unusual set of circumstances and has given us a chance to avoid almost certain doom,” Maloch said. “I will not tell what that doom is, nor will I entertain any questions about it save to say this, it could be the end of all goodly kingdoms. I am here to offer my help and ask for yours.”
Dunewell and Jonas exchanged a curious look and turned back to the drow paladin. After a few moments, Maloch came to realize the odd look was the only response he was going to get thus far, so he continued.
“I once ruled the Black Lance of Nolcavanor. I faced Sir Roland, before he was knighted of course, in the ruins of that long-dead city a short time back,” Maloch said, looking to the mountain range to their west. “He challenged me to a duel under the terms that I allow him and his friends to leave if he should win and offered himself as a slave to me if he should lose. Some of his maneuvers were, shall we say, creative and, in the end, he bested me. I fully expected him to take my life. He did not. He offered me mercy, and I accepted. I spent long hours thinking about that exchange afterward. It showed me… it made me realize how dark my heart had truly become. I decided to make a change in my life. That decision has brought me here, to you.”
Dunewell and Jonas remained unmoved and offered no signs of response other than to listen and wait. Thus, Maloch continued.
“You seek to destroy Slythorne and pursue him to Moras even now. You have likely assumed he would have hired or enthralled help. I tell you that he has, specifically a Master Shadow Blade, among others. You will need help in Moras, and that is something I offer. I ask for your help in striking a blow against the drow that remain in Nolcavanor in exchange for my help with Slythorne.”
“That’s a bit mercenary for a paladin, isn’t it?” Jonas asked.
“A paladin?” Maloch replied simply.
“I know who, or rather what you are Lord Maloch,” Jonas said. “You are a dark Paladin of the UnMaker and his servant of blackest evil. ‘His is the hand that wounds,’ and you are that hand.”
“I was,” Maloch said, surprising Jonas at the mild nature of his tone. “I am guilty of many sins. Sins that go beyond a person’s capacity to forgive. Sins that should doom my soul. For reasons I do not understand, I have been given an opportunity. I have been given a chance, a slim chance, at redemption, but that is not why I am here. I am here because I owe a debt. One that I must find a way to repay.”
“You would sacrifice your life for this redemption; to satisfy this debt?” Jonas asked.
Maloch responded by pulling his heavy tunic aside and unbuckling his mercshyeld breastplate. Maloch lowered the breastplate to the ground, kneeled, and pulled his shirt collar open to expose his bare dark flesh.
Dunewell had a moment to think Maloch was likely bluffing when Jonas called that bluff. Dunewell may have been the only one in the small glad surprised when Jonas, with a quick twist and jerk, hurled dagger for Maloch’s chest. Maloch did not flinch, did not cast a spell, and did not turn away. The dagger struck with deadly accuracy, bringing blood forth from Maloch’s lips and the wound in his breast.
Jonas and Dunewell were both surprised to see the look of serenity that bloomed on Maloch’s face and the smile of contentment that spread across his mouth. As that look spread across his face, Maloch’s body collapsed back to the tangles of dead grass and brown leaves surrounding them.
Dunewell rushed to Maloch’s side, jerked the dagger free, and placed his hand over his wound that was now gushing with drow blood. Dunewell concentrated for several heartbeats and, as he did, a light blue glow emitted from his hand and Maloch’s wound. As the moments slid slowly past, Maloch’s wound closed in on itself, and his eyes fluttered and reopened. Dunewell held him as he began to cough and then sat up. Dunewell helped the drow paladin to his feet.
“That was a risk,” Dunewell said, looking up to Jonas, who still sat his horse unmoving. “It has been some time since I last drank from a river or stream. There’s no way you could have known I would have enough power to heal him.”
“Actually, I forgot you could do that,” Jonas said flatly.
Dunewell clenched his teeth, then opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by the sounds of baying dogs in the distance. Ranoct was much closer than they thought.
“It would seem turning to the west, toward Nolcavanor is your only sound option,” Maloch said as he wiped blood from his lips. “If you go north, you only move out onto the open plain where they will surely run you down. If you turn east, the outcome would be the same. They come from the south.”
Jonas cut his eyes at Maloch.
“West it is,” Dunewell said, not wishing to face Ranoct or any of his men.
Dunewell had taken an oath, three actually, to never take an innocent life. Ranoct and his men were innocent and only sought to carry out their sworn duty. That meant his only options were to escape and evade or be taken to Moras or Ostbier in chains for execution. Dunewell cared for neither of those options.
Dunewell picked up Maloch’s breastplate and handed it to him. Maloch offered him a brief smile and began strapping it in place. As Jonas and Dunewell started westward, they both paused and turned back around at the sound of Maloch casting a spell.
Maloch produced a Roarke’s Ore Hourglass symbol from his gauntlet, kissed it, and began to pray. As he did so, a shimmer in the air, much like the heat rising over the desert stretches of western Tarborat, began form to their south. In moments that shimmer ran beyond their vision in a semi-circle covering the north and east as well.
Jonas had seen that sort of enchanted prayer only once before in all his exotic and lengthy travels. In laymen’s terms, it was a time trap. Only those in tune with the will of Father Time were reputed to be able to cast it. Jonas still held to his suspicions of this drow but had to admit the power of that spell, if only to himself.
“Will that hurt them?” Dunewell asked.
“No,” Maloch said with a bit of a wounded look on his face. “I would not hurt them, for they only seek to honor their oaths, oaths given to serve justice. The prayer will only delay them. When they leave the area, no time will have passed as far as they will know or be able to tell, however, four days will have come and gone.”
“So, this gives us a four day lead on them?” Dunewell asked.
“Yes.”
“I have no problem killing drow,” Jonas said as he eyed his stew and then watched and waited for Maloch to eat a spoonful from his own bowl.
Jonas sat with his back against a large tree, and his packs stacked up high to his right. To the casual eye, it appeared an arrangement so that he could recline and have a windbreak. Dunewell and Maloch were not casual observers and knew Jonas had arranged things just so to provide some basic cover should they be ambushed in their encampment, perhaps by drow conspirators. The smell of the stew caused Jonas’s undisciplined stomach to growl loudly, for it had been weeks since either he or Dunewell had eaten a hot meal or enjoyed the warmth of a campfire. Tonight, they had the opportunity to savor both.
“Clearly,” Dunewell interrupted, still perturbed at Jonas for trying to kill Maloch earlier.
Dunewell squatted next to the fire. He made sure to remain in a position so that he could intervene between Jonas and Maloch if the situation called for it. He gulped his stew with the mechanical habit of a career soldier.
“As I was saying,” Jonas continued, unconcerned with Dunewell’s disdain. “I have no problem with that, but what I don’t understand is why we’re only weakening them and not killing them all.”
“It is part of a larger plan,” Maloch said after swallowing his bite of rabbit stew. “If we kill them all, then others will become suspicious and may change the course of events. But we cannot leave them at full strength either.”
“Course of events?” Dunewell asked.
“Father Time,” Jonas put in. “Priests and paladins of his are always worried about
the ‘course of events.’”
“He does grant some glimpses of possible futures to a chosen few,” Maloch said as he ladled another bite of stew from his bowl. “You know this to be true.”
“And this assistance you offer regarding Slythorne?” Jonas asked, still clearly suspicious.
“I was there when he committed his act of betrayal,” Maloch said as his white eyes drifted up toward the stars and looked back over thousands of years. “I knew him then, and I know his heart now. I understand his curse, for I was in the room when Father Time smote him. I was there when the Master Templar, Truthorne, died, and the creature, Slythorne, was created. You have hunted him for a few decades. I have known him for millennia. I know the name of the assassin he hired, and I know his tactics. I know why you hunt them and can tell you now the name of the one that killed your Giselle.”
Dunewell started at the revelation, but Jonas did not even bat an eye.
“What makes you think I would believe anything you had to say?” Jonas asked coolly.
“I have earned your mistrust; your abuse and derision even,” Maloch said. “Perhaps in time I will be blessed with the opportunity to show you.”
“I suppose we’ll see,” Jonas said as he took a small bite of his stew.
“You fought Velryk and survived?” Dunewell asked, hoping to both change the direction of this conversation and to gain more information. Information that Jonas would likely not part with easily. “Then attended the wedding of his son?”
“I faced Lord Velryk in battle, yes,” Maloch said, nodding and thinking back to his days in Tarborat. “I also fought General Verkial. They were both strong, and skilled. However, I wielded the power of the UnMaker at the time and was a formidable foe, not without my tricks.”
“Your friendship with his son, Sir Roland, that is why you were invited to his wedding, even in Lord Velryk’s presence?” Dunewell asked, pleased with himself.
Dunewell noted Jonas’s twist, as if he were sitting on a sharp pebble or a stick gouged at his back. Every time the words ‘Lord Velryk’ were uttered, it drove a bur under Jonas’s saddle. Dunewell thought Jonas could do with a bit of discomfort. Dunewell’s observations of Jonas were interrupted by Maloch’s pause and sigh. Dunewell had inadvertently hit upon something. But what?