Whetstones of the Will

by R J Hanson

  Within an hour, they had a comfortable fire going, stew comprised of what was left in their packs was cooking, and the horses had been rubbed down, fed, and were now grazing on winter rye. Jonas poured stew into his cup, even though he’d been taking small bites for hours from their other stores Dunewell observed and drank it with the evident appreciation of a warm meal that only an old soldier can demonstrate. Dunewell began to order his thoughts and anticipate the different possible arguments Maloch and Jonas might make, and settle his own mind about what he had learned thus far. When he felt ready for this conversation with Jonas and Maloch, Dunewell looked up only to find Jonas quietly snoring as he sat against the base of a tree, empty cup still in his hand.

  Dunewell turned to see the smile on Maloch’s face.

  “He must have been exhausted to choose sleep over his chance to rake me over the coals,” Maloch said, still sporting his wry grin. “Give me an hour to meditate, and then I will watch for you both.”

  Dunewell nodded and took up his hammer and cloak as Maloch sat and pulled his feet to cross in front of him and begin his trance. Dunewell wrapped himself in his heavy cloak, poured himself one more cup of stew, and walked out from the campfire. He kept his eyes and ears trained on the dark that surrounded them, alert for potential dangers, and let his under-mind monitor them. This freed his upper-mind for thought.

  He had worked out his plans the day before and knew the dangers of second-guessing oneself. Thus, he let those rest and sent his mind to thoughts of Lady Belyska. Thinking of her had the same effect as a warm hearth during a winter’s gale. He knew it was fruitless, but in the pain of knowing she was lost to him, there was also the comfort of his love for her, and hers for him.

  During his walk, Dunewell discovered a small stream that flowed casually from one of the higher points around the crou-mountva, across the back third of the small valley, and disappeared through a tunnel at the base of another cliff face. He drank deeply from the stream, both quenching his thirst and refreshing Whitburn. After another long draft, Dunewell led the horses to the stream and allowed them a good long drink as well.

  Dunewell walked the perimeter almost ten times before Maloch offered to assume the watch. Dunewell downed another cup of stew and rolled himself into a heavy blanket taken from one of the warhorses. Peaceful, contented sleep came for him for the first time in a long time.

  Dunewell awoke to the smell of roasting meat and boiling coffee; how he had missed the smell, the taste, of good coffee. He rose and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as Maloch handed him what he guessed was a roasted pigeon, and Jonas poured a cup of coffee.

  “Are we ready for our palaver, then?” Dunewell asked as he took a sip from the cup.

  “It may be shorter than you two anticipate,” Jonas said, causing Dunewell some concern about what Jonas presumed might shorten it. “My nephew’s wedding you attended earlier this year, he wed Clairenese, did he not?”

  Maloch’s eyes closed, and he let go a slight sigh. He had hoped to solidify a relationship with these two before they learned of the others with which he was allied. Dunewell’s expression made it clear he did not recognize the name, or what it indicated.

  “She’s the daughter of the Warlock of the Marshes, the Original Betrayer, Lynneare,” Jonas said, taking his eyes from Maloch to glance at Dunewell and ensure his news was given its proper weight. “Lynneare, who was once the Supreme Pontiff of Time and priest to this one here. Lynneare, whose absolute vanity brought the Battles of Rending upon our ancestors.”

  Jonas gestured toward Maloch with his coffee cup upon making that point. Then Jonas paused to take a long drink from the steaming mug and give Maloch time to interject or offer some weak explanation. To his credit, Maloch remained seated and calmly sipped coffee from his cup and waited for Jonas to finish.

  “That being the case, and knowing that a few powerful paladins of Time can manipulate it, but only the priests of Time can foretell it, I assume it is Lynneare who has cast those powerful spells. That would mean that he has found a way to somehow repair his relationship with Father Time and, I’m guessing here, that my foolish nephew also gave him the Hourglass that holds the Sands of Time. How am I doing?”

  Maloch sipped his coffee and nodded.

  “How could you have learned so much in such short time and while surrounded by drow?” Dunewell asked, letting his curiosity get the better of him.

  “In my travels, I have discovered other powers of mentalism which very few understand, and even fewer can practice,” Jonas said. “Some allow me to communicate over vast distances with my network of spies and informants. Furthermore, the Hourglass of which I spoke was taken from Nolcavanor not long ago by that same nephew of mine. Some of the drow in your hole talked of the day you lost the duel to him and then let him just walk out of your lands. Thus, it is not a terrible leap of reasoning to deduce he offered the Hourglass as a dowry for the hand of Lynneare’s youngest daughter. Since Lynneare’s other children have all betrayed him in their own ways, it makes his son-in-law heir to whatever cursed treasures rest in his vaults. Thus, Maloch here hopes that my ties to a family member I’ve never met will influence me to join with them, or at least aid them in securing your help.”

  Jonas sat back, clearly proud of himself, and believing the matter resolved. His facial expression changed only slightly when he heard what Maloch had to say, but just enough for Dunewell to notice it.

  “That is sound reasoning,” Maloch admitted. “You would have made a fine drow or treacherous warlock yourself, for you have the outlook and the heart for it. You have hunted assassins and even Shadow Blades. You, Dunewell, have been a King’s Inquisitor and a fine one at that. So, watch me now and tell me if you detect any lie in what I’m about to say. Lynneare does have the Hourglass and has used the Sands of Time, a feat only possible if one be in the good graces of Father Time. Your nephew married Lady Clairenese because he loves her and for no other reason. No dowry or offering of any sort was made by either side beyond the vows of love and protection exchanged between the bride and groom. Slythorne is a great evil, and we want to help you destroy him. We will likely need your brother, Silas, to cooperate with us, for we will need his mistress’s help. Make no mistake, we will hunt Slythorne no matter what you decide, but our hunt stands the best chance of success if we join together. Otherwise, many will likely die.”

  Dunewell nodded his agreement and was surprised to hear Jonas scoff. Jonas rose from the camp, quaffed the remainder of his coffee, and stepped away quickly toward the horses. He saddled his horse with practiced speed and efficiency and then rode back toward the small camp.

  “I take you’re with them?” Jonas asked Dunewell.

  “Yes,” Dunewell said, not surprised that Jonas disapproved but stunned by his rash and rude behavior.

  “Then, luck to you both,” Jonas said as he reined his horse from the camp and trotted off into the morning frost.

  Chapter VII

  Fresh Scent

  On a moonless night, when the chill in the air cut a man to the bone, a heavy fog rolled over the docks and streets of Moras. The sailors knew the fog wasn’t natural. Priests of failing faith quailed in their slumber, unsure what evil troubled their shriveled hearts. The watchmen of Moras instinctively patrolled in pairs this night, and even the boldest of rogues found a crowded hearth or boisterous tavern where they might sulk in the corner, in relative safety. Slythorne, now so far removed from the Master Templar Truthorne that had been, walked the pale marble streets of the city as a roaring lion might stroll unafraid among the rabbits of the field.

  Slythorne and Ashdow, sometimes known as Jasper Marshal of Levon and, in another time, called Kelmut the Fierce, arrived together in this great northern city of commerce. Ashdow, owing to a tradition of his guild, refused to make a move within Moras until he had made contact with another of his number there. It seemed a matter of courtesy that they notify one another when operating in an area previously claimed. Furthermore, Ashdow
had expressed a desire to meet with this Lady Evalynne before beginning the tasks set before him by Slythorne.

  Thus, Slythorne walked these passages alone. The feeble light from the lanterns lining the street seemed to shy away from his charcoal overcoat, and high-top boots of black leather. Even the finely crafted breastplate of mercshyeld he wore all but refused to give off a glint in the close atmosphere. Slythorne walked with his left elbow resting on the hilt of his beautiful longsword, which bore the crest of that all but extinct family that history had forgotten.

  He tested the air with his nose and his tongue, seeking signs of his lost and lovely Dru. He could taste the fear in a paladin’s sweat, and smell the urine that stained a cleric’s vestments. He detected the sweet scent of a maiden virgin’s first castoff of blood, signaling her entry to womanhood. He noted the acrid tinge of a hearty inquisitor’s adrenaline as his quarry maneuvered nearby.

  Slythorne walked past an archway that led to a small garden, covered in snow now. His thoughts, his memories, returned to a time when the roses in that garden, famous roses, were in bloom, and a boy templar walked with a young girl. He thought of a time when this city went by another name. Those memories saddened, darkened, when he thought about the last day he spent in that long-ago city. The last day he walked the surface of Stratvs free of the scorn of the gods. The last day he spent as a man.

  Father Time and Mother Fate had seen fit to destroy his House with famine and war. As his thoughts drifted to his lineage, his thumb traced over the crest embossed on the hilt of his dagger; the twin spears behind the two-headed dragon; the meaningless crest of a forgotten family. On that day, the last day of Ivory Rose, the gods smote the last son of that lost line.

  Anger welled within him in a flash, a violent rage that he quelled with no small strength of will. He had wasted decades, centuries, pounding the sky and the stone in anger at those now mute deities. He had screamed, wept, raged, and lain fallow.

  He would not be taken from again. He would allow no loss. He was Slythorne, master vampire and Lanceilier, once of the Old Code. It was for him, and him alone, to summon and dismiss. It was time to see that his Lady Dru understood that.

  Slythorne could smell her too, although very faint. He could feel that she’d spent much time here, or near the city. She had been a wonderful companion, but she never understood how complete her life could be if she would simply obey. She was the most brilliant person Slythorne had ever known, and yet she couldn’t understand the basic fact that her obedience would lead to her happiness.

  There was another smell, a unique taste, somehow tied to Dru’s scent. Slythorne let his nose lead him as he strolled through the dim marble streets of Moras. His feet brought him to a manor, some paltry estate with the name Morosse in twisted iron over the gate. Part of the trail was here, but this was only one branch of this dead tree and was missing something… dark. He had no doubts he could convince some servant to invite him inside but decided that would likely be a waste of time and effort.

  Slythorne continued through the byways and alleys of Moras, taking great care to avoid the flowing waters of the channels, of course. Master vampire and Lanceilier he might be, but some laws even he had to obey. The next trace of Dru and this other contaminant he detected was across one of these channels and off to the southwest. He took a moment to memorize his surroundings, although such precautions had become second nature to the well-traveled Slythorne.

  Then, in no particular hurry for the long centuries had taught him to be patient, he strolled to the southeast, toward the city wall. The route took him far out of the way, but the wall was no barrier to those as skilled in the use of magic as he. With hardly a glance from Slythorne, the minds of the guards posted along the wall went blank as their jaws hung slack from their faces. Slythorne, already appearing as barely a shadow, faded and faded until his corporeal form was no longer in the plane of the living. In this ethereal state, Slythorne passed through the indomitable marble of the city wall as though it was no more than a vapor.

  Slythorne then continued in this non-corporeal state and drifted past the small farms and ranches just outside the city wall. He remained on his southeast course until he was a few leagues into the mountains beyond the city. Once far beyond the stone of Moras, its streets honeycombed with passages and caverns, Slythorne approached the stream that flowed out of the mountain range and became the channel that surged through the marble foundations below. The presence of the symbol of life was poignant, and he could feel its course through the rock of the mountainside.

  Slythorne resumed his physical state and summoned only a small portion of his immense power to bring force to bear on a few rocks from above. In short order, there was a tumble, although Slythorne’s magic ensured the movement was silent, and several large stones began to dislodge. The stones, caught in the air by the force of Slythorne’s will, were lowered to the stream, now much tamer. As the flow of water slowed to a stop, Slythorne stepped across the waterworn surfaces to the west side of the stream. Once secure there, Slythorne turned the stones to dust with barely a thought. The stream began to flow once more, and no one would notice any change in the city far below.

  Slythorne took on his non-corporeal form once more and traveled back into the city. After only a few moments, the scent he was following led him to an unusual and confusing sight. The dirt had been turned, but a large structure had burned to the ground here, and within the past year or two. Many had died, most were children, but that was only part of the darkness he sensed here. There was… not torture, not precisely, but some sort of prolonged and intentionally inflicted pain.

  Nearby there were traces of an odor he’d not encountered since Nolcavanor was cast down, not since the day of Slythorne’s curse. He detected the barest remnants of the Lord of Order’s stink. He had teased the boy in Split Town whose mind he’d invaded but didn’t really wish to be bogged down with the likes of a Lord of Order. Slythorne had no illusions about their potential. The presence of that smell now confirmed the other dark scent he’d followed, that of a Chaos Lord. Slythorne was also well aware of how dangerous a Chaos Lord could be. Any individual that could master a fallen champion was one worth considering, and not one to underestimate.

  Order and Chaos had done battle here. Slythorne didn’t understand it, but knew this spot, this location, was somehow important. He took great care in committing the details of this spot to memory.

  A Lord of Chaos, it made sense, of course. To his knowledge, there had never been one without another, but there was something different about these two. The fact that they originated in the same city was unusual, for legend had it, they were formed only when separated by great distances. They were, of course, inexorably drawn to one another, but many times that had taken decades. There was something else, something he was missing.

  He decided he must put Ashdow on this trail, to learn of this Chaos Lord and his ties to the Lord of Order. Ashdow’s tasks were beginning to stack up; however, Slythorne had complete confidence in him. After all, the wily assassin had managed to evade Jonas of Ozur these many years.

  Just as he was leaving, just as he was allowing his mind to chew over the implications of Order and Chaos engaged in personal combat, he caught her scent. Her trace was mixed with the more potent smell of young blood; boys, no older than ten or perhaps twelve. He had almost missed the traces of her in the overriding succulence of such young blood. Boys, two, maybe as many as four, had been on her trail; had stood in a location to which she had teleported. The traces of her magic were mingled with the vibrant taste of youth.

  As the sun struggled against the cloudy winter morning at the edges of the eastern peaks, Slythorne lowered himself into a cavern beneath the awakening streets of Moras. He drank in the smell, the taste, of Dru’s magic that lingered in the air. He now picked up a new smell that only slightly tinted her trail; the smell of drow.

  Slythorne had kept himself to a circuit among the western portions of Lethanor, the islands
of the Disputed Isles, and the cities of Lavon and Degra these last few centuries. The territories to the northeast held far too many memories for him. Thus, he was not terribly familiar with the territories surrounding Moras. The mountains nearby were prominent, and he was well aware of the elven forest of secot wood to the south. Being among the originally cursed, and having developed the powers of that curse, Slythorne was troubled by sunlight, but not so much so that he had to avoid it altogether. Young vampires were verily destroyed by Merc’s great kiln. Slythorne’s skin would turn, and over time develop a rash, from contact with common silver, but the only metal that could slay him was pure Roarke’s Ore, and it was rare enough. Weapons of bone and wood were ridiculous, with two distinct exceptions. Churchwood, if prepared properly, could end his existence, and sectot wood, any simple branch of sectot wood, could destroy him. Thus, he was well aware of the vast forest, the only forest, where it grew.

  As to the connection to the drow, the mountains surrounding Moras provided plenty of possibilities, an abundance of possibilities, and that thread would have to be explored in another way. Perhaps Ashdow could learn something from the fair Lady Evalynne in that regard as well. The stubborn assassin refused to allow Slythorne to enter his thoughts to communicate with him mentally; thus, Slythorne would have to return to their inn. He took a moment to memorize this place under the dark stone of Moras, and to be certain of the smell of the boys.

  Then Slythorne closed his eyes and envisioned his room at Despion’s Rest, the inn belonging to House Despion. He saw in his mind’s eye the greens and browns of the curtains and bedding, a color scheme in keeping with House Despion’s trademark. Slythorne didn’t care for the colors, but the innkeepers had taken an extra step in hospitality by placing a wooden shingle upon each door of the inn, which simply read, ‘welcome.’ To a person in his position, well, he did much prefer being welcomed; his curse required it.