by R J Hanson
“I understand that this Slythorne is a vampire,” Silas said, hoping to change the subject, and hoping this topic would not again raise the ire of his mistress. “Is there anything you would tell me that might serve to defeat him?”
“He was a Master Templar before he became a vampire,” Dru said, with a resigned sigh. She knew this conversation would have to come. “Thus, he’s a master of the blade as well as a gifted spell caster. He was there the day Lynneare led them all astray. He was the second to be cursed. Vampires vary in capability and strength. I am more powerful than most because of the arcane magic I’ve studied and the fact that I was turned by one of the original vampires. We are notoriously difficult to kill. A skilled hand can incapacitate us, but destroying us is another matter altogether.”
Silas took a step closer and tried to hide his excitement. Lady Dru had taught him a great deal, but there were a few topics that she rarely discussed. Silas, always hungry for knowledge, had labored to avoid making himself a nuisance but was very eager to learn any detail about the unusual race.
Many had classified the state of vampirism as a curse and others as a disease; however, Silas had classified them as a race, a species, all their own. For he was aware that a few scholars theorized that some were able to produce offspring by coupling with other vampires and, on rare occasions, coupling with humans. This possibility fascinated him, but Lady Dru’s reluctance to reveal much about vampirism had frustrated him. He attempted to conceal that frustration, and indeed had much more to learn regarding a myriad of other topics that would occupy his time. Not the least of which was combat with blade and magic.
“Slythorne’s alternate form is a knot, or nest of vipers,” Dru went on, still not looking up from her book. “We cannot cast spells from our alternate forms, but we are also nearly invulnerable in those forms.”
“You mean to say you can, innately, change to another creature, another type of being?”
“Yes. Lord Lynneare’s form is, of course, a black dragon; the modern symbol for betrayal.”
“Ah, how poetic,” Silas said without realizing the lighthearted nature of his tone. “The dragon was once the symbol for undying loyalty as the gods only granted dragons to their most loyal subjects as mounts. When the dragons sided with the humans during the Battles of Rending, that changed the perception. Now the symbol is the dark mark of a betrayer. Interestingly enough, the term dragonslayer can alternately mean…”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
“Sorry, my Lady.”
“As I was saying, the Warlock of the Marshes can become a black dragon, although I’m not aware of any instances of that happening in centuries, not since the death of his first wife. I can shift my physical form to that of a cluster of spiders, Portia to be specific. Our different forms allow us different capabilities. For instance, as a cluster of spiders, I can scatter toward every point on the compass, slip through the slightest of cracks, and virtually vanish. Furthermore, lexxmar can do nothing to inhibit the changing ability.”
“An interesting fact about the Portia jumping spider; they have displayed tendencies to learn from…” Silas stopped short when he noticed Dru’s jaw muscles begin to clench. “Wouldn’t the spiders be easy to kill, though?” Silas asked, as his mind began down a different path, running through possibilities regarding a knot of vipers.
“Individually, I suppose. However, to incapacitate a vampire, you must destroy the entirety of their alternate form. Of course, each one that dies before I change back causes injury, but nothing significant.”
“Do you perceive your surroundings through the means these creatures, these forms, normally use?”
“Yes,” Dru replied, finally taking her eyes from her book to look at Silas.
She closed the tome and gestured to the seat across from her. Silas bowed again and moved quickly to the chair. He took the liberty of pouring a glass of bloodwine for each of them and then sat quietly, waiting as patiently as he could stand. Lady Dru accepted her glass, favored him with a brief smile, and took a deep drink.
“Understanding the world around you from that perspective takes some practice,” Dru continued, clearly more comfortable now. “It took me years to simply move around a room as a cluster of spiders.”
Dru took another long drink and then seemed to resolve some inner conflict. Her eyes set with the determination of someone who had decided a vital matter. She sighed again and continued.
“To truly destroy one such as Slythorne, you must first disable him, as I’ve said. Then he must be decapitated, his mouth stuffed with holy wafers, his body washed in holy water, and his heart spiked with churchwood, sectot wood, or a blade of roarkor. Once that’s all been done, his head and his body must be buried underneath two different sources of running water. It is no easy feat to halt the flow of a river, one that you can count on to continue to flow for centuries, so that you may bury the important parts of his corpse.”
“If the Warlock is powerful enough to seize all of us the way he did near the Blue Tower, then why doesn’t he handle Slythorne on his own?”
Silas had pondered this very question for some time. He had some idea how powerful his mistress was, and Warlord Verkial was no young pup. Lynneare had taken control of all of them without showing the slightest bit of effort. Yet, he had come to them asking for help, or, when Silas thought about it, had come to them demanding they comply with a bargain. Silas understood some of the unique laws of nature that bound those of the vampiric race and thought that Lynneare’s need for a stalking horse must have something to do with those unusual relationships between vampires.
“I don’t know, not for certain,” Dru said as her eyes drifted up to a dark corner near the ceiling. “I believe it has something to do with their curse. They were both holding the Sands of Time when Father Time struck them, or so Slythorne told me. He only spoke of that day once, and I could tell speaking of it, all these centuries later, still pained him. I do know that, over the decades, they have each sent pawns to disrupt the plans of the other, never acting directly against one another.”
“I see,” Silas said as he lowered his eyes a bit. “Do you still care for him?”
“Who? Oh, no, of course not. I never really did. What I loved about Slythorne was an idea of who… of what he was. I never loved him. I suppose I did him a disservice in that regard. But I don’t think he ever really loved me, either. He was attracted to my strength and intellect, but I don’t think he ever appreciated where those came from, their origins. Not truly. His pursuit since has been that of a spoiled child who’s cast-off toy has been stolen. He didn’t want me when he had me and, when I left, he wanted nothing else. He has spent centuries learning to hate the world around him, and decades telling himself that somehow I wronged him. Facing him will be deadly.”
“Has there been any word from the Warlock?” Silas asked, wishing to move Lady Dru’s thoughts from her once-upon-a-time lover.
“Yes, he has the pieces of Drakestone, he has sent someone to bring one to us and is taking the other to Isd’Kislota,” the beautiful vampire said as she gracefully leaned forward and took Silas’s hand. “Verkial will be busy with his preparations and would be of little help against the likes of Slythorne anyway. The Warlock and Dactlynese will join Verkial to assist as they can, and Queen Jandanero has sent her Dark Guardian to Lord Lynneare. There is something else. Other allies are coming. Allies that Lord Lynneare says will be necessary to defeat Slythorne.”
“And?”
“Among them is your brother.”
“We must go immediately,” Silas said as he turned to take up his cloak.
“We cannot run from Slythorne,” Dru cautioned.
“We’re not running,” Silas said as he stopped and turned back to his mistress. “They will capture or kill Dunwell. I can’t let that happen.”
Chapter X
Seeing is Believing
Dunewell took in the cold mountain air and enjoyed the peace that only nigh
t on a remote peak could bring. Having made a deal with a drow to ally with the Original Betrayer and Silas, Dunewell was striving for peace, outward and inward. His intuition, always strong and always to be trusted, had guided him along this path. Yet, the logic of his mind could not be ignored. Fallen paladin, vampire, and a murderer clothed in a demon’s black soul; these were the allies he’d chosen.
Though, of the three, only Silas had been unrepentant. He had seen the evidence of Maloch’s contrition and had the paladin’s word that this Lynneare had guided him to his road of repentance.
“He is here,” Maloch said from behind Dunewell.
“Yes, I know,” Dunewell said, sensing the presence that was not black and not white but a mottled gray of morality. He could sense the struggle with Lynneare.
Both warriors turned toward the small grove of snow-covered pines and stepped in among the shadows.
“Dunewell, Lord of Order, son of Stilwell, this is my daughter,” the Warlock of the Marshes said as they entered a small clearing within the grove. “Dactlynese has her crimes, as do we all, but now she seeks to redeem those wayward years.”
Dunewell looked from the tall, shadow clothed Warlock to the stunning warrior he referred to as his daughter. Her beauty was undeniable, but Dunewell knew a killer’s eyes when he saw them. The way she cut those eyes toward Lynneare when he mentioned her quest for redemption indicated to Dunewell that, perhaps, she wasn’t as interested in forgiveness as the Original Betrayer implied. However, Dunewell, trusting to his intuition and Whitburn’s insights, decided there was more to their hearts than could be seen with the eye.
“So, you will be joining us in our hunt?” Dunewell asked.
“No, our work lies to the west,” Lynneare said in a rich, smooth voice. “Maloch here will deliver this to Lady Dru, also known as Stewardess Delilah of House Morosse.”
Dunewell opened his mouth but held his tongue when Lynneare raised his hand and nodded apologetically.
“You will no doubt have much business to settle after the threat of Slythorne has passed,” Lynneare continued. “However, she is the one he will be drawn to and could prove very useful to you in that regard. Her Chaos Lord, your brother Silas, will likely accompany her. She has given me her word; they will work with you to see Slythorne destroyed.”
Lynneare retrieved a jewel of black and red emerald, roughly the size of an egg, from a pouch on his belt. The jewel was mounted in a setting of gold and hung on a thong of black leather. He handed it to Maloch, who tucked it away into his pouch without hesitation.
Drakestone, came from within Dunewell’s mind.
“You’re also giving this vampire, likely the same one that terrorized Moras, the power to command a dragon?” Dunewell asked, an edge in his voice.
“I am.”
“Why?”
“I am not accustomed to explaining myself,” Lynneare said, almost reflexively adding a magical weight of suggestion to his words. “This is the best course of action.”
Dunewell felt the power of the words rush ashore on his mind as the waves of a violent ocean. Yet, just as those waves, the power receded again.
“Consult your champion,” Lynneare said as he rolled the edge of his cloak to the side to reveal a magnificent Shrou-Hayn and a large box of black wood that had somehow been magically concealed beneath the outer garment.
Lynneare reached across with one delicately muscled hand and, even as he did so, Dunewell’s hammer leapt to his hand with the speed of lightning traversing a dark storm cloud. Dactlynese quick-stepped to the side and, with the jerk of one wrist, swung her mace into her waiting hand. Maloch, standing near to Dactlynese for just such a reason, stepped between her and Dunewell, and lifted his hands to his sides, ready to catch her mace and pull it off course.
“Calm,” Lynneare said as he cast his eye toward his daughter. “Everyone, be calm.”
Lynneare unhooked the large box from his belt and handed it to Maloch. Maloch, keeping one eye on Dactlynese, moved over and extended his arms. Lynneare laid the box across Maloch’s forearms, unfastened the latches, and opened it to reveal the Hourglass within. Lynneare gestured toward the Hourglass.
“It is dangerous to wield if one does not understand and know its ways,” Lynneare said as he took up one side of the Hourglass. “Take the other side, and I will guide you.”
Dunewell transferred his hammer to his left hand and took a moment to look at Maloch. The dark paladin nodded, and Dunewell took the other handle of the Hourglass with any further hesitation.
Time and space flew from his reality. Stratvs fell away on all sides, and he was only a specter floating along a solar wind among the fiercely burning stones of the sky. He looked beneath him to see a living maze spiraling and shifting as it swam into view. He saw faces, some he knew, and bright lines of energy that danced between them and contorted around each other.
Lord of Order, I am here.
Dunewell turned to see the Warlock, not as he knew him, but as he must have been, a tall Great Man of sharp features, lush black hair that shined like a crow’s wing at midnight, strong hands, and a gentle smile.
Your mind can be easily lost in the flow of Time. Take my hand, follow my words, and see what may come.
Lord of Order, he knew his name, but it just slipped from his tongue, reached out for the Pontiff. He took his hand and looked back to the maze that continued to re-write itself before him.
Then he saw. Yet, it was more than seeing. He felt, he experienced, each aspect of the tableau in motion beneath him.
Lord of Order saw the wolf pup, his daughter, standing against enemies bearing the symbol of the serpent, and the horn of the huntsman. Her hair was the same color as her mother’s. He saw a single branch of the many twisted paths spiral out toward his death and the death of all those he loved at the hands of Slythorne, once known as Truthorne. He saw a young man, a Great Man, fall to a huge beast of bone and black magic. He watched as Ingshburn marshaled his forces under Verkial and Daeriv and marched across the fields of Lethanor in the wake of the UnMaker’s greatest weapon. He saw the red raven and white rose crushed in the grip of an unclean serpent. He looked on as Lord Kyhn, bearing another much older Drakestone, sat astride a black dragon and led a cavalry charge against the very walls of Ostbier. He saw a maddened and anguished woman, no, a vampire, rampage throughout a church of Bolvii in the city of Skult. He watched himself hesitate at a fork in his road, a decision between Jonas or Silas.
You have seen. Now, do you understand?
I do, Lord of Order struggled with those two simple words and only now realizing Warlock had been speaking to him for a long time now.
“Catch him,” Maloch said to Dactlynese.
He was nodding toward Lord Lynneare while moving to catch Dunewell himself.
Maloch stumbled back under Dunewell’s considerable weight. After a few moments of staggering bewilderment, Dunewell regained his senses, and his balance.
“How can so many branches contradict the others?” Dunewell managed to ask.
“They are all possibilities,” Lynneare answered in his smooth voice. “The future is always in motion. Our choices, even small ones, cause fluctuations that can be nigh impossible to foresee. The Sands of Time have driven many mad.”
“The shadow I saw, and the unclean serpent…”
“Yes, still possibilities, but already less likely. Daeriv and Kyhn have split from Ingshburn, as has Verkial. The black dragon should now be beyond Kyhn’s reach. However, if Slythorne should survive to unite them, or ally with any of them…”
“Yes. I see now. The young man crushed by the beast, the vampire attacking the church; you know them?”
“Yes.”
“And you love them,” Dunewell asked, but realized the truth of it as the question formed on his lips.
“Yes. Their fate is not yet set.”
“How can I trust you, or trust what I saw?”
“Don’t trust me. That would be foolish. As to trustin
g what you saw. Well, if your heart doesn’t recognize the truth of it, then nothing I can do will persuade you.”
Dunewell nodded and looked to Maloch.
“I assume, given your apparent capabilities, that you could transport us with magic to an area close to Moras?”
“Yes.”
“Can you also get us some rags, preferably flour sacks from Degra?”
Dunewell expected, and accepted, the confused looks he got from each of the other three.
“Yes… I could do that,” Lynneare said, his curiosity plain in his tone.
“Excellent.”
Two hours later, only minutes before sunrise, Dunewell rowed a small boat up to the docks of his home, the magnificent city of Moras. He spotted a pair of watchmen patrolling the dock and made for a cleat near to them to tie off the small boat.
Dunewell’s hair, now dyed black, hung loosely over his eyes, and he was clad in a pair of ragged trousers and a stained shirt. He wore a battered, and likely stolen, seaman’s coat and sat atop a sea-chest that stored his other gear.
Maloch sat across from Dunewell dressed in much the same fashion, his hair and eyebrows also dyed black, with one key exception. Every square inch of Maloch’s skin was wrapped in the clothe of old flour sacks and coated with grease. His weapons and armor were also concealed within the sea-chest.
The watchmen, one younger and of lithe build and the other a bit older and a bit heavier, stopped to regard the two-man crew of the small boat drawing near to them. Dunewell knew it would be close to time for them to report back to Blackstone Hall, which is why he chose this time of morning.
“Look here,” one of the watchmen, the older of the two, called as Dunewell’s small craft drew near to the dock. “What’s all that about, then?”
“You mean them wrappings?” Dunewell tried to mimic the accent Jonas had adopted when portraying himself as a pirate captain but feared his performance was less than convincing.