Fires That Forge, page 11
part #1 of Lords of Order and Chaos Series
His watchman’s uniform and weapons were far behind him; left in his barracks at Blackstone. Now he sported simple wool trousers, miner’s boots, a heavy cloak, a rather showy short sword, and three hidden daggers. The short sword’s main purpose was to draw the eye as an unspoken threat. The hidden daggers were there to make good on that threat if need be.
As he pulled himself over the next ledge of stone, he saw the meeting place ahead of him. It was a small meadow, a Crou-Mountva, hidden within the sharp rocks and mountain goat trails of the range. It was said that ogres often hunted in such meadows because they were concealed from sight and drew in goats and sheep. He didn’t believe ogres would venture this close to the city, although he did wish he had brought something a bit larger than his jeweled short sword.
As he crested the rise, he saw a figure in a brown cloak step out from some small trees about forty yards away. He couldn’t make out the face of the figure from here, but that was the reason for this meeting place after all; anonymity. He struggled to his feet and crossed the island of grass walled by stone.
“I assume you left the note,” Hydern said.
The figure, still in the shadows didn’t respond.
“Look here, I’m a watchman of Moras,” Hydern said, taking on a tone of command. “I haven’t time for nonsense. Your note mentioned business so, let us get to it.”
“A mutual business associate gave me your name,” the dark figure said.
Hydern knew the voice but couldn’t quite place it.
“The man’s name was Kelly.”
The name struck Hydern as surely as thrown stone to the forehead.
“Kelly didn’t have friends,” Hydern said. One hand, a bit obviously, moved toward the short sword while another moved under his cloak toward one of his daggers. “I do have friends. Powerful friends. Friends you might want to know about before you do anything foolish.”
“Would any of those friends be Sword Bearers?”
The blood drained from Hydern’s face and the hand moving for the dagger faltered.
“They’re not real,” Hydern said unconvincingly. “They haven’t been around for centuries. You’re not gonna scare me with some loose talk.”
“I am a Sword Bearer; first and foremost. It is my duty to offer you a moment for a final prayer,” Dunewell said as he stepped from the shadow of the trees.
Dunewell’s voice was even and cool. His arms were crossed comfortably before him. His hands, to Hydern’s perception, were miles away from the war hammer that hung on his belt.
“You! But, you’re an Inquisitor,” Hydern said as his voice ran a wide range of notes. “You can’t be…”
“Would you take your moment for prayer?” Dunewell asked. “I’ll pray with you, if you like.”
“Stuff yer gods!”
Hydern then moved for both weapons. Dunewell had seen this many times. He didn’t understand the human compulsion to scream a final sentiment before an attack. It was foolish and gave away your intentions to anyone within hearing.
The rider’s pike in Dunewell’s bracer was out in his right hand before Hydern had laid hold of either of his weapons. Two very quick steps brought Dunewell within reach of Hydern. As Hydern was grasping his sword hilt, Dunewell’s left hand seized his right shoulder and turned him to the side. In the same swift move, an oft practiced maneuver, Dunewell drove the stiletto through the soft tissue behind Hydern’s jaw and deep into his brain.
Hydern was dead before he had time to realize he hadn’t even managed to draw a blade.
Dunewell lowered him to the ground gently. He withdrew his rider’s pike, cleaned it on the grass, and replaced it in his bracer. He checked Hydern’s pockets and found the note he’d left. He collected it. He found the hidden daggers, but no other notes or intelligence of any sort.
He assumed he’d found everything of evidentiary nature in his search of Hydern’s quarters, his secret home away from the barracks, earlier that day. However, it was always wise to make sure.
Dunewell wrapped Hydern in his cloak and whispered a prayer to Bolvii. He recited the Sword Bearer’s motto in his mind. Then he picked up Hydern’s corpse and made for rocks on the south side of the meadow. It was a short climb, made even more difficult while carrying the body, but Dunewell managed it without much trouble. As he reached the edge, he lowered himself to the ground so as to avoid providing a silhouette to any that might observe. He took a careful look in all directions. When he was satisfied that he was not being watched, he rolled the body over the cliff’s edge.
The mortal package dropped for almost fifteen feet before striking a ledge, bouncing far out from the face of the mountain, and then plummeting another two hundred feet. The sound of the impact of flesh on stone was distant, but Dunewell heard it well enough. It brought an unintentional grimace to his face.
It took him almost an hour to get back to his quarters at Blackstone. He immediately stripped, trimmed his beard, and bathed. As he was redressing in his more formal attire, he heard a knock on his door.
“Yes,” Dunewell called to the closed door.
“Watchman Keryk, sir,” came from without. “You asked me to inspect a cart and report to you here, sir.”
Dunewell pulled the door open and gestured for the young man to enter. Dunewell returned to his bed and sat down. As he was pulling on his boots he nodded to the watchman.
“Please, go on, Watchman Keryk,” Dunewell said. “Rest assured I’m paying attention, but I have another pressing appointment and must make the most of my time.”
“Yes, sir,” Keryk said. He adjusted his cloak which suddenly seemed to be impeding his throat. “You said only an inspection and not to seize or impede the shipment in any way…”
“Correct,” Dunewell said as he slung his weapons belt around his waist.
“The contents were newly crafted elven jewelry, cups, plates; that sort of thing. The odd thing was they weren’t shipped here.”
“Go on.”
“They were in their original crates and were marked as imported from Glenntheen. But there’s no travel marks on the crates. No evidence of sea spray. No marks from being bound in a wagon; even if overland travel from there to here were possible. There’s nothing about them illegal as far as I could tell. If they had been stolen, we’d have a report of the theft. Certainly, a theft of that size would draw attention.”
“You have something you want to ask,” Dunewell said as much as asked.
“I don’t understand it, sir,” Keryk said. “If it’s not contraband, why lie about them being imported. And where did they come from if they weren’t?”
“That is what I intend to find out.”
“Yes, sir,” Keryk said. “Sir, if I may? If you require any assistance on this case, I’d be happy to help.”
“You have your duties as watchman,” Dunewell said as he slid his war hammer into its steel ring on his belt.
“I meant in my off-duty hours, sir,” Keryk said.
Dunewell stopped what he was doing to look at the young man. True enough, they looked the same age. However, Dunewell’s race allowed for a much longer life than that of the common man, which in turn meant much slower aging. Dunewell guessed he was at least two decades older than the young watchman. Keryk was sandy haired and possessed of clear brown eyes and a sure way about him.
“Why?”
“I hope to make inquisitor someday, sir,” Keryk said. “I’ve asked around and you’re the best. I hoped to learn from you.”
“You understand what the position requires?”
“Yes sir. I can read. I’ve studied sums as well. In sparring I’m as good with an axe and shield as some of the best watchmen.”
“Family at home?”
“No sir.”
“Who is your sergeant?”
“That’d be Ulling, sir.”
“Very well,” Dunewell said. “I’ll speak to your sergeant tomorrow. If possible, I’ll have you reassigned as my assistant, for the time being. You’ll have your chance to prove yourself. You must understand, though, it is dangerous work. We’ll not be knocking drunks on the head in tavern brawls or scooping up a twelve-year-old cutpurse in the marketplace.”
“I understand, sir. I assure you I am prepared and ready.”
“No need for your assurances, Keryk,” Dunewell said. “I’ll see for myself soon enough. In the mean-time attend to your duties as normal until you hear from me or your sergeant tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Keryk worked very hard to control his excitement and not burst out with a cheer. He saluted, stepped out the door, and closed it behind him. Dunewell waited. A few beats of the heart later he heard what he expected.
“Hoowee!” was shouted somewhere in the courtyard of Blackstone Hall.
Dunewell smiled. His smile faded as he wondered if Hydern had ever been possessed of that enthusiasm. And, if so, what had happened to change it.
He walked over to his desk to look over his notes again and add an additional piece of information. ‘Imported’ elven crafts?
He had no idea how that tied into it but was sure that it did. It didn’t really matter what the crafts were. Anything of substantial value was motive enough for most. Yet there was something about their very nature that Killian had worked very hard to conceal. Something that Rugan knew or guessed. Something that House Despion was also involved in, somehow.
He resolved to let his lower mind contemplate those pieces of this particular puzzle while he and his upper mind would meet Silas for supper.
Chapter VIII
A Tale of Two Conversations
Part I – The Chair Near the Fire
It had been a busy day for Silas, and he had much more to do. Much more that he strongly desired to do. However, this supper could not be avoided. Under other circumstances he would love a quiet meal between him and Dunewell. However, much had happened.
He must appear above reproach and suspicion. He must conceal his every impulse and emotion from a man trained to read both; a man that he had always been very close to and that had known him since childhood. Furthermore, absconding with a corpse from a murder scene was, in and of itself, a crime. Even now ambitious inquisitors might be busting in the door to his examination room to discover the body of the unfortunate miner within. A miner who may hold as yet undiscovered secrets of the vampire, or vampires, stalking the streets and channels of Moras. It would not look good at all if the fact that the miner had also been an employee of House Morosse came to light. These thoughts mingled in his mind as he sat in the study, so recently his father’s study.
“Inquisitor Dunewell here to see you, sir,” Evie said from the hallway behind him. “Shall I show him to the dining room?”
“I think we’ll dine in the kitchen, Evie. If that’s alright?”
“Of course, sir,” Evie said with a kind smile.
She had always liked Young Master Silas. The older servants, the ones who’d been with House Morosse since before Silas’s birth, held different feelings about him. They gossiped of demon possession and macabre and unnatural studies. They busied their own minds with wild tales about the pleasant young man. However, Evie had only ever known him to be kind, thoughtful, and considerate. He was nothing at all like his father; a man she was not sorry to see dead, Time and Fate forgive her.
Silas smiled at the fire; practicing the expression. He also examined it carefully. Dunewell was no fool, but he couldn’t resist this small irony. After seeing no trace of evidence in the fire, he took his cup of tea, braced himself mentally, and walked to the kitchen.
Evie had cleared the side table, she had apparently guessed that Silas would prefer to eat in here, and Dunewell was seating himself there when Silas walked in.
“I may have under-dressed,” Silas said as he topped off his cup of tea and added a spoonful of milk to it. “Here you are in your full uniform and I am in my simple smoking jacket.”
Dunewell smiled as Evie poured him a cup of tea. He nodded and she stepped away to prepare their plates.
“Simple smoking jacket. That is funny. As for me, I may be working later tonight,” Dunewell said. “And I didn’t know… Well, it’s your house now. I didn’t know if you would prefer the dining hall and something more formal.”
“I pray I never change that much,” Silas said as he stood and removed his jacket. He hung it on a nearby hook next to a cooking apron and then held out his hand to Dunewell. Dunewell removed his cloak and over-tunic and handed them over. While Silas hung those up, Dunewell removed his weapons belt and hung it over the back of his chair.
“Mother always preferred the dining hall, of course,” Silas said. “But I think that was not so much formality as it was to avoid the kitchen.”
Dunewell laughed at that. The jovial side of his nature sparked the same in Silas, causing him to laugh as well.
“She did have a distinct distaste for the idea that the woman’s role was here,” Dunewell said as he gestured around them.
Silas took his seat across from Dunewell and both men pulled their arms from the table as Evie placed their meals, a simple affair of ham, cheese and bread, before them.
“Thank you, Evie,” Silas said. “I don’t think we’ll need anything else this evening. You and the others get some rest. I know it has been a difficult day for many of you.”
It had been too. Killian wasn’t mourned by the staff. Silas could plainly see that. However, the loss of Helena had wounded a number of them. He wondered for a moment how many of them would be leaving. He was no fool and knew most of the stories they whispered to each other about him. He knew that some of them would secretly perform the sign of the Hourglass after speaking with him or being in a room alone with him. As a boy it bothered him, but those little things no longer troubled him. It being just him in the house now he wouldn’t need as many servants anyway.
Evie added some final herbs to a stew Silas had requested for the following day, a concoction that smelled strongly of exotic herbs and meats that permeated the entire house, and then she exited the kitchen.
Both then began their own rituals of consuming their meals. Silas dining with the practiced delicacy of a diplomat and Dunewell eating with the efficiency of a proper military man. There was silence between them for a time, but not an uncomfortable one. Dunewell cleaned his plate as Silas was taking his last bite, although Silas’s plate was far from clean.
With an unspoken word they each rose and worked together to put away the scraps of their meal and cleaned their dishes. Then they each took up their cups of tea and walked together to the study, again using that odd sort of telepathy that only deep and strong bonds can facilitate.
Silas took his chair by the fire and Dunewell sat behind him and to his right on the settee. Silas took a pipe from a nearby stand and began packing it with smoking leaf. He looked over his shoulder to Dunewell and gestured with the pipe but Dunewell only held up his hand.
“She’ll not strike your knuckles for smoking in here,” Silas said. “Not anymore.”
They shared a sad smile at that and Dunewell took a roll of smoking leaf from his leather pouch. Silas stoked his pipe and Dunewell lit his roll. Several more moments passed while they both enjoyed their smoke and the view of the fire.
Silas wished it could always be this way between them. They had shared so much, but so much was bound to come between them. He loved Dunewell, not only for what he had done for him in years past but for who he truly was. Dunewell was a good man to his core; genuinely honorable. Silas was who he must be.
“May we just be Dunewell and Silas this evening?” Dunewell asked. “May we just be the companions we’ve always been and leave the rest of this… this sordid affair for the morrow?”
“Agreed,” Silas said with some relief. He had missed Dunewell so.
After several quiet and comfortable moments Silas broke the peace in the room.
“May I ask you a question?” Silas asked.
“Of course,” Dunewell said. “There are no secrets between us.”
Silas smiled at that. He knew Dunewell carried a deep secret. He had tried many times to ferret it out, however, had as yet been unsuccessful. Of course, there were the dark experiences that most soldiers never talked of. There were the horrors of the battlefield they kept locked away in their hearts, only ever loosed in the company of fellow combatants. Yet, there was another secret, Silas was sure. There was some black and dangerous truth that Dunewell kept in his inner soul. How could something so dark and volatile hide so close to an honorable man’s pure and absolute self? The mystery had cost him many hours of sleep.
“You were younger than I am now when Stilwell was killed,” Silas said. “I’ve no doubt of your strength, for I have relied upon it many times, but how did you endure it? How do you endure now?”
Silas knew the question was harsh; to the point. However, he really needed to know the answer. Furthermore, this would abate the obvious issue they both faced.
“I was angry for a long time,” Dunewell said, his face open and honest as he sat forward on the settee. “I finally came to believe that all crimes, all sins, are answered for. I took, and still take, great comfort in that belief.”
“You really believe that his killer, or killers, has met justice?” Silas asked.
“If he, or she, hasn’t yet, I do believe that they will,” Dunewell said with a confidence that Silas found eerie.
“You believe the same about mother’s killer?” Silas asked.
“I do,” Dunewell said.
“But you’ve seen so many atrocities,” Silas said. “So many unpunished crimes. How can you believe that something like justice even exists? It’s just an abstract idea created by man.”
“There is a balance to the world,” Dunewell said. “The very bedrock of reality is balance. Pure and foul. Right and wrong. Good and evil.”
“Those ideas you just named are all man made,” Silas said. “If man can just make up absolutes; what’s to stop him from redefining that ‘bedrock of reality’ you spoke of?”
