Fires That Forge, page 24
part #1 of Lords of Order and Chaos Series
Silas then focused his mind on his room in House Morosse. He sought every detail of that place where he had spent so many hours in pain. He brought it forward in his mind; made it real. Then, he was standing there. He was standing in his room more than a league away from his mortal struggle with his brother.
He found that his hunger became a beast of its own. It had been a long day and he had expended energies he never imagined he might possess. In the scrambled stagger that only truly desperate men can reproduce, Silas clawed his way toward the kitchen.
He found bread and soup, but the mere thought caused his gorge to rise. He found dried meats which were a bit more appealing, but not the nourishment his body craved. Then his nostrils caught the smell of what he needed.
“Are you well, sir?” Evie asked from the door to the kitchen. “I can fix…”
Silas’s dash toward her was so sudden, so unexpected, that it was only rivaled by the horror of her next experience. His teeth tore into the flesh of her face and, before her scream could rise, tore into the flesh of her throat. The blood was exquisite. The raw flesh in his teeth was mother’s milk.
Silas consumed the muscle and skin from her dying body with absolute abandon. His greedy fingers ripped away her clothing to expose new flesh that he plunged his mouth upon.
Several moments later, this hunger that would heed no command, abated and his mind was once again his to control. The display of blood all about was a scene of macabre artistry.
Silas, working swiftly, wrapped her body in a tablecloth and carried her corpse to the large fire. The same fire where he’d disposed of Whillyd’s houseman that had come calling. The same fire where he’d disposed of the tarp. Next, he thoroughly cleaned the area and eliminated all evidence of the terrible act. The towels and clothes used also went into the fire.
The sun was coming up soon and he must prepare himself for the day ahead. He was no longer tired. In fact, he felt quite good. His vigor had returned.
Four hours later Silas sat next to Dru in the outer room to Lady Evalynne’s throne room.
“The daylight doesn’t bother you?” Silas asked in a whisper.
“As long as I am not directly in it, no,” she responded. “Besides, how could I pass up the opportunity to be invited into the Keep of Moras?”
“The Lady will see you now,” a guardsman said, holding the door to the large room open to them.
“Our weapons?” Silas asked.
“The Lady trusts you,” Uriel-Ka said with plain suspicion on his face. “Please, this way.”
Silas and Dru rose and followed the Advisor into the throne room. With a flick of her hand the guards within made an about face and marched from the room quickly.
“I must say, Steward, you amaze me,” Lady Evalynne said. “I am truly impressed. However, before we get to that, who is this you’ve brought with you?”
“This is Lady Delilah,” Silas said. “She is my cousin, on my father’s side.”
“And what brings her into our business?”
“She is the heir of House Morosse,” Silas said. “She is fully apprised of all of House Morosse’s endeavors and is prepared to act in my stead in all aspects of our operations should I be absent.”
“So, we may speak freely in her presence?”
“Yes, my Lady,” Silas said.
“Very well,” Lady Evalynne said as she leaned forward slightly. “You should know that I have dispatched cutmen and an accomplished assassin after your brother, Dunewell.”
She awaited a response of… well of anything. She was disappointed.
“I understand that his inquiries have caused your court a great deal of trouble,” Silas said. “That is of no concern to me.”
“That is good,” Lady Evalynne said. “For I have a proposal for you. I need an agent for a delicate matter. A matter not to be undertaken by anyone squeamish. I believe a man willing to burn down his own hospital to eliminate it from being used against him is the sort of man I require.”
“Please, my Lady. Go on.”
“I am arranging for trade in Tarborat,” Evalynne said.
“There is much trade in Tarborat,” Dru said. “What about that would be delicate?”
“The trade would be with Ingshburn and his captain, Verkial.”
“I see,” Silas said. “That would be delicate indeed.”
“You are not afraid to meet with them then?”
“Traveling under the banner of the Lady of Moras, I should have nothing to fear,” Silas said.
“There is a caveat,” Dru said.
“You would speak to me, in my own throne room, of conditions?” Lady Evalynne asked with a dangerous edge in her voice.
“Trade, all trade, with the Blue Tower is to cease,” Dru said as she strode toward the window and its killing rays. “I understand they offer coin, but they offer nothing else. I will ensure your trade continues with the drow. Furthermore, I will ensure that the trade in that quarter expands significantly. The drow Queen, Jandanero, wishes a trade route with Tarborat. Moras can be the waystation between the two, collecting tariffs from both sides. Moras would also be bolstered by the mercenaries and espionage the drow coven can provide. In exchange, all trade with the Blue Tower will cease.”
It was rare that Lady Evalynne, deadly in her own right and jealous of any other woman, took heed from the mouth of a female. This was one of those rare occasions. The confidence, the suicide abandon, in Dru’s face left no room for doubt of what she intended to do and her ability to do it if her demands were not met.
“Very well,” Evalynne said in an attempt to appear magnanimous.
“As my cousin, Silas, has said I will act in his stead, should the need arise.”
“Agreed.”
“It would seem that we have a suitable accord,” Silas said. “Oh, one more thing. I am going to kill Dyllance. Then your Reeve. I do not ask permission; however, it would make our business arrangement less tumultuous if you consented.”
The lightning on Uriel-Ka’s ring began to dance as the muscles around Evalynne’s jaw tightened.
“This has been an effort of which no profit will come, I fear,” Evalynne said as she nodded toward Uriel-Ka.
Uriel-Ka extended his hand. There was a flash of light in the room blinding to the human eye. The crack of thunder echoed in the halls. It was not unlike the sound the guardsmen had heard in the past when Ka had dispatched someone with a bolt of lightning.
A moment later Uriel-Ka stood screaming with Silas leaning comfortably on his shoulder chewing on something. It looked to Lady Evalynne as if he was gnawing a small piece of chicken; raw chicken.
“You see, my Lady,” Silas began, then he stopped to spit Uriel-Ka’s ring upon the marble floor. “You see, my Lady, your situation is untenable. You have wronged me and my family. I am prepared to forgive your intrusions into our affairs…”
Then Silas began to laugh. He laughed for several moments before easing to a stop. Then he plucked the last bits of flesh from Uriel-Ka’s finger and tossed the bone aside.
“Sorry,” Silas said. “I was just laughing at the double meaning of the term affair.
As I was saying, your indulgences and interferences into House Morosse have come to a halt and you will pay for past grievances, should I decide against forgiveness.”
Uriel-Ka dropped to the floor as the shock from the sudden attack weakened him and brought him to the brink of fainting.
“However, I feel that forgiveness is the route that would prove most interesting,” Silas said. “And profitable for my friends, the drow. So, do we have an understanding about the wizards of the Blue Tower, Dyllance, Gyllorn, and Sevynn?”
“We do,” Evalynne said through clenched teeth.
“Wonderful!” Silas exclaimed. “Then I would be happy to be your ambassador to Tarborat.”
“What am I to do about my Reeve and Lord High Inquisitor both being killed in such quick succession?” Evalynne asked. “Dyllance will be a problem for the church, and there is nothing I can do for you there, but what about Sevynn and Gyllorn?”
“Lay their deaths at the feet of Dunewell,” Silas said to the surprise of Evalynne. “You’ve already done your best to outlaw him and you’ve sent an assassin against him. His outbursts against authority have been witnessed by many. Laying those murders at his feet should be no great task.”
“And the official story for the deaths of Steward Killian and Lady Helena?”
Silas’s expression changed from the carefree smile to a look of complete viciousness. Uriel-Ka’s blood running down his chin only served to enhance the effect.
“Those murders will be laid at Gyllorn’s feet,” Silas said evenly. “For he is the one responsible.”
“Very well,” Evalynne said.
“Wonderful!” Silas said, the cheer back in his voice. “Come, UK. May I call you ‘UK?’ Uriel-Ka just seems so… so self-important. Now we’re good friends, right?”
Uriel-Ka, kneeling on the floor wrapping the edge of his robes around the stump that was his finger, only glared up at Silas.
“UK it is, then,” Silas continued unphased by Uriel-Ka’s look of hatred. “I find that good friends are a must in this world, don’t you?”
Silas then walked forward, took up the edge of Lady Evalynne’s gown, and took his time wiping Uriel-Ka’s blood from his chin and fingers.
“Well now,” Silas continued. “You have work to do as do I. Good day to you, my Lady.”
Silas and Dru made their way out of Lady Evalynne’s chambers. Uriel-Ka, visibly shaking, was almost completely overcome with rage. When he was confident Silas and Dru were beyond eavesdropping range, for he wasn’t so angry as to risk offending Silas again, Uriel-Ka made his outburst.
“We must assassinate them both!” he demanded of Lady Evalynne. “Before his madness can spread!”
“Calm, calm,” Evalynne said in an assuring tone. “This may serve us well. Why kill a rabid dog if it is willing to do your bidding?”
Minutes later Silas and Dru stepped into a carriage; a carriage that had been pulled beneath the protection of the sallyport for Dru’s benefit.
“You really burned down your own hospital?” Dru asked.
“I did,” Silas said.
“Why would you do that?”
“I learned all I could from there,” Silas said simply.
Chapter XVII
Familiar Blood
Dunewell stared all about him in disbelief. Something about that creature disturbed his very soul. He decided whoever loosed a demon like that must be stopped. The words from the book of Bolvii, ‘here am I, send me’ drifted to the surface of his mind.
Dunewell took the rolled-up parchment from his pack and read through it carefully. ‘The hand that heals, the shield that protects.’ There was something about that ritual, that phrase that called to him. As he read, his thoughts roamed over the future he would never have. He thought of moments in the garden with Erin that he would never know. He thought of children with her that would never be. He thought of a legacy he desired with sinful selfishness.
An enchantment of considerable force strained against those thoughts. Temptation like none Dunewell had ever known seized him and fed his most base impulses and emotions. Only Dunewell’s iron will resisted those temptations and moved his focus to the task before him.
Dunewell began stacking everything in the small room in one corner. He stood the bed on its end and moved the desk up against it. Next, he piled the extra food and water skins atop the desk along with the rather large library of eight books.
Then, he began to carve symbols into the floor of the hideaway. It began with a circle with three circles that overlapped within. In the center of that overlap he carved the gauntleted fist and owl of Bolvii. This took him hours and his fingers were bleeding by the time he finished.
Once the symbols were complete; he knelt in the center.
“Oh, mighty Bolvii, hear my plea,” Dunewell said. “Bolvii, whose grace and strength I need, hear my call. Bolvii, whose courage and wisdom are a salve to my soul, hear my appeal!”
A light encompassed him then. Not a blinding harsh light, but one that comforted and illuminated. A voice that seemed to come from within him echoed in his soul.
Do you call on me to make war?
I call on you for the strength to protect, Dunewell said/thought. I call on you for the power to save.
Do you know the cost?
I know the Pledge.
Do you understand it?
I do.
Have you sinned?
I have, and I ask forgiveness.
Make your Pledge.
I will forever be honest, showing no fear, Dunewell said/thought. I will forever be sober of mind, and fierce in battle. I will forever be chaste, lest my lineage be corrupted. I will forever pursue the UnMaker and his ilk. If my right-hand sins it shall be shorn by my left. If my tongue should lie, it shall rot. If my eye covets let it be plucked out. Mine will be the hand that heals. Mine will be the shield that protects. I am Dunewell, son of Stilwell, and upon my name and his I swear this oath. I am Dunewell, son of Helena, and upon the mighty blade, OathKeeper, I take this vow.
Dunewell felt the presence of a champion well up beneath his sternum as though a gentle spring was watering parched ground. He felt the purest silver, called by the dwarves Roarke’s Ore, begin to course through his veins. He felt strength, knowledge, and power well up within him; filling him to capacity and beyond.
He felt a poisonous spell wither in the face of that holy glow. He knew at once the spell is what had bent his mind, if not his heart, toward Lady Erin. Who could have cast such an enchantment on him? Lady Evalynne? Dyllance? Lady Erin herself? Furthermore, why?
Light of the purest blue shone forth from his eyes and his whole form took on the same hue. Great wings the color of driven snow sprouted from his shoulders and the weapons at his side sparked with divine power. The holy symbols of Bolvii and the names of ancient heroes emblazoned themselves on his hammer, dagger and sword.
I am Whiteburn, though I was once of the line of Ivantis, came from within Dunewell’s mind/soul. We are Shyeld, Hayn of Bolvii. We are Lord of Order.
Dunewell awoke untold hours later. A great thirst seized him. The need for water, flowing water, was absolute and unyielding to his stoicism. Dunewell took up a nearby waterskin and drained it down his throat to no avail. Flowing waters. Clean waters. His body, his soul, cried out for the flowing waters of life.
Dunewell clawed at the hidden door and, after several attempts, finally triggered the concealed switch and scrambled out the nook. He could smell the river flowing not a furlong away. He had never noticed the smell of the river before. He was closer to the channel that ran past the warehouse of House De’Char, but he knew that would not suffice.
He charged for the river in a sprint of great strides; leaping crates and barrels with ease. The sun was out but he had little time to notice. He dodged people, carts, and horses in his mad lunge for the river Othlynn. When it came into view his body was propelled forward in a vault of celestial power. His bound covered more than thirty yards.
Dunewell struck the frozen shores of Othlynn; landing with a force that shattered ice for several yards all around him and sent tall waves across the surface of the river. He dropped to his stomach and plunged his head into the bone chilling river. He consumed gallon upon gallon of refreshing water in great draughts. The cold waters made every nerve and muscle of his body tingle with power.
“Inquisitor Dunewell, please stand,” came from behind him. “Please come with us, sir.”
Dunewell looked over his shoulder to see two watchmen standing a few feet behind him on the shore; cudgels in hand. One carried an axe as well, but it still hung in his belt.
‘Do no wrong to your brother,’ Whiteburn quoted the book of Bolvii in Dunewell’s mind. These are good men.
Dunewell knew, somehow knew, Whiteburn was right. But these men were intent on taking him to Blackstone.
Dunewell pushed himself up from the ground and slowly rose; facing away from the watchmen.
“Of what offense have I been accused?” Dunewell asked.
“Murder, sir,” one of them said. “The Reeve himself signed the warrant. Now, please sir, drop your weapons belt.”
Dunewell unbuckled the belt and let his hammer and daggers fall to the ground.
“Please turn and take three steps away from it,” the watchman said.
Dunewell complied and the silent watchman stepped forward and collected the weapons that now lay behind Dunewell on the icy shore. Dunewell heard the rattle of manacles and was tempted to act. He knew, however, his desire to avoid the manacles was one born of pride and concern for himself. Desires unworthy of a Shyeld, a knight in true service.
Dunewell relaxed his arms as the iron clamps were clasped around his wrists above his head. Dunewell lowered his hands to his waist and turned slowly to face them.
“Leg irons?” Dunewell asked.
“We’ve a long walk to Blackstone, sir,” the watchman said. “And we wouldn’t have gotten manacles on you if you weren’t willing to go. We know that, sir.”
Dunewell nodded and the watchmen stepped to either side of him, locking their arms in his. The three walked to the stairs leading up to the docks and made their way past a number of curious eyes and gossiping tongues. They had gone three blocks when a sergeant, Sergeant Galskap from that morning at House Morosse, stepped into their path in the street.
“You’ll be turning him over to me,” the sergeant ordered. “I’ll take it from here.”
“He’ll not get to Blackstone alive if we give him over,” one watchman said to the other.
That one is… Dunewell felt his mind being searched. That one is the same as the one you remember as Hydern. They wear the cloak of the watchman but the mark of the liar and the murderer.
