Guardians of the Lost (13 page)

“Adela,” he said and the breath that pronounced the word was his last.

The Grandmother closed the eyes that no longer held life's gleam.

“It is finished,” she said, adding with satisfaction, “We won.”

That night, by the light of the stars, six strong warriors carried Gustav's body to the site where the Trevenici gave the dead back to the earth. He was laid to rest in the burial mound with other Trevenici, a great honor for the knight.

The entire village turned out next day to bid farewell to the departing travelers. It is not in the nature of the Trevenici to mope or sulk or wail for what cannot be. When Jessan rose early that morning and made ready to leave, he was in a good humor, looking forward to lands unvisited, sights unseen. He traveled lightly, carrying only his bow, that he had made himself, under Raven's tutelage, the arrows with their new steel tips, some food, a water-skin and the bone knife.

He swept his uncle's dwelling clean, rolled the blankets neatly
and stacked them against the wall. This done, he had one more task to perform before he could join his traveling companions. Gritting his teeth, he went to bid good-bye to his aunt. He had no doubt that she would say something terrible to him, just as she had said to his uncle, and that he would start his journey with the bad taste of her ill-omened words in his mouth. By going to see her in her dwelling, he hoped to spare himself the public humiliation Ravenstrike had suffered at her hands.

“Aunt Ranessa,” Jessan called, standing outside her dwelling.

No answer came from within.

Jessan waited a moment, hope rising in his heart. He called again and still there was only silence. Thrusting aside the blanket, hoping fervently he would see nothing untoward, he poked his head inside the dwelling. The smell of rot and decay nearly made him gag. He glanced swiftly about. Ranessa was not there. He had no idea where she had gone. Probably on one of her rambles. He left hurriedly. He had done his duty. No man could say otherwise.

He was to meet Bashae and the Grandmother near the Sacred Circle. As he drew closer to his destination, he heard such wailing and weeping that he wondered who else had died besides the knight. Quickening his steps, he arrived at the Circle at a run, only to discover that the wailing was from the pecwae, deploring the Grandmother's departure, begging her to stay.

Only the white crown of the Grandmother's head could be seen, rising above a puddle of sobbing pecwae, who seemed likely to drown her in grief. The Trevenici elders were there, exchanging amused glances. Bashae was there, too. He stood apart from the crowd, looking embarrassed. His embarrassment deepened at the sight of Jessan, who noted that the dwarf, Wolfram, was also present, watching and grinning.

“What is going on?” Jessan demanded, feeling a warm and unpleasant flush start at the back of his neck and consume his face. “Everyone's laughing at us.”

“I'm sorry, Jessan,” Bashae said, his face red. “It's not my fault. The Grandmother said this might happen and we tried to slip away before anyone was awake, except that the Grandmother
doesn't move very quietly. She sewed some little silver bells to her skirt—”

Jessan muttered a curse beneath his breath. “Haul her out of there!” he ordered Bashae in a low tone, with a sidelong glance at the elders. “And let's get started!”

Bashae waded into the pecwae. He was completely submerged at one point, only to resurface when he reached the Grandmother.

“Jessan's here, Grandmother,” he said. “We have to go—”

The word brought a wail that raised the hair on Jessan's head.

“Silence!” shouted the Grandmother, and the wail subsided to a whimper. “I'm not dead. Though I wish I was. Then I'd be spared this caterwauling. Palea, I leave this silly lot in your hands.”

The Grandmother looked very fierce, but she patiently allowed all the pecwae to kiss her cheek or her hand or the hem of her rattling, jingling skirt. When at last she managed to extricate herself, she was red-cheeked and her usually neat hair, which she wore pulled back in a severe bun, straggled about her face.

“Go home,” she told the pecwae and flapped her skirts at them as if they were so many chickens.

Palea kissed Bashae a casual farewell. She held a small child in her arms, who kissed Bashae and addressed him by the name of father. There was nothing in this, however, for every young pecwae addresses all his elders in the same manner. The pecwae departed, with many lamentations, and dignity was restored.

After that scene, the Trevenici kept their farewells short, to Jessan's relief. They said they expected to see him return with many trophies and his adult name chosen. Never mind that this meant they expected Jessan to go forth to battle and carnage. Other people might wish travelers a peaceful journey. Not the Trevenici.

Jessan accepted their wishes with thanks and made a formal request for one of the tribe's boats. The request was granted and that was that. The elders turned next to the dwarf, who would be accompanying them as far as Big Blue river.

“No trophies for me,” said Wolfram. “I leave that to the young. A safe journey and a fast one is what I want, for riches galore await me at journey's end.”

The elders did not quite know how to respond to this. The dwarf's statement was certainly unlucky, for to count upon blessings not yet received was the surest way to anger the gods and cause those blessings to be withdrawn. Looking pitying, the elders bid Wolfram farewell.

Wolfram shouldered his pack, waved good-bye, and set off walking. Jessan led the way out of the village. Bashae walked behind, carrying food and a rolled blanket for the Grandmother. She brought an iron stew pot that hung by its handle in the fork of a stout walking stick, carved out of an oak branch in which the knot holes had been inlaid with agates to resemble eyes. The agate eyes stared about in all directions, keeping watch. Several pouches also hung from the end of this stick and swung back and forth as she walked. Wolfram brought up the rear, waving and grinning.

The villagers were starting to disperse, to go to the fields or to their other tasks, when the sound of horses' hooves brought them up short. Jessan turned eagerly. It was in his mind that his uncle might have had second thoughts and come back for him. Instead, he saw his Aunt Ranessa.

Mounted on his uncle's horse, she wore leather breeches and a fringed leather shirt, which Jessan recognized as having once belonged to himself, but which he had outgrown.

She rode the horse bareback, and it was clear that neither she nor the horse cared for the situation.

Ranessa passed the villagers without a glance. She rode straight to Jessan's group and there reined in the horse, pulling too hard on the reins and causing the animal to whinny in protest. Wolfram winced in sympathy.

“I have had a dream,” she said. “I have been told to go with you.”

Jessan decided that he would tie her to a tree before he permitted her to come, when he noticed that her gaze was fixed not on him. She looked at the dwarf.

“Come, Dwarf,” Ranessa said to the astonished Wolfram. “Mount up behind me. Walking is too slow. We must make haste.”

“But…but…I, I, I…” Coughing, Wolfram cleared his throat and finally found words that made sense. “Out of the question,” he
began to say tersely, then he suddenly put his hand over his wrist. “What?” he demanded in astonishment. “No.” He groaned. “Don't ask this of me.”

For long minutes he stood with his head bowed, deep in thought.

“What's wrong with you?” Ranessa asked, frowning. “Are you mad?”

“Me mad!” Wolfram repeated, his jaw sagging. “Me!” He glowered at her, rubbing his arm and shaking his head. “I must be, to have agreed to this.”

One of the elders seized hold of the horse's bridle. “We cannot allow this, Ranessa. Your brother left you in our care at his departure. We would be remiss in our duty to Ravenstrike to let you leave—”

“Oh, shut up, you blithering old man,” Ranessa said angrily. There was the flash of steel. “Take your hand off the bridle or leave it there permanently when I sever it from your wrist.”

She held a sword as awkwardly as she rode the horse, but there was no doubt that she intended to use it. At a glance from the elder, the rest of the Trevenici villagers moved to surround the horse.

“Stand clear! I warn you!” Ranessa shouted, panicked as a hare trying to escape the hounds. Her fear translated to the horse. Not liking his rider, not liking the people closing in on him, he rolled his eyes and bared his teeth, appeared ready to bolt.

“Leave her be!” said a voice.

The Grandmother thrust her way forward. She glared around at the Trevenici. “Why should her dreams be honored less than the dreams of another? If it was any of the rest of you”—the Grandmother pinned them all with her sharp eyes—“you would act as the gods commanded. True?”

That was true. The adult name often comes to a warrior in a dream.

“The dream bids her go,” the Grandmother said. “If you prevent her, you will be thwarting the will of the gods.”

“She may go, then,” said the elder, stepping back. “But the dwarf is free to go with her or not as he decides.”

“That's what you think,” Wolfram muttered. “She can come with me,” he said aloud. He eyed Ranessa grimly. “But I won't ride behind you like a mewling babe. And put that sword away before you cut your tits off!”

Walking over to the horse, Wolfram rested his head against its head. The horse nuzzled Wolfram gratefully. The dwarf glowered up at Ranessa, who glowered back. The war of wills continued for a moment, then Ranessa lowered her eyes before his. She managed, after several futile tries, to return the sword to its leather sheath. Sullenly, she shifted her position to sit farther back, leaving room for the dwarf in front.

Wolfram removed the bit from the horse's mouth and tossed away the bridle and reins. Dwarves have the ability to become one with their mount, the two acting in concert out of mutual affection and respect. Wolfram swung himself up onto the horse's back.

“Dig in with your knees like this, girl,” he instructed her. “Hold onto my vest if you must. If you fall off, I'm not stopping for you.”

He pressed his heels lightly into the horse's flanks, clucked a certain way with his tongue and the beast cantered off, making for the river. Wolfram sat the horse with ease. Ranessa jounced up and down, doing her best to follow his instructions, holding onto him for dear life.

Jessan heard a collective sigh of relief sweep through the village like a refreshing breeze.

“I wonder what your uncle will say,” Bashae said.

“Not much he can say,” Jessan replied with a shrug. And that was true enough. The gods had spoken.

He noted that a group of pecwae were heading this direction, one shouting that someone in the camp had cut his finger and that the Grandmother must come to tend to it. Fortunately the Grandmother had gone conveniently deaf. Clutching her walking stick, she stared grimly northward.

“Let's go,” Jessan said and, with that, they left the village.

When they passed by the burial mound, Jessan called a halt.

“Show him,” he ordered.

Bashae wore the knapsack slung over one shoulder. It was so
large and he was so small that the knapsack bumped against his knees when he walked. Jessan had offered to carry it, but Bashae had refused, saying that the knight had given it to him and told him to keep it safely in his possession until he placed it into the hands of the Lady Damra.

Bashae lifted the knapsack. “I'm doing as you asked,” he called.

A ripple passed through the long grass that covered the mound and the leaves of the walnut trees that shaded the mound rustled and stirred. But that was the wind.

For good or for ill, they were on their own.

C
arry the accursed armor to the Temple of the Magi in Dunkarga. Such was the counsel of Lord Gustav to Ravenstrike and the counsel was wise and good. Yet the Void intervened.

The High Magus of the Temple of Magi in the city of Dunkar was considered to be the most powerful person in the realm, more powerful than the King of Dunkarga. The current king, one Moross, was a deeply religious man. His detractors whispered this was so because he was glad to place the blame for all his woes on the shoulders of the gods. “It is in the lap of the gods,” was his favorite doleful pronouncement, thus freeing himself from any responsibility.

Fortunately for Moross—or unfortunately, as it turned out—the High Magus of the Temple of the Magi in the city of Dunkar was a strong man, wise and intelligent, who was glad to guide his king in all important matters. The High Magus of Dunkar was held in awe by all who knew him. Strict and stern and joyless, he had gained his exalted position through hard work and sacrifice and he saw no reason why others should not do the same. He demanded complete loyalty and total obedience. The novitiates went in
healthy fear of him, his people revered him, his magi respected him.

These qualities, as well as his exalted position and the influence he wielded over the weak-willed and weak-minded King Moross of Dunkarga, made the High Magus of the Temple of Magic of Dunkarga an ideal target for the Vrykyl.

And thus, the High Magus had died a year previous at the hands of a Vrykyl named Shakur.

The eldest and most powerful of all the Vrykyl ever brought into hideous being, Shakur had used the blood knife—a knife made of his own bone—to steal the soul of the High Magus. Shakur replaced the image of his real body—that of a rotting, loathsome corpse—with the image of the High Magus. Shakur was now able to use this subterfuge to encompass Dunkarga's fall.

The battle between Shakur and the High Magus had been hard-fought. To avoid having to fight powerful magicks, Shakur had stabbed the High Magus while he slept. The High Magus had died without a cry, but the man's soul, standing on the edge of the Void, fought to avoid being drawn into that chasm of eternal darkness. The soul of the High Magus had attempted to cast Shakur into the oblivion that both tempted Shakur and horrified him. Having fought such battles for over two hundred years, Shakur had emerged victorious.

Shakur had considered murdering the king himself. But Moross was known to be a man who fluttered with every wind that blew, while the High Magus was held to be the true power behind the throne. Thus Shakur chose the High Magus. His choice had been a good one. Shakur's poisoned words had so filled the poor king with terror that the man jumped at the sight of his own shadow.

On this night, the night Gustav lay dying, the High Magus walked the halls of the silent Temple. The inmates slumbered peacefully, unaware of the proximity of that which would turn blissful dreams into nightmares.

Shakur entered his own quarters, passed through his private library, his sitting room and solarium, shutting and locking doors as he went. Arriving in his sleeping room, he shut and locked that
door. He had little fear of being disturbed. Few liked him, and no one would ever think of dropping by his room for a cozy midnight chat. Shakur did not believe in taking chances, however. Either in life or in death.

Having insured his privacy, Shakur was startled to hear a voice speak to him from out of the darkness.

“It is about time,” the voice said coldly. “I have been waiting these past three hours and you know that I am not a patient man.”

Shakur knew the voice, knew it as well as another knows the sound of the beating of his own heart. Shakur had no heart to beat, but he had the voice.

Shakur turned slowly, taking care to hurriedly order his thoughts, before he confronted the speaker.

“My lord,” he said humbly. “Forgive me, but I did not know of your arrival. Had you informed me—”

“—‘you would have sped to my side on the wings of love,'” said Dagnarus. “Isn't that what the poet says? Except in your case it would be on the wings of hatred, wouldn't it, my dear old friend?”

Shakur was silent and he kept his thoughts silent as well. Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, was master and creator of the Vrykyl. He carried upon his person the Dagger of the Vrykyl, a powerful artifact of Void magic. Two hundred years ago, Dagnarus had used that dagger to end Shakur's life, change him into the dreadful being he was this day. True, Shakur's life had been a miserable one. There was not a law on the books of any civilized nation that he had not broken, starting with matricide. He had given himself freely to the Void and thus it was that Dagnarus ensnared him.

Dagnarus rose to his feet. He wore the black armor of the Lord of the Void, armor that is the direct opposite of the blessed armor of a Dominion Lord. Dagnarus's armor had been blessed, but not by the gods. His armor was of the Void. The black metal was malleable, flowed over Dagnarus's flesh like a coating of viscous oil.

He did not wear the helm, that was bestial and terrible to look upon. He had no need to hide his face. Unlike the Vrykyl, who were ambulating dead, Dagnarus was a living man. He had been a comely young man when he gave himself to the Void. He retained that form
through the power of the Void. His hair was thick and auburn. He wore it long, drawn back in a club at the nape of the neck in the fashion of elven warriors. He was handsome with a rakish air. He could be charming, when he chose.

Two hundred years ago, Dagnarus had been a royal prince of Vinnengael. His brother, Helmos, was king. The Sovereign Stone had been a gift of the gods to their father, King Tamaros. Although the gods warned Tamaros that his understanding of the Stone was yet imperfect, he chose to use it to try to establish peace between the races. He split the Stone into four parts with disastrous consequences. His young son, Dagnarus, looked into the center of the Stone and saw there the Void and within the Void, the opportunity to gain the power for which he had always lusted.

Each race had been granted a portion of the Stone, to use to create the powerful, magical paladins known as Dominion Lords. Longing to attain such power for himself, Dagnarus tried to become a Dominion Lord. In so doing, he gave himself to the Void and was made Lord of the Void. He obtained great power, but at a terrible cost. He also obtained the Dagger of the Vrykyl and was thus able to bring into existence those dread beings.

Dagnarus declared war upon his brother the king. Their two armies met and fought in the capital city of Vinnengael. At the height of the battle, Dagnarus sought his brother in the Temple of the Gods and demanded that Helmos give up the Sovereign Stone. Helmos refused. Dagnarus murdered him and claimed the Stone. In that moment, the powerful magicks that were swirling about the vortex of the Void created by Dagnarus could no longer be controlled. The magic exploded, shattering the Portals and destroying much of the once proud city of Vinnengael.

The Void carried Dagnarus to safety, preserving his life by means of all the lives he had acquired through the Dagger of the Vrykyl. Dagnarus was horribly injured, but he lived and he had his prize, the Sovereign Stone. Either by happenstance or by the wish of the gods, a new Portal—a remnant of those shattered in the magical blast—had opened near where Dagnarus lay injured. Although no one knew it at the time and few know it still, the Portal opened into
a new part of the world not previously known to those living on Loerem.

Through this Portal wandered a creature known as a bahk. The bahk was young and the young of this species are not noted for their intelligence. Lost and hungry, the bahk wandered into this new world in search of food. The bahk are drawn to magic as bees to honey and this young bahk was drawn to the Sovereign Stone. The bahk was huge and strong; Dagnarus weak and injured. Dagnarus did his best to fight to retain his prize, but he was no match for the bahk. The creature seized the Stone and departed. Dagnarus despaired. In that moment, he came as close to death as he ever had or likely ever would.

He did not die, however. The Void would not let him. Drawing on the lives he had stolen through the Dagger, Dagnarus managed at last to drag his maimed and wounded body into the very Portal through which the bahk had entered. Here Valura, his former lover and now a Vrykyl herself, came in response to his call. Here Shakur and the rest of the Vrykyl came. He sent them back out into the world with one order—find the Sovereign Stone.

As they searched, Dagnarus remained safely hidden within the Portal until he had fully healed and recovered his strength. Then it was that Dagnarus began to plan the campaign that would at last restore him to power. But he never lost sight of his main goal, his true objective.

For two hundred years, he had sought the Sovereign Stone and now, on the eve of his great war to conquer Loerem, the Sovereign Stone had reappeared. Dagnarus's joy was complete.

“The gods themselves are vanquished,” he had said on hearing of the Stone's discovery. “Mortals do not stand a chance against me.”

But the gods, it seemed, still had a fight or two left in them and as for mortals, if they went down, they would go down swinging.

“You take a great risk coming here, my lord—” began Shakur.

“Nonsense,” said Dagnarus impatiently, prowling about the chamber. “The armor cloaks me in shadow. I am the darkness, I move with the darkness. If someone should walk through that door right now, he would not see me unless I choose otherwise.”

“I mean, my lord,” said Shakur, “the risk of leaving your army at this critical juncture. You have before expressed doubts about the bestial taan warriors and their unpredictability. Who knows what they might do in your absence?”

“I am their god, Shakur. The taan fear me as their god. They would all fling themselves off the top of Mt. Sa'Gra if I commanded it. Besides, I am not going to be away from them for long. I had to find out. Have you heard from Svetlana?”

“No, my lord,” Shakur replied. “I have not. You know well that I have not. For how could I hear if you have not heard?”

Created by Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, the Vrykyl are bound to serve Dagnarus. They have no will of their own, other than that which their lord permits them to have, and their thoughts are always linked to the thoughts of their dread liege lord. The Vrykyl maintain contact with each other through the blood knife and thus Shakur in Dunkar heard through the whispers of the blood knife the same words that his lord Dagnarus heard in the emptiness of his soul.

Dagnarus clenched his fist. “Tell me what you know,” he said tersely.

“My lord, you know all I know—”

“Tell me!”

Shakur knew better than to argue.

“Svetlana told me that the Sovereign Stone was in the possession of a Dominion Lord, one of the blessed of the gods. This news worried me, my lord, as you are aware, for I told you of my fears regarding the power of these knights.”

“Yes, yes,” Dagnarus said, trying to brush this aside.

Shakur would not let it be brushed aside, however. He was not going to be blamed.

“If you recall, my lord, I suggested that I go to Svetlana to aid in the retrieval of the Stone. You said no, that I was needed here.”

“And so you were, Shakur,” Dagnarus said. “In these critical times, when rumors are spreading about war in the west, the absence of the High Magus would have looked most peculiar, started people wondering. You had to be here to calm Moross, to allay his fears.”

Shakur bowed in acknowledgment. “I suggested other Vrykyl—”

“They are spread across the continent,” Dagnarus interrupted tersely. “Some busy subverting the orks, others working with the dwarves. The Lady Valura is in elven lands. They all seek the other portions of the Stone. As for this Dominion Lord who discovered the human portion, he was old and decrepit and half-mad. A stranger in a strange land, he should have fallen easy victim to Svetlana.”

“Svetlana wounded the Dominion Lord with the blood knife, but he wounded her grievously during the battle and he managed to escape.” Shakur shook his head. “Svetlana's thoughts turned to hatred and revenge. She went berserk. She lost sight of the true objective. Her only thought was to pursue the knight who had so humiliated her.”

“At that point you should have gone after her,” Dagnarus stated. “My armies are close now. You can be spared.”

“How could I, my lord?” Shakur demanded. He had known all along he would be blamed. “I had no way to find her! She was silent. I could do nothing but wait to feel her blood knife kill again. I calculated that she would need a soul to replenish her power and then I could reestablish contact with her. Days passed and I felt nothing.”

“I, too, have lost all contact,” said Dagnarus. “What has happened to her? What has happened to the Stone? I must know, Shakur!

The human portion of the Stone has been found and, not only that, it has been found on the eve of battle. Why else would this happen if the Stone were not meant to come to me? I want you to go in search of her, Shakur. I want you to find her and the Stone.”

“You know very well that such a search would be a waste of time, my lord,” said Shakur. “You know very well what has happened to her. The Dominion Lord destroyed her. The Stone has once more eluded you.”

“No!”

Shakur felt the word lance through him. He felt the very earth quiver with the conviction of the Lord of the Void. Those who slumbered
within the walls of the Temple felt it as well, tossed restlessly and uneasily in their sleep.

“My lord,” said Shakur, speaking hesitantly, “would it not be better to concentrate your efforts on pursuing the war, rather than squander our efforts and resources in this pursuit of the Sovereign Stone? We have lost one Vrykyl already and what have we gained? What do you hope to gain? You don't need the Stone to be the most powerful force in Loerem. You don't need the ability to create Dominion Lords when you have the Dagger of the Vrykyl. This pursuit has brought trouble upon us already. I think you should abandon it, my lord. Your armies will win the world for you. You don't need the Stone.”