Guardians of the Lost (16 page)

“A Vrykyl,” he breathed.

It was as if night had taken on the form and shape of a man, could walk like a man and use arms and hands like a man. Night wore armor as a man wore armor. Armor of darkness. Armor that was darker than the dark. Armor that was hideous in aspect, with spikes of darkness that stuck out of it like the pincers of a poisonous insect. The armor was very like the armor wrapped in the blanket held by the High Magus.

The Vrykyl walked up to the High Magus. The two conferred in low voices; Ulaf could not understand them. But it seemed to him by the tone and the fact that the Vrykyl occasionally bowed that the High Magus was issuing instructions.

The Vrykyl appeared about to depart, then it stopped. It turned its insectoid helmed head this way and that, as if searching for something. Ulaf held his breath and froze as still as the rabbit when the hounds are near.

“What the devil are you waiting for, Jedash?” the High Magus demanded. “I told you to leave. We have no time to waste. You must intercept and destroy this wretched spy.”

“I thought I heard something.” The voice from the helm was horrible, cold, hollow.

“Owls. Wolves. Rats.” The High Magus waved his hand. “Go find someone to deal with the Trevenici. Have him search their barracks, search everywhere. It is probable that he will be tainted with Void. Let that guide the person you send.”

“I was thinking of letting Commander Drossel deal with this, Shakur.”

“Drossel.” The High Magus frowned. “There was some question, once, as to his loyalty.”

“Only to Dunkarga, Shakur. His loyalty to us is assured. He will, however, expect a reward.”

“He has the favor of Dagnarus, Lord of the Void. That should be reward enough.” The High Magus sounded irritated. “What more does he want?”

“Elevation in rank. A private meeting with Lord Dagnarus.”

“The fool!” the High Magus muttered. “He doesn't know when he is well off. Promise Drossel that, then, Jedash, if nothing else will satisfy him. Report back to me when it is done. I will have further instructions for you.”

“Yes, Shakur.”

The darkness bowed and departed. The High Magus, lugging his bundle, descended into the wine cellar. He pulled the door in place after him and Ulaf heard the key grate in the lock.

Ulaf breathed again. He had seen many strange and terrible things in his life and he had imagined himself inured to anything. He had never before seen a Vrykyl in its true form, however. His hands trembled, cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and he had to wait a moment to calm the wild gyrations of his heart. Moving silently and stealthily, he made his way back to the kitchen, where he crouched in the dark shadows of the pantry and held consultation with himself and the lord he served, a lord who was far away in location but always close in thought.

“You were right, Shadamehr,” he murmured to his unseen liege. “The High Magus is a Vrykyl and he has Vrykyl serving him. I knew the moment I flashed the light into those dead eyes and now this
more than confirms your suspicions. He speaks of Lord Dagnarus, Lord of the Void.” Ulaf sighed deeply and shook his head and added softly, “The gods help us, my lord, you were right.

“My life is not worth tuppence. I know too much. This false High Magus rids himself of me by sending me to New Vinnengael in the morning. I'll wager that the instructions he has given that creature of his have to do with me, for the Vrykyl must make certain I never reach New Vinnengael to tell what I have seen. I am ‘the wretched spy.' I am to be waylaid on the road, my body shoved into a ditch. Or worse.”

Ulaf considered a moment more, weighing his options. “It is time for Brother Ulaf to disappear. He will vanish in the night and no one the wiser. The High Magus will know or guess that I have discovered his secret, but that cannot be helped. My work here is done. I have confirmed my lord's worst fears. It is my duty to return to report to Shadamehr as fast as possible. Already, we may be too late…”

Ulaf had long had his escape planned—his first objective whenever he began any assignment. Within thirty minutes time, Brother Ulaf would be gone from the Temple and Ulaf the mendicant or Ulaf the mercenary or Ulaf the itinerant merchant would be traveling the roads that led from Dunkarga back to New Vinnengael and from thence to the lands of his liege lord and master, Baron Shadamehr.

“He said the name Shakur. Shakur,” Ulaf muttered to himself, leaving his robes neatly folded in the pantry, for the cook's helper to discover and exclaim over in amazement the next morning. “Where have I heard that name before? Some old legend, I fancy. Never mind. My lord will know.”

He remained in hiding until he saw the High Magus returning from the wine cellar. When his steps faded away, Ulaf made ready to depart, taking only the dark lantern and his new identity with him. Yet, as he was about to leave the Temple of Dunkarga forever, he paused and looked into the night.

“The gods go with you, Captain Raven. I wish you had told me the truth. It is possible I could have helped you. As it was, I did what I could to shield you, but I fear that will not avail you much. What
evil fate brought this upon you and why, I cannot explain. The ways of the gods are a mystery to mortals and that is as it should be or else we would go mad. I pray for your sake some good comes of it.”

With this prayer, Brother Ulaf departed and was seen no more in this world.

R
aven's sleep was not restful slumber. It was a staggering run through a hellish landscape of endless burning sands. He was chased, hunted, and there was no tree to hide behind, no water to slack his torturing thirst. The eyes searched for him and if he stopped, even for a moment, they would find him…

He could not wake from this nightmare. His body was too tired, he was sunk too deep in sleep to be able to drag himself out of it. When, after almost twelve hours, he did manage to rouse himself, he felt worse than when he'd collapsed on his blankets. He woke with a shudder to find that his blankets were soaked with sweat. Shivering, he roused himself and went to the privies, where he was sick as a poisoned pup.

He felt better afterward, for it is always good to purge the body of ill humors. Going to the well that was in the barracks, he drank almost an entire bucketful of water. This water was the first Raven had drunk in many days that did not have the oily taste of that accursed armor and it was sweet as sun-ripened pears to him.

He was still groggy and fuddle-headed, but he thought he could eat something now and keep it down. The smell of garlic pervaded
the barracks and made Raven's stomach rumble. The Dunkargans are passionately fond of garlic, use it in almost all their cooking. He had never eaten garlic before coming to Dunkarga, but he had quickly developed a taste for the pungent bulb. The Dunkargans not only enjoyed the taste, but maintained that it warded off illness. Certainly, the Dunkargans appeared to be unusually healthy, rarely succumbing to the more virulent diseases that often struck those living in cities. His mouth watering, Raven headed for the Trevenici cook fire. He was intercepted by one of his comrades.

“Commander wants to see you right away,” said Scalplock, thus called because of his impressive array of enemy scalps that hung from his belt. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the Dunkargan barracks, near where the Trevenici mercenaries made their camp. “Drossel.”

“Which one is he?” Raven growled. There were so many Dunkargan commanders in this army, he could never keep them straight.

“Short, dark-skinned, bandy-legged, squints,” said Scalplock succinctly.

Raven nodded. He knew the man now. Raven continued on to the cook fire. He would see the officer in his own good time, which might mean after supper or next week.

Raven was just finishing his meal and thinking he would go back to sleep again, when he became aware of a pair of black boots with the flowing white trousers worn by the Dunkargan military tucked into the tops standing in front of him. Squatting cross-legged on the ground, Raven looked up to see Commander Drossel looking down.

“I have an important matter to discuss with you, Captain Ravenstrike.”

Raven shrugged. He had finished eating, but he didn't feel all that good. Still, he knew Dunkargans. Once they got an idea in their heads, they would never rest until they had acted on it. If Raven didn't talk with the Dunkargan now, this commander would hound him and he would have no peace at all. Best to get it over with. Raven eased himself to his feet and accompanied the Dunkargan officer to the barracks.

Finding a quiet room in the large blockhouse, Drossel took Raven inside. The room was empty except for a table and a couple of chairs. There were no windows, only openings in the top portion of the walls where blocks had been left out to provide for air circulation. Raven felt stifled the moment he entered, ill-at-ease.

Commander Drossel pointed to a chair. Raven remained on his feet, knowing that to sit down was to prolong the stay. Drossel smiled and pointed to the chair again. To make his offer more palatable, the Dunkargan indicated a crockery pot and a couple of small crockery mugs on the table. Steam rose from the pot. An enticing aroma filled the room. Raven sniffed appreciatively.

“We have a lot to discuss, Captain,” Drossel said, apologetically, as if he knew how Raven felt about being cooped up in this small room. “Coffee?”

Not all the Trevenici liked the Dunkargan hot drink known as coffee, claiming that it smelled better than it tasted, but Raven happened to be one who did. He sat down in the chair and watched in approval as the commander poured the thick, syrupy black liquid into the small mug. The coffee was laced with honey, but it was still bitter to the taste. Raven took a very small sip, his eyes puckering at the bitterness. Once past that, he could enjoy the rich flavor of the roasted beans and the honey.

“You are back from leave early,” Drossel commented, sipping at his own coffee.

Raven shrugged, made no comment. That was his business, none of this officer's.

Drossel went on to remark, laughingly, that most soldiers had to be dragged back kicking and screaming from leave. Raven didn't pay much attention. Dunkargans were known to waste breath on talk that said nothing. He sipped at his coffee. He had not drunk coffee for a long time. The beans were expensive and he had never learned the art of making the brew. Raven did not remember that coffee had this relaxing effect. The last time he had drunk some, he had felt jumpy and twitchy. This time, all his muscles seemed to go limp. His eyelids drooped. He had to concentrate to hear what the Dunkargan was saying.

Drossel watched Raven intently, then came around to sit on the table, quite close to him.

“You paid a visit to the Temple of the Magi last night, didn't you, Captain?”

Raven blinked at the man. Raven had no intention of answering and was astonished to hear his own voice doing just that. “I was there, yes. What of it?”

“You handed over some armor you had found, I believe,” Drossel continued pleasantly. “Black armor. Very strange armor.”

“Cursed,” Raven said. He didn't want to talk about this. Talking about this armor was dangerous, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

“Where did the armor come from, Captain?” Drossel asked, his voice losing the pleasant quality, sharpening. “You said you found it. Where did you find it?”

Raven tried to get up to go, but he couldn't walk properly, stumbled like a drunken man. Drossel steered Raven back to the chair and the questions started again. The same questions, over and over and over.

Raven saw the armor, black and oily; he saw Jessan unwrapping the blanket, giving him the armor; he saw Ranessa lunging at him with her sharp nails like talons; he saw the dying knight Gustav; he saw Bashae running into camp, telling his story; he saw the dwarf, Wolfram, panting and frightened. Raven didn't like the dwarf. He remembered that quite clearly. He saw all this at once and he knew he didn't want to be talking about any of it, but his mouth plucked images from his brain and spewed them forth.

Only sometimes, when the danger was so bad that he could barely stand it, was he able to stop the words, but that took an immense amount of effort on his part, effort that was painful and left him sweating and shivering.

The next thing Raven knew, he was being carried from the room by two soldiers, who grunted under his dead weight. They dumped him in his tent, muttering about drunken barbarians who couldn't hold their liquor. He lay on ground that seemed to be constantly falling out from underneath him, stared up at the tent poles
that writhed and twined in his blurred vision, and he did not sleep so much as pass out.

Drossel went to the Temple of the Magi to report his findings.

 

Shakur knew the moment he looked at the black armor brought in by the Trevenici that the armor was Svetlana's. But how had her armor come to be in the possession of a Trevenici? What had happened to the Dominion Lord and, most important, what had become of the Sovereign Stone?

Now, after speaking to Drossel, Shakur had answers. He did not have all the answers—curse the stubbornness of the Trevenici—but he had enough.

Taking out the blood knife, Shakur placed his hand upon it and sent his thoughts to his master. The link was quickly connected. Dagnarus had been waiting eagerly to hear from Shakur.

Having positioned his forces to attack Dunkar, the Lord of the Void had departed, traveling northward. He was currently in the mountains of Nimorea, not far from Tromek, the elven nation. Neither the Nimoreans nor the elves were aware that an immense force of fierce warriors from another part of the world threatened their lands. Dagnarus held his taan on a tight leash. They marched at night, keeping under cover, using the magic of the Void to conceal their movements. Another taan army lurked outside the capital city of Dunkar and still a third was hidden in the wilderness of Karnu. Dagnarus was now poised to begin the conquest of Loerem.

“What news?” Daganarus's thoughts thrummed through Shakur's veins like the warm blood that no longer circulated in his decayed body. “Where is Svetlana? Have you recovered the Stone?”

“Svetlana is dead, my lord,” Shakur said bluntly.

“Dead?” Dagnarus repeated, his anger burning. He had never reacted well to bad news. “What do you mean, dead? She is a Vrykyl. She is already dead!”

“Then she is deader,” Shakur returned wryly. “She died by the hand of the cursed Dominion Lord. I have seen what was left of her, my lord. I know. Her armor was brought in by a Trevenici warrior.”

“And where is the Stone?”

“I do not know for certain, my lord. It wasn't with her. But I have made inquiries and I have some ideas. One of our agents has questioned the Trevenici.”

“What did he say?”

“The man was reluctant to speak, my lord. He resisted the truth potion, but we managed to learn a great deal. The Dominion Lord killed Svetlana, but not before she managed to fatally wound him. The Trevenici found the knight. He was dying. He had with him the Sovereign Stone—”

“Did the Trevenici tell you that? Did he see the Stone?”

“No, my lord. The Dominion Lord would never reveal such a treasure to a pack of barbarians. We know from Svetlana that the Dominion Lord was in possession of the Stone. According to the Trevenici, the man was desperate to complete some quest before he died. What else could that quest be but to take the Stone to New Vinnengael?”

“That makes sense,” Dagnarus conceded. “What else did you find out?”

“The knight died. He was buried with great honor in the village. Now here is the interesting part, my lord. After his death, a dwarf, who was with the knight and may have even been a traveling companion, departed the village. At the same time, another group also left the village. We do not know much about this second group, for every time our agent pressed the Trevenici, he grew agitated and resisted the agent's probings. Our agent assumes that someone in this group is close to the Trevenici and that he is protecting them.”

“The agent found out nothing more from this Trevenici?” Dagnarus demanded angrily. “Question him again. Don't use some fool potion. He has the information I need. Tear him into little pieces until you find it!”

“He is Trevenici, my lord. He would reveal nothing under torture,” said Shakur with finality. “His disappearance would start the other Trevenici asking questions. They would search for him, perhaps alert those in his village…If I might suggest a different course of action, my lord?”

“Very well, Shakur. You are a cunning bastard. What do you propose?”

“We know the location of his village. I will send my mercenaries in company with a bahk to the village with orders to obtain what information they can from the villagers. With its uncanny ability to sniff out magic, the bahk will be useful in discovering the Stone if it remains in the village—”

“You will not find it in the village,” Dagnarus returned with finality. “The Stone has been sent on. It moves in the world. I sense it, feel it, taste it…How could I not, Shakur? For two hundred years, this shard of rock, this bauble, this jewel has been the object of my dearest desire. I paid for it with my blood. The Stone is stained with my blood. In my dreams, I see it. I reach out to seize it…and it slips away. The Stone travels north, Shakur. The Stone travels north…and it travels south.”

Shakur had to work very hard to keep his thoughts in check, but apparently he failed, for Dagnarus came back to say, “You think me mad…”

“Not so, my lord,” Shakur thought hastily, scrambling, “Suppose this knight found a way to split the Stone? Two hundred years ago, it was split into four separate parts. Could it not be further divided?”

“No! Impossible!” Dagnarus was firm. “I saw the Stone. I handled it. The Stone was meant to be split into four separate sections. Five, if you count the Void. But no more. Not the sharpest sword blessed with the strongest magic could cut it.”

“And yet, it appears that the impossible has happened, my lord,” Shakur observed.

“Has it? I wonder. Consider this: The Dominion Lord is sick, dying, desperate. But he is also smart and clever. Clever enough to find the Sovereign Stone, clever enough to defeat and kill one of my Vrykyl. In order to send on the Stone, he cannot count on finding people who are as clever or wise or smart as himself. Svetlana accomplished that much at least. She brought about the death of the one man who might have bested us. She forced the Dominion Lord to pass the Stone to those weaker and more vulnerable. The Dominion
Lord would do his best to ensure the Stone's safety. But he can no longer watch over it, guard it.

“What would he do? He would do what I would do myself. When I send a messenger to the general of my armies, I do not tell the messenger the nature of the message he carries. Thus if he is captured, he cannot reveal what he does not know. If I were sending the Sovereign Stone to the Council of Dominion Lords in New Vinnengael, I would not tell the one carrying the Stone the nature of what he has in his possession. I would tell him he carries something of value, but no mention of
how
valuable. And do you know what else I would do, Shakur?”

“You would send out a decoy, my lord.”

“Exactly. I know that Vrykyl are searching for the Stone. I fear that they may have the ability to sense its powerful magic. I send out a decoy…”