Guardians of the Lost (19 page)

Raven arrived back at the Trevenici camp to find his people gathered together, taking stock of the situation. Heads turned at the sight of Raven and seeing his dark expression and lowering brows, one of their questions was answered.

“I take it they wouldn't let you leave,” said one.

Raven shook his head. “The Seraskier has given orders that the gates are to be closed, no one in or out.”

“Of course, he has to do that,” said another disparagingly. “Else the entire Dunkargan army would head for the hills.”

“I say we fight our way out,” said a third, brandishing her sword.

“Fight! Hah!” another cried. “All we'd have to do is rattle our swords at them and they'll fall down and piss themselves.”

“What about our tribes? Those monsters came from the west. Maybe they're already moving on our people,” said another.

“I want to get out as much as any of you,” Raven said and, at the sound of his voice, thick with weariness, and the sight of his haggard face, everyone knew that he spoke the truth. “But fighting is not the answer. On my way back, I heard that the enemy sent in someone to parley. You know Dunkargans. They'll talk for days. This night, we go over the wall.”

“The walls will be heavily manned this night of all nights,” one pointed out.

“And all eyes looking west,” Raven answered. “We will go over the east wall.”

“There is a full moon tonight.”

“That is bad,” Raven admitted, “but it cannot be helped.”

“We will not have our horses—”

“Better we go on foot anyway. The enemy would hear the sound of hoofbeats.”

“The Dunkargans will accuse us of being cowards, Ravenstrike. They will say we fled in the night.”

Raven shrugged. “We know the truth, Sparrow Song. Does it matter to us what city dwellers say?”

No, it did not. Everyone agreed on that. After further deliberation,
all decided that they should adopt Raven's plan. In the discussion, not one mentioned the fact that after they escaped the city, they would need to make their way either through or around the enemy lines. To the Trevenici, this was the least of their problems. They had never yet met a foe, not even the Karnuans, that any of the warriors considered a worthy opponent.

 

As the Trevenici made their plans to escape the city, Onaset made his plans to defend it. He ordered his soldiers to light the fires beneath the cauldrons of oil and water. He formed parties of willing civilians into brigades with orders to soak down with water any building made of timber or those with thatched roofs. Fortunately there were not many flammable buildings in Dunkar, for most buildings were made of stone or a mixture of sand, water and crushed limestone. He sent soldiers to quell a riot at the docks, where terrified citizens were trying to flee the city in boats and ships. When their captains began charging outlandish sums, people decided to take matters into their own hands and tried to steal the boats.

Onaset had the great satisfaction of declaring the port under martial law, stating that all shipping would be needed for the current emergency. He sent his soldiers on board, rounded up the wealthy passengers—the only ones who could afford to pay for their salvation—and marched them off to help in the city's defense.

Onaset went to his supper late that night. He ate alone in his quarters in the barracks. He was not married. He did not think it fair to a wife to have a soldier for a husband. Servants did the cooking for him. He sat down to a bowl of curried lamb stew, ate a spoonful and, while chewing, went over what remained left to do before dawn brought chaos and terror and death to the city of Dunkar.

The realization that he had been poisoned came to Onaset with the terrible burning pain that was like a fire in his vitals. Furious, appalled, fearful not for himself, but for his city, Onaset rose to his feet and tried to call out.

The pain increased. His throat closed. His heart seized, beat wildly, then stopped.

The Seraskier pitched forward onto the table, dead.

T
he flames of torches and bonfires were bright splashes against the purple black darkness. Torches burned up and down the walls. The fires beneath the cauldrons were kept stoked throughout the night. A red hot glow came from the giant braziers where they were heating refuse from the blacksmith's shop—iron scraps, bent nails, old horseshoes—to shower down on the enemy. Nervous soldiers patrolling the walls were shadows passing in front of the flames, shadows that blended into the night when they walked on.

Beyond, in the prairie itself, more fires burned—campfires. When the herald rode out the city walls and word reached the enemy that King Moross had refused the terms of surrender, the enemy soldiers moved closer to the city. Their numbers were incalculable, some estimated as many as ten thousand. The voices of the creatures came clearly to those on the walls, for the monsters were constantly talking or shouting at each other. Their language appeared to be comprised of grunts and clickings and crackling sounds, with explosive sizzling pops like wet wood blazing. Their harsh voices heard coming across the distance were unnerving, alien, strange and unknown.

There was no sleep for anyone in Dunkar that night. Excited, terrified, its citizens clogged the streets, spreading rumors that grew more fearsome with each telling. Captain Drossel had a difficult time walking the streets and wished that he had thought to wear his cloak over his uniform. He couldn't go three steps without some frantic civilian spotting him as a member of the military and latching onto him, begging him for news or to confirm the latest rumor.

Drossel shook them loose with an impatient, “King's business!” and continued on, cuffing or shoving those who were too persistent. He was going to be late and while that annoyed him—he was a meticulously punctual person—it didn't much bother him. His men weren't going to go anywhere or do anything without him.

Commander Drossel was forty years old, a Dunkargan by birth, born and raised in the capital city. He had joined the army at an early age, not out of a sense of loyalty to his country—he cared damn little about his country—but because he had heard that with cunning and a certain amount of cleverness, a fellow could do quite well for himself in the Dunkargan military. One had only to avoid the temptation to be a hero, for that could get a fellow killed. Drossel had survived in the army for more than twenty years by not being a hero. He took care to fight when his superiors were watching, took care of himself when they weren't. He had risen through the ranks by a judicious mixture of bribery and treachery. Everyone knew it, no one thought the worse of him for it. That's just the way things are done in the Dunkargan army.

He had turned to the worship of the Void fifteen years earlier after a love affair had gone bad. He had been walking the streets of Dunkar, his mind toying with the idea of poison in order to avenge himself on the little whore. With this in mind, he entered an alchemist's shop and told the proprietor he wanted something to kill rats.

Guessing at once the nature of the rat in question, the proprietor had asked a few questions and at length suggested a potion that would have a much better effect. The cost was dear, both in terms of his purse and his own hide, for Void magic takes a bit of one's life
essence to work and causes pustules and lesions on the skin. Drossel was able to cover the worst of these with the flowing shirt the Dunkargans wore. He had never been a good looking man, being small and wiry in stature, dark-complected, with black hair and squinting black eyes. The pustules on his face were hidden by his beard.

The sacrifice had been worth it. The potion, slipped into her wine, had transformed the whore from a nubile and vain young beauty to a bony hag. The girl had known she had been cursed by the Void and she had guessed who had done it. She had tried to bring Drossel up on charges of being a Void worshiper, but he was a respected soldier and she was a whore and so no one believed her. Robbed of her looks and thereby her ability to make money, she had sunk lower and lower and was eventually found dead in the harbor.

Pleased with the power of the Void, Drossel had been indoctrinated into some of its secrets by a Void practitioner. Knowledge of those secrets and a way with potions led him to where he was today, a high ranking officer in the Dunkargan army, doing all he could to secretly undermine that army in the name of Dagnarus, Lord of the Void.

Drossel shoved his way through the panicked mobs, cursing them all heartily, and breathed a sigh of relief when he turned down a side street that was empty. The worst of the press was in the tavern districts, where people were accustomed to going for news. The merchant district, especially this part, was quiet. The shops had long been shuttered and those who lived above them had gone off to the taverns or to relatives to gorge on their fears.

He gave a moment's thought to what was in store for those clamoring in the streets and then shrugged the thought away. It wasn't his concern. A man had a right to take care of himself. Certainly no one had ever gone out of his way to take care of Drossel. His thoughts went from the people to the fat purse filled with silver argents he had hidden in a money belt secured tightly around his waist.

The street he walked was known as “Magi Street” due to the predominance
of shops that catered to magi. The shops were closed, their windows shuttered and doors barred. The shop to which Drossel was headed was one of the more prosperous on the block. The shop had a whitewashed façade and green shutters and the customary sign of the mandala representing “Earth magic” that was found on almost all the magi shops on this street.

Drossel turned down the alley next to the shop with green shutters. At the far end of the alley was another door. This shop was not marked, but everyone in Dunkar knew what was sold here: wares for those who practiced Void magic. Such a shop would not have been tolerated in New Vinnengael. The Church would have acted swiftly to shut it down, maybe even arrest the owner or, at the least, exile her. In Dunkar, the shop was just another shop.

The Dunkargan people did not like Void magic or Void magic users anymore than did the people of New Vinnengael, but Dunkargans held a pragmatic view of the matter. Dunkargans dislike anyone meddling in their affairs and consequently, they don't feel the need to meddle in other people's business. If a person wants to practice Void magic, it's his affair, not the king's—except to tax the shop owner—and certainly not the Church's. If a man is caught harming another through the use of an object of Void magic purchased in Dunkar, the Dunkargans will stone him to death—after they collect the taxes on the object he purchased. This dichotomy in thinking makes perfect sense to the Dunkargans, if to no one else in the world.

Drossel knocked three times on the door to this shop, counted to ten, knocked three more times. A panel slid open. An eye peered out.

“You're late,” said a woman's voice.

The panel shut and the door opened. A woman stood inside the door holding a lighted lamp. The room was small and crowded with cabinets and tables displaying wares dedicated to the use of Void magic. A pungent smell scented the air—that of the ointments used by Void mages to spread over the pustules and skin lesions caused by the use of Void magic.

The woman gestured with the lamp for Drossel to come inside,
shut the door behind him. She smelled of the ointment herself and he could see an oily patch on her cheek. Some believed the ointments worked, others did not, saying that those who did believe were fooling themselves. Drossel thought it eased the pain and the itch somewhat, but he couldn't tell that it improved healing time.

“Everyone is here,” the woman told him. “In the back room.”

“It's madness out there,” he said, as an excuse for his tardiness.

“What did you expect?” the woman replied coolly, leading the way.

Drossel had no answer to that. He might have said he really hadn't had time to expect anything, since he'd only received his orders the previous night, but he kept his mouth shut. No matter what he said, he wouldn't phase Lessereti. She'd only come back with some rejoinder to make him feel like a fool and since she invariably got in the last word, he'd learned early on that it was easier just to let her have it from the beginning.

The woman named Lessereti was an avowed user of Void magic and the owner of this shop. Everyone in Dunkar knew of her and, although most would cross to the other side of the street rather than walk past her, those same people would not hesitate to call on her when they were in trouble. Lessereti was smart, careful and skillful in her work. She knew what jobs to accept and which ones to refuse, no matter how much money was in the offing. Thus she had managed to outlive many other Void magic-users in the city of Dunkar.

When he had first met her, Drossel had thought Lessereti a comely woman. She was only part Dunkargan, that much could be told by the fact that her complexion was not dusky, but more the color of milk laced with coffee. Her hair was brown, not black, like most Dunkargans, and she had one brown eye and one blue eye. She was in her early thirties or looked it. She never referred to her age or where she came from and no one—certainly not Drossel—had the effrontery to ask her. She was well built and but for the pustules on her face and the single startling blue eye that seemed to be able to stare into the dusty parts of a man's soul, she would have been considered attractive.

Drossel had found her attractive, at first. That notion had been dispelled for him after five minutes conversation with her. Lessereti had no use for men, viewed them all with scorn. He would soon discover that men were not singled out for special treatment. Lessereti had no use for women, either. She detested all mankind, looked upon her fellow travelers to the grave as fools and dunces and never failed to find cynical amusement in their follies.

“You're not going with us tonight?” Drossel asked, for she was not dressed as were the others he could see waiting in the inner room—all wearing the uniforms of the Dunkargan military. Lessereti wore long, draping robes, useful for hiding the marks her trade left on her skin.

“Of course not,” she said. “I would be immediately recognized and then where would you be?” The words “you great idiot” were not spoken but implied in her tone.

Anger stirred in Drossel but he was careful not to show it. Captain Drossel was not afraid of anyone, with the single exception of Lessereti. Drossel had good reason to be afraid. He had been the one to drop Lessereti's poison in the Seraskier's lamb stew. Hiding in the kitchen, Drossel had witnessed first-hand Onaset's death. So fast-acting was the poison that the man had died with that first bite of meat still half-chewed in his mouth.

“So the Seraskier died like a lamb, did he?” Lessereti said, chuckling over her little joke.

“All went as you said it would,” Drossel stated. “He had no time to cause a scene. He never even made a sound beyond a sort of startled gasp. The servant and I hauled him to his bed. The servant will tell anyone who comes looking for him that the Seraskier is asleep. When the attack comes, they'll find him, but—”

“—by that time it will be too late. You must make haste, Drossel. The servant has probably fled by now.”

“I paid him enough—”

“Bah! You can never pay anyone enough. Well, here they are.” Lessereti held the lamp high, motioned with her hand. “Stand up, gentlemen, stand up. Form into a line. You're supposed to be soldiers.”

Twelve men wearing Dunkargan uniforms shuffled about in the inner room behind the shop. Lessereti did not like to live on the upper levels, as did most merchants, but preferred to live on the ground floor where she could quickly exit the building if she had to. Most people thought Lessereti rented her shop, but, in truth, Lessereti owned this building and also the one next to it.

Drossel looked each man up and down, making certain that all was correct and in order. He adjusted belts, smoothed folds, ordered one man to wipe the mud off his boots. They were not as good as he had hoped and he would have liked to have given them some training in impersonating soldiers.

“Don't worry, Drossel,” said Lessereti impatiently, “by the time anyone figures out they're not what they seem, it will be all over.”

“I hope so,” Drossel said and cast her a grim glance. “Anything goes wrong and we're captured, it means my neck. And likely yours, as well, Lessereti. They won't have to torture me to find out who gave me my orders.”

“Don't worry about me, Drossel,” Lessereti replied. “If this fails, you won't live long enough to talk.” She glanced around at the others. “None of you will. I've already seen to that.”

Drossel felt a cold qualm shiver his gut. He recalled her comment that “you could never pay anyone enough.” Lessereti was not one to make idle threats nor was she noted for her sense of humor. He looked askance at the other twelve men, but saw nothing in their faces to indicate whether they were fearful or not. Of course, they were all experienced Void magic-users, so perhaps this was a thing that was understood among them.

“We had best get going,” Drossel said, his voice harsh to mask his uneasiness. “You, there. If you wear your sword like that, you're going to trip yourself. Shift it more to the left.” He watched as the man struggled with the weapon. “It's not good, but it'll do, I suppose. Who's the leader?”

“Pasha,” said Lessereti, indicating an older man whose face was so deeply scarred that it no longer resembled a face.

Drossel recognized Pasha. He had long served as a silversmith's assistant. His facial scars came presumably from an accident with
molten silver. Drossel now understood that the scars came from his liaison with the Void.

“He knows his business?” Drossel asked nervously.

“Certainly,” Lessereti returned. “Do you know yours?” The single blue eye was brilliant in the lamplight. “I'm beginning to wonder, Captain.”