Guardians of the Lost (20 page)

“I know mine,” Drossel said. Fixing his thoughts on the bag of silver argents, he felt better.

“Good,” said Lessereti. “You have only to take them close in. They will do the rest.”

“And after that?”

“You needn't worry about them. They can take care of themselves.”

“You put in a word for me?”

“I did,” she replied. “Lord Dagnarus will be expecting you.”

She lighted them out of her shop and into the alley. After they were gone, she shut and barred her door. Not a word of farewell, not a word to wish them luck.

Drossel had planned to form his squad into two lines and have them march behind him, but one glimpse of his “soldiers” and he knew that would never work. Not only would they not be able to keep in step, he could never train them to walk with the stiff and upright stance that marked the military man.

“Stay together,” he said. “With luck, we'll look like a patrol just coming off duty. Keep your mouths shut. I'll do the talking. Any questions? Good. Move out. You, Pasha, come tell me what you and this bunch plan to do once we get there.”

Pasha began to explain. Listening, Drossel glanced back at Lessereti's door, thinking she might be watching them.

The door was shut. No chink of light could be seen coming from beneath.

Drossel smiled ruefully at his notion. Lessereti didn't give a damn what they did or what happened to them. She had made her own arrangements for the future and was probably in her bed by now, sleeping quite peacefully.

The city of Dunkar was surrounded by a double wall made of stone with a thick layer of sand and rock in between. The wall had two main gates, one facing west and the other facing the harbor. The Harbor Gate, as it was known, had not been closed for as long as the eldest person in the city could remember. The last time had been during the devastating war with Karnu, over one hundred and seventy-five years ago. Fearing an attack by sea, Dunkar had strengthened its harbor defenses, adding infamous fire-hurling catapults.

The west gate, facing the Dunkar highway that led to the frontier outposts, was closed every night at sundown. The gate itself was massive. Made of iron, the two double doors were a marvel to all who saw them. The casting and mounting of the doors had required the combined efforts of all the blacksmiths in Dunkarga, as well as assistance from every magus with skills in Earth magic who could be persuaded to lend his arcane art. Earth magic continued to be required to keep the doors from rusting, only a minor problem, due to the dry climate.

The doors were so heavy that a team of twenty stout men were required to close them and open them in what had become a daily ritual. Timed by beating drums and their own chanting, the men divided into groups of ten each and, putting their hands on the doors, shoved them shut at night and thrust them open in the morning. After the doors had been shut, the twenty men lifted an enormous iron cross bar and, grunting and straining, wrestled it into place across the two doors. Then, each man grabbed a huge war hammer and beat on the bar until it fell into the pinions that held it firm.

They followed the same routine in the morning, removing the cross bar from the door and hauling it to where it stood during the day, resting on a hundred wooden trestles, watched over by city guards, who did little except keep children from playing on it and visitors from trying to scratch their names onto the iron.

The iron gate had been closed immediately the enemy army had come into sight, the enormous cross bar lowered into place. No battering ram on Loerem could smash down those gates, though it were wielded by an army of orks, and not even dwarven Fire magic
could set the iron doors ablaze, so the Dunkargans believed, and probably with good basis for their belief.

The gate was normally heavily guarded, for the Dunkargans had little liking for foreigners, particularly those not of the human variety. The guard on the gate had been tripled with the sighting of the enemy. Drossel had never seen so many soldiers on duty all at one time.

The soldiers had cordoned off the area around the gate and the city walls, keeping the streets free of civilians so that troops and supply wagons could have access. Drossel had feared having to shove his way through a panicked mob of civilians in order to reach his objective. Now he had only to shove his way through a panicked mob of soldiers. Despite the Seraskier's efforts to improve matters, discipline in the Dunkar army was notoriously lax, with half its officers corrupt and the other half too incompetent to be corrupted.

“You're sure this is going to work?” Drossel asked Pasha.

The group had halted by mutual and unspoken consent in the heavy shadow cast by a statue of one of Dunkar's long-dead kings. Pasha stood regarding the gate with a frown that caused all the scars on his face to scrunch together.

“There is more light than usual,” Pasha stated.

“Is this a problem?”

“It could be.”

Glancing around at the group of Void wizards, Drossel saw nods of agreement. Heaving an exasperated sigh, he looked back at the gate. On a normal night, two torches burned on the walls near each of the two gatehouses, while a single lamp lit the interiors. This night, not only was there a bright, full moon and a cloudless sky, but all twenty wall sconces held a torch and several iron braziers filled with flaming charcoal had been brought in to stand near the gate.

The light illuminated a scene of confusion, with soldiers coming off duty stopping to talk to those who were coming on duty. Those soldiers who had no duty at all and who should have been back at the barracks milled about in front of the gate or tried to climb up the stairs to get a look at the enemy. Officers barked orders that no one heeded.

“There's not a damn thing I can do about the light—” Drossel began, only to find that no one was listening to him.

Pasha consulted with his fellows. They appeared to be hatching some sort of plan, for occasionally one or two murmured something in acquiescence. City bells began tolling the hour.

Drossel nudged Pasha.

“Midnight. It's time.”

Pasha's eyes, deep set in the scarred face, were dark, calm. “We are agreed. We will proceed with the plan as I described it. You know what to do, Captain?”

“Yes, I bloody well know what to do,” Drossel snapped. A veteran soldier who had done more than his share of killing—both on the field and off—he had not expected to be this nervous.

“Then I suggest you do it,” Pasha said and he may have smiled; it was hard to tell for the scars.

“Wait a minute. This isn't going to work if there's no one on the other side of the gate.”

“The taan will be there, Captain, have no fear.”

“Taan? No one said I was relying on taan! What if they're spotted? What then?” Drossel was sweating. Accustomed to being in the lead, he didn't like this, relegated to a bit part. “What if they're seen?”

“They won't be,” said Pasha and he actually was at ease enough to sound amused. “The taan cast the same Void spells we do, Captain.” His mouth twisted. “Cast them better, from what I hear.”

Drossel didn't believe it. He'd been told about the taan and from what he'd heard, they were beasts. He was sorry he'd let Lessereti talk him into this scheme. There had been no mention of the taan playing a major part until now. No amount of silver was worth this.

“How will these animals know when to act? How will we know they're out there?” He shook his head. “I don't like this. There's too much left to chance.”

“I would think twice about backing out, Captain,” said Pasha and he no longer sounded amused.

“I never said I wanted out,” Drossel growled. “I'm just indicating
where things might go wrong, that's all. I'll do my part, don't worry.”

Muttering imprecations against Lessereti under his breath, he turned his back on the Void wizards and began to walk toward the gate. The distance he had to cover was not far, perhaps the length of a long city block, but it suddenly seemed furlongs to him. He walked alone. Pasha had given Drossel a strict injunction not to look back, not to try to see what the Void wizards were doing. Pasha warned that this might draw unwanted attention to them, and Drossel knew this was true, but he couldn't help it. He didn't trust them. He glanced over his shoulder.

Having left twelve “soldiers” wearing white tunics that would reflect the moonlight and be visible in all but the deepest darkness, Drossel was considerably startled not to see a single one of them standing beneath the statue where he'd left them. He passed his tongue over dry lips. Although he knew the plan, the thought that he'd been left in the lurch was too overwhelming. Twisting his neck, he sent a piercing gaze into the shadows and then he saw them.

The sight was unnerving and he wished he'd obeyed Pasha's orders and hadn't looked. The wizards' flesh withered as if they had been caught in a bubbling cauldron. They gave their substance to the Void and the magic seemed to be rendering their flesh as was done in the stockyards, where the animal fat is melted into tallow. The wizards' flesh melted into the Void. All that remained of the wizard was his shadow, a shadow cast by moonlight, a shadow that was gray and wavering and insubstantial, but could think and act like the man it had been.

Eleven of the wizards had already performed the transformation. Pasha was the last. As the leader, he had waited to make certain the spells the others had cast had worked, that his magic would not be required to assist any of them or to deal swiftly with a problem should someone's spell go bad, as occasionally happened. In that case, he might be left to dispose of a corpse, for Void magic was not merciful to those who mishandled it.

Drossel jerked his head forward, the sight of Pasha's scarred face melding grotesquely into its own shadow imprinted on the backs of
his eyeballs. Drossel was not one for nightmares, but between the Seraskier's dead eyes staring accusingly at him and Pasha's living eyes dissolving, Drossel figured he'd be drinking himself to sleep the next few nights.

He shook off the chill that was creeping up his neck and wrenched his mind back to the job at hand. He kept walking, making his way toward the gate, shoving and cursing those who bumbled into his way. Someone called his name, wanting to know what he was doing here. He waved his hand to acknowledge that he heard, continued walking rapidly, as if on an urgent mission that could not be interrupted by idle conversation.

He darted a swift glance around to see if by chance he could detect any of the twelve Void wizards. Drossel thought he saw one man's shadow, slipping along the far wall opposite him, but there were so many people passing to and fro that he couldn't be certain. He breathed a sigh of relief. If he couldn't see them in this confusion and he was looking for them, he doubted if anyone else would notice.

Nearing the gatehouse, Drossel slipped his hand into the wide red belt that was part of the uniform and drew out a dagger that wasn't. He slid the handle of the dagger up into the long flowing sleeve of his shirt, holding the weapon by the blade, so that it would not be seen.

Much to his chagrin, he discovered that one officer had at last succeeded in restoring some sort of order at the gatehouse. The area was being cleared of idlers and that would include Drossel unless he had a reason to be here.

Walking up to the gatehouse guard, who was looking harried and uneasy, Drossel saluted.

“What do you want?” the guard demanded.

“I am looking for Seraskier Onaset. I have an urgent message for him.”

“He's not here,” the guard said shortly.

“I was told he would be here,” said Drossel with obtuse stubbornness. “His aide said I would most certainly find him here.”

“Well, he's
not
here, as you can plainly see if you've got eyes in your head,” the guard returned.

“I will wait for him here,” Drossel said and took up a position next to the gate near one of the enormous hammers used to pound the iron bar into place. He remained standing with his back straight, his eyes forward, his arms folded across his chest.

“Wait for him in the Void, for all I care,” the guard muttered. He was clearly frightened. He kept glancing at the wall, as if he could see through it to the fearsome enemy beyond.

Someone shouted for the gate guard and he turned to discover what new crisis had presented itself.

Drossel remained standing until he was certain the guard had forgotten about him. As he stood there, he saw three disembodied shadows flow across the cobblestone street and approach the iron doors.

He looked nervously up at the battlements, at the soldiers walking the walls. Surely they must have heard or seen something? But no, they were pacing out the course of their patrol or standing staring out at the enemy, talking in low voices.

Drossel's mouth went dry as the pavement. He strained his ears to try to hear sounds from the opposite side of the door, any sort of sound to let him know that the taan who were supposed to be there were there.

Drossel shifted his gaze. The area around the gate was empty now, the shadows that had no corresponding bodies could be seen clearly. He told himself that this was because he knew what to look for and, indeed, that seemed to be the case, for one of the other gatehouse guards glanced in the direction of the gate and turned away.

More of the Void wizards arrived, the shadowy forms spreading out along the width of the gate, six to each door. Shadowy hands reached out to touch the enormous iron cross bar. Drossel tensed, listening for the sound Pasha had told him he would hear, the sound that was his signal to act. Unfortunately, at that moment, one of the soldiers who had been detailed to clear the area looked at the gate. Drossel could tell by the man's bulging eyes and gaping mouth that he had seen the disembodied shadows.

The soldier sucked in a breath to cry out, but the cry changed
to a grunt of pain as Drossel drove his dagger into the man's ribcage. An expert at dagger work, Drossel hit the heart and the man died in Drossel's arms, the body sagging.