Guardians of the Lost (31 page)

“Yes,” said Jessan, amazed. “But how—”

“How do I know? I know about Vrykyl. To my sorrow, I know about them. A Vrykyl is not a living being, Jessan. It is dead and has been dead for perhaps a hundred years or more. A Vrykyl is a corpse that has been given the semblance of life by the evil magic of the Void, magic that is embodied in its black armor. The armor and the Vrykyl can never be separated, any more than you could be separated from your own flesh. When the Vrykyl is destroyed, the corpse crumbles to dust. The armor retains the essence of the Vrykyl, the magic of the Void.”

Jessan was appalled. “What would it do to my uncle?” he asked fearfully.

“I don't know,” Arim admitted. “I've never heard of anyone taking the armor of a Vrykyl, of anyone daring to do so.”

Seeing Jessan's distress, Arim said, more cheerfully, “Your uncle is a strong warrior, a man of sense. Let us believe that he found a way to rid himself of the accursed armor.”

“But if he didn't,” Jessan demanded, jerking free of Arim's attempt to soothe him. “What could it do?”

Jessan's complexion was pale beneath his tan, his eyes were shadowed, haunted. He was afraid, and Arim realized suddenly that the fear was not all for the uncle. A suspicion came to Arim's mind.

“The armor is an artifact of the Void. It could draw another Vrykyl to your uncle. Or lure your uncle to one of them.”

Jessan closed his eyes, leaned weakly against the door frame.

“What have I done?” he muttered.

Arim was alarmed, but he kept his voice calm. “What have you done, Jessan? Did”—he paused, thinking how best to phrase this—
“did you take something else from the Vrykyl? Something you kept?”

“Tell me,” Jessan said at last with a deep, shuddering sigh, “do the Vrykyl have…eyes of fire?”

“Show me, Jessan,” Arim said softly.

Jessan's fingers wouldn't seem to work properly. He fumbled at the sheath, fumbled to open it. His hand shook. He clenched his fist and, with a great effort, regained mastery over himself. He drew forth the bone knife and held it in his palm. He had once thought it sleek and delicate. Now it looked hideous.

Bashae gasped and shrank back, as far from the knife as he could manage. Arim made no move to touch the knife. He looked down at it, looked back up at Jessan, whispered a blessing in Nimorean, then jerked Jessan back into the room. Leaning out the door, Arim searched intently up and down the street. He shut the door and bolted it and placed his back against it.

“Do you know what you hold, Jessan?” Arim asked and realized the moment he asked the question that, of course, the young man did not. To him, it was a knife, nothing more. The Void exploited such innocence. “The Vrykyl maintain their unhallowed existence by feeding on the souls of living beings. The knife you hold is called a ‘blood' knife. When the victim has been claimed by the Void and transformed into a Vrykyl, the first action of the Vrykyl is to make a knife…out of his own bone.”

Jessan stared, horrified. But did he truly understand?

“They use the knife to murder their victims,” Arim said relentlessly. “To steal their souls.”

Arim did not want to inflict more harm on this young man, yet he must understand the truth of what he had done. “In addition, the Vrykyl use this knife to communicate with each other, to keep in contact. They can speak to each other through the knife. Jessan, has this knife drawn blood?”

“Not human blood,” Jessan said in a shaken voice. Sweat soaked his leather tunic. He wiped his forehead with his hand. “I didn't know. How could I?”

“But it has tasted blood?” Arim persisted.

“I killed a rabbit…” Jessan gasped for air, glanced around as if he could claw his way through a wall. “Maybe a couple. I don't know. That's when the eyes started looking for me. Eyes of fire. And the hoofbeats. I can't sleep. The ground shakes with them. Don't you hear…”

Jessan lunged forward and tossed the knife into the fire. Shrinking back, he grasped his right hand with his left, stared down at the palm. “It moved!” he gasped, panting. “I felt it twist in my hand like it was alive. It is evil. Cursed. Let it burn.”

“I am afraid—” Arim began.

“Silence!” the Grandmother said sharply and, at her command, all of them were quiet, even Jessan, though his harsh breathing echoed loudly in the small house.

The Grandmother had taken no part in the conversation. She sat at her ease on the carpet, staring intently into the flames of the fire.

The bone knife lay on the glowing embers in the hottest part of the fire. The flames licked it, but could not consume it. The fire did the knife no damage. Staring at the knife, the Grandmother began to sing.

The song was in Twithil, the language of the pecwae, that usually had a merry, carefree sound, reminding the listener of the twittering of birds. But Twithil had its dark side, too, for the pecwae live close to nature and know that nature can be cruel, without compassion for weakness or care for innocence. The owl's sharp beak tears apart the mouse; the blue jay cracks the shells of the robin, devours the unborn; spiders build webs to trap butterflies. The Grandmother's song was eerie—the hooting of the owl, the harsh caw of the jay, the frantic beating of the butterfly's wings. As she sang, she pointed.

The others gathered near, stared into the flames.

A figure of darkness rode on horseback. Black armor reflected the light of the flames. Orange fire burned in the eye slits of the helm. The horse's hoofbeats were soft, muffled, but the hoofbeats were constant, did not stop.

“The Vrykyl!” said Bashae, awed. “The one the knight killed.”

“No,” said Arim. “This is another. He has tasted blood through the blood knife.”

“He's coming after me, isn't he?” Jessan whispered. “He's coming to get the knife.”

“So it would seem,” Arim said. Reaching for the tongs, he gingerly lifted the blood knife, took it out of the fire, and dropped it into the coal scuttle. “These flames will not harm it. I doubt if even the sacred fires of Mount Sa 'Gra could destroy it.” He looked with new respect at the Grandmother.

“I did not know pecwae magic was so strong,” he said, bowing in apology in case he offended.

“The stick saw him coming,” the Grandmother said, placing her hand reverently upon the stick decorated with the agate eyes. “They saw the evil, but they did not know what to make of it.”

She gestured at the knife in the coal scuttle. “If this Warrior of Darkness wants the knife, give it to him. Then he will go away and leave Jessan in peace.”

“I agree, Grandmother,” said Arim politely. “Unfortunately, the matter is not that simple. Now that we know the worst, we can prepare for it. The knife must never taste blood again. The knife itself draws him. When it kills, it speaks to him, cries out to him. It is as if your friend, Bashae, were lost in a cave. You know he went into the cave and you have a general idea where to find him, but the search is easier if he shouts to you and you can follow the sound of his voice. That is what the knife does when it tastes blood. It shouts loudly for any Vrykyl to hear.”

“You seem to know a lot about these creatures,” Jessan said accusingly. He was starting to recover from his shock, the horror and the fright. Shamed by his weakness, he felt the need to regain ground that had been lost.

“Yes, I do,” said Arim coolly. “But that is another story. Now I would like to hear the rest of
your
story, Bashae. Lord Gustav sent you to me. Why? Where is he? Why could he not come himself?”

“He is dead,” said the Grandmother. “There was a great battle for his soul, but do not worry. The Trevenici fought at his side and his soul was saved. The Void did not take him.”

“I thank your people for that, Jessan,” said Arim. Hands clasped,
he lowered his eyes, said a prayer in his heart. “Lord Gustav was my friend. A brave and true knight. He had one lifelong quest—”

Arim halted what he had been about to say. Could that be true? Could that be the reason? It made sense, but, if so, the gods help them. The gods help him!

“Please, Bashae, continue your story,” Arim said, trying to still the sudden rapid beating of his heart. He blessed his dark complexion for he could feel the hot blood mount to his face and he did not want to show his agitation.

“Before Lord Gustav died, he asked me if I would take a love token to give to his sweetheart, an elf he called Lady Damra.”

Bashae drew forth the knapsack as he spoke. Opening the knapsack, he brought out the silver ring set with the purple stone. “It's an amethyst.”

“Yes, I know,” said Arim, examining the ring. He recognized it, knew it to be Gustav's. But the ring was a family heirloom, of little value. Gustav would not have sent a messenger on a long and perilous journey to deliver an amethyst ring. Nor would a Vrykyl chase after a family heirloom. “Is there anything else in the knapsack?”

“No,” said Bashae, and Arim's disappointment was acute.

“Did Lord Gustav give you nothing else? Tell you nothing else?” Arim asked.

“No-o-o…” Bashae drew out the word, squirmed beneath Arim's dark-eyed gaze.

“Ah!” Arim drew breath, understanding. “There is something more, but Lord Gustav said you were not to tell anyone except the Lady Damra. I won't ask you to reveal his secret. I would not have you break your vow.”

“Lord Gustav said you could take us to the elf lady. He said that the elves would not let us into their country, but that you could make them let us in.”

“Yes, I can gain you entry and I will serve as your guide. I have traveled much in elven lands. The Lady Damra is a friend of mine.” Arim understood everything, or so he imagined. “You have done well, Bashae. Lord Gustav chose a brave and faithful messenger.”

“The gods chose the messengers,” said the Grandmother. “Both
of them. Him.” She gave a bird-like nod at Bashae. “And him.” She gave another nod at Jessan. “They are meant to travel together.”

Arim cast her a sharp glance. She had read his thoughts apparently, for at that very moment, he had been thinking how to separate the two. He intended to proceed into Tromek with Bashae and the Grandmother, leave Jessan among his warrior friends. Arim would warn them that the young man was in danger and that he should be guarded day and night. Jessan would never be safe so long as he carried the blood knife and Arim knew of no way Jessan could rid himself of the cursed Void artifact.

Arim owed his knowledge of the Vrykyl to Damra's husband Griffith, who was one of the Wyred, an elven sorcerer. The Wyred are required to be knowledgeable about all forms of magic and the last time Arim had visited the Lady Damra and her husband, two years previous, Griffith had been deeply involved in the study of Vrykyl.

The elves had extensive records on these Void knights, better than even those held by the Temple of the Magi in New Vinnengael, for the elves had gleaned their information from a first-hand source, one who had witnessed the creation of the Vrykyl, whereas all the others took their accounts from stories of those who had survived the destruction of Old Vinnengael.

Arim recalled the conversation as clearly now as if Griffith were seated beside him. He had thought little of it then, but it came back to him with dark foreboding.

Why do you study these Vrykyl when no one has paid attention to them for two hundred years?
Arim had asked.

Because we have been warned to do so
, Griffith had replied.

“We should sleep now,” said the Grandmother. “I take it we'll make an early start in the morning, Kite Maker?” She cocked an eye at him, looking very much like an inquisitive sparrow.

Arim ceased his wool gathering, came back to the present. “Start where? For what? Oh…you mean that we will start for Tromek tomorrow.” He shook his head. “I'm afraid that is impossible. I must speak to the elven ministers. We must obtain documents permitting us to travel in elven lands. Without them, we would be subject to arrest.”

“A waste of time,” Jessan exclaimed. “We have the ring. We have Lord Gustav's instructions. He told us to take this to this elf lady. Why do we need these—whatever you call them?”

“Documents. The elves are very careful about those they permit to enter their country. Especially humans. They think that all humans are there to spy on them. I have to convince them otherwise. The elves trust my people, as much as they can trust those of another race. Believe me,” said Arim, guessing what was in Jessan's mind, “if you went to the border and attempted to enter on your own, they would stop you and probably imprison you.”

“How long then?” Jessan demanded.

Weeks
, Arim was about to say, but then he remembered the Vrykyl. “I will do what I can to convince them of the urgency,” he replied, wondering despairingly just how he was going to do that without revealing the truth. Elven bureaucrats were not noted for their quickness of thought or the depth of their perception. They actually went out of their way to be obtuse.

“Days, perhaps. Maybe three or four. I have a friend in the ministry, but he may not be there or he may be busy. I will have to see. You can sleep in my room in the back,” Arim added, rising to go prepare for their rest. “Make yourselves comfortable. Do not be alarmed if you hear me wandering about, for I am often up late. And I will probably be gone when you wake in the morning.” He looked intently at Jessan. “For your own safety and that of your friends, I advise you not to leave my dwelling place.”

Jessan muttered something and Arim had the feeling that his warning had fallen on deaf ears. He could do no more, short of locking them in the house, and he doubted if that would stop the Trevenici.

Jessan and Bashae went to the sleeping room, Bashae lugging the knapsack with him. Before she left, the Grandmother placed the stick with the agate eyes over the top of the coal scuttle.