Guardians of the Lost (4 page)

The intruder entered the tent, moving on hands and knees. Gustav could not see clearly, for the thick darkness.

“Who's there?” he called out in a sleep-fuddled voice while, at the same time, the thumbnail of his right hand scraped against the tip of the sulfur stick.

Flame flared. Gustav thrust the fire into the face of the intruder: a woman's face, a face of astonishing, breathtaking beauty. Blue eyes, large and lustrous, full red lips, hair the color of maple leaves in autumn. She wore a dress of rich green velvet, the bodice cut low. She was on her hands and knees. Her white breasts fell forward, heavy, ripe and tempting.

“I am lonely,” she said softly. “I need somewhere to spend the night.”

The smothering feeling, the stench of rotting flesh.

Gustav stared fixedly at the woman and the illusion shattered, burst apart, as if it had been made of ice and he'd struck it with a hammer.

Beauty disappeared to be replaced by horror.

The beautiful face deteriorated into the face of a long-dead corpse, a skull with a few clumps of decayed flesh still clinging to it. There were no eyeballs in the bony sockets, but there was malevolent and cunning intelligence. No pity, no mercy. No compassion. No hatred, no greed, no lust. He saw, in the eyes, the Void.

The Void. As it had been before the gods came and the world was created. As it would be when the gods departed and the world came to an end. He saw, in the eyes, the emptiness in his own heart when Adela died.

Gustav saw his own death in the empty eyes. He could not fight this thing. He could not move to defend himself. The power of the Void emptied him, drained him, drained his will to live.

The sulfur match went out, burning Gustav's thumb. The pain reminded him that he lived and that, while he lived, he could fight. Before the flame vanished, he had seen a small knife made of bone in the corpse's skeletal hand.

The corpse lunged at Gustav, stabbing at him with the knife. So swift and skilled was the attack—aiming straight for the heart—that Gustav had barely time to grab his sword. He would have died, but for the magical armor of the Dominion Lord that flowed over his body.

The knife in the corpse's skeletal hand struck steel. The armor turned the blade from the heart, but did not stop its entry. Few weapons can penetrate the blessed armor and this was one—a weapon of Void magic. The blade missed the heart, stabbed Gustav in his left shoulder.

The pain was terrible, a stinging, burning pain that slanted through his flesh and struck to his very soul. The pain shriveled his stomach, caused him to gag.

The corpse made an unearthly sound, muffled scream, as if it were crying out in fury from the grave. Fighting against the debilitating pain that was making him sick and dizzy, Gustav raised his sword. The corpse was close to him. He could feel the rasping of its nails against his armor. He plunged his blade into the corpse's chest.

He had expected bone, but the blade struck steel armor. The blow jarred his sword arm so that he very nearly dropped the weapon. Yet, he could tell by a grunt of pain that he'd managed to inflict damage on his murderous assailant.

Gustav took advantage of the corpse's momentary distraction to escape the confines of the tent. Kicking aside the pots he had placed in front of the tent opening, he staggered out into the night and turned immediately to face his opponent, who would not be far behind him. His armor glowed silver in the darkness.

His attacker emerged from the tent and rose to her full height. By the silver light of his own blessed armor, Gustav looked upon his antithesis.

The figure wore armor that was blacker than the darkness. The
design of the armor was hideous, like the carapace of some monstrous insect, with razor-sharp spikes at the elbows and the shoulders, and a helm that was formed in the shape of the head of a mantis with bulbous eyes of empty nothingness. The creature had abandoned the small knife and held in her gloved hands an enormous black sword with wicked, serrated edges. Now Gustav knew what it was he fought.

“A Vrykyl,” he breathed.

Creatures of myth and legend. A nightmare come to life. There had been rumors, reports that these ancient demons once more walked Loerem. It was said that they had been responsible for the destruction of Old Vinnengael.

The Vrykyl swung her blade, a stroke intended to test the skill and strength of her opponent.

Gustav parried the stroke with his own blade, but the Vrykyl's powerful blow nearly knocked the weapon from Gustav's hand. Forced to spend a moment recovering, he could not follow up his advantage and he felt the first twinges of despair. He was far more skillful with a sword than this Vrykyl, but the Vrykyl had the strength of Void magic, the strength of one who has no muscles that will start to ache or heart that will begin to falter. He was wounded and he was old. He could feel himself already starting to weaken.

Gustav had one chance and that was to end this fight quickly. His magical weapon, blessed by the gods, had the ability to penetrate the accursed armor. He had only to find a vulnerable spot and strike a killing blow.

He waited and watched, grim and patient. The Vrykyl saw his weakness. She rushed at him, sword raised, thinking to cleave him in two with a death-dealing stroke. The Vrykyl was darker than dark, a hole cut in the night. Gustav balanced, thrust, used all his strength to drive his sword into the Vrykyl's midriff, beneath the breastplate.

The sword penetrated the armor. The shock was paralyzing, sent jolts of teeth-jarring pain throughout Gustav's arm. His hand went numb, he could no longer hold onto the sword.

But he had hurt the Vrykyl. Her shriek split the night. The horrifying
sound sent shudders through Gustav. He stood clutching his arm, trying to rub some feeling into it, trying to halt the jangling of his nerves.

The Vrykyl fell to the ground, screaming and writhing. The magic of Gustav's blessed sword entering the Void brought substance to the Void, filled it with light, bringing an end to the darkness that sustained her.

His right hand was useless. Gustav wondered if he would ever regain the feeling. The wound in his shoulder burned and throbbed and he started to feel a numbing chill spread from his shoulder throughout his body. Using his left hand, gritting his teeth against the pain, Gustav leaned over the wounded Vrykyl and yanked his sword free. The blade was clean, bore no trace of blood.

The Vrykyl's screams ceased. She lay on the ground, her body twisted in its death throes.

Gustav collapsed near his enemy. He spiraled down into darkness, fell into the emptiness of the Vrykyl's eyes.

 

Gustav felt something tickling his cheek. He woke with a wrenching gasp, the horrid memory of the bone knife of the Vrykyl fresh in his mind. His eyes flared open. He stared up in terror, to find that the tickling sensation on his face came from the muzzle of his horse.

Gustav gave a shuddering sigh. He lay back on the grass, looked up to find the sun was shining high in the sky. The warmth was wonderful to feel, eased the pain in his shoulder. The horse, remorseful that he had failed in his duty, nuzzled his master in what was first an apology and second a demand to be fed.

Gustav lay a moment longer, basking in the sunshine, and then he lifted his right hand, wiggled the fingers. The feeling had returned. He gave another sigh of relief and sat up, carefully, so that the blood didn't rush from his head.

He was no longer wearing his armor, which would have acted to protect him while he was unconscious, had there been any threat. Shoving aside his shirt, he examined the wound. It was not serious, at least to look at, being nothing more than a small puncture, such
as might have been made by an ice pick. The wound had not bled much, but the flesh around the wound had turned a strange whitish blue and, when he touched it, he could not feel his touch, as if the skin were frozen.

He tried lifting his arm and gasped in pain. Moving gingerly, he looked over to where the Vrykyl had fallen, feeling a grudging curiosity to see what the loathsome thing looked like in the light of day.

The Vrykyl was gone.

Alarmed, Gustav jumped to his feet. He searched around the area hurriedly, thinking that perhaps he had mistaken the location of the corpse.

He found nothing. It was as if the Vrykyl had never been. He might have thought he had dreamed the entire nightmare encounter, but for the wound in his arm. And there were other signs that a fight had occurred.

Now that he examined the area closely, he could see where the grass had been torn and trampled. He could also see signs where something heavy had been dragged through the brush.

He had not killed the Vrykyl. He had only wounded it.

In his mind's eye, he saw the injured Vrykyl hauling her body along the ground. Gustav touched his numb shoulder, recalled the deadly little knife the creature had wielded. No ordinary knife could penetrate the armor of a Dominion Lord. Her knife had been enchanted with Void magic—powerful Void magic. Gustav wondered why the Vrykyl hadn't tried to slay him while he lay unconscious.

Perhaps she lacked the strength. Perhaps she had counted him dead, as he had assumed she was dead. Perhaps…

Perhaps she had not found what she sought.

Gustav followed the trail of broken grass stalks and gouges in the earth. The trail led directly to his tent. Gustav opened the tent flap and caught his breath. The air was tainted with the foul and oily taste of Void magic.

He looked inside for the knapsack, found what was left of it. The Vrykyl had torn it to shreds. The objects that had been in the knapsack
were strewn about. The dark lantern had been smashed, its glass shattered, its case bashed and dented. The tinderbox had received the same treatment. His spare clothes were cut to ribbons as was his blanket.

At least he had the answer to his question. The Vrykyl had been searching for the Sovereign Stone.

The more he thought about this, the more sense it made. The Vrykyl had learned of his quest—he had made no secret of it. She had been following him. She had discovered the tomb and had attempted to enter, planning on seizing the Sovereign Stone herself. The Earth magic that had acted to thwart Gustav would have risen up in fury against a Vrykyl. She could not take the Stone. And so she had retreated and waited for Gustav to bring it out to her.

She had attacked him in the night, hoping to kill him and recover the Stone. She had not counted on meeting a Dominion Lord and thus she had failed. After the fight, wounded though she was—and she had been terribly wounded, of that Gustav was certain—she had dragged herself to the tent and torn apart everything in search of the Stone. Frustrated, not finding it, she had been forced to depart to nurse her wounds.

Gustav was under no illusion. She had permitted him to live only because she was certain he would lead her to the Sovereign Stone.

Gustav picked up a small strip of leather, a remnant of the knapsack. Undoing his thick braid, he twisted the leather in among the locks and rebraided the gray hair tightly around it. Then, unable to breathe the fetid air, he left the tent. Back in the sunshine, he gratefully drew in a deep breath.

Further search revealed the Vrykyl's trail. It led away from the tent. He had removed his saddlebags and his saddle from the horse and she had searched those, too. The saddlebags were in tatters. The saddle bore marks of her long nails. She had then limped on, heading northward.

About a hundred paces away, Gustav discovered signs of a horse that had been tethered to a tree. His own horse had fled the Vrykyl in terror. Gustav wondered what sort of Void magic spell the
Vrykyl had cast on the poor animal to induce it to serve the hideous creature.

The horse's hooves left gouges in the earth, heading northward. The Vrykyl was gone for the time being. She had been forced to leave because she was wounded and needed whatever succor the dreadful creatures used to heal themselves.

Gustav sighed deeply and stood long moments, searching the land in all directions. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. Yet he still had the feeling he was being watched.

Returning to camp, Gustav went about his normal routine. He fed and watered his horse. He ate something himself, though he could not have said what, for he could not taste it. All he could taste was the foul smell of the Void magic, that was all-pervasive. His meal finished, he dragged his saddle and bridle and the maltreated saddlebags into the tent with the rest of his possessions. He soaked his bedding and the saddle with lantern oil. Using what was left of the tinderbox, he created a spark, dropped it onto the oil-soaked rag that had once been his blanket.

The fabric caught fire instantly. Gustav watched for a moment, making certain it spread. When the flames began to lick the sides of the tent and the heat became intense, he left. He stood outside the tent, watched the conflagration build, watched to see that everything was consumed. Thick, black smoke roiled into the air. Satisfied that very little would be left, he mounted his horse. He had only the clothes on his back, his sword and scabbard, his saddle blanket his magical gauntlets and a piece of the magical knapsack.

He must ride long and hard this day. Not accustomed to riding bareback, he knew that his body would be stiff and sore at his journey's end. Gustav was under no illusion. The Vrykyl would attack him again. He had to find some way to send a message to the Council of Dominion Lords. He had to find some way to tell them of his great success and to warn them of their dire peril.

Gustav was relatively certain he would not live to tell them himself.

T
here was in the part of Loerem near where Lord Gustav traveled, a place called Wild Town. The day Lord Gustav set fire to all his possessions that had been touched by the Vrykyl, two people walked into Wild Town. It does not seem possible that these two disparate incidents should be related, yet, in the near future, they would be.

Wild Town was something of a misnomer. The place was neither very wild—though it liked to think it was—nor could it be classified as a town. Wild Town might be considered more nearly a member of the fungus family, for it had grown up overnight at a crossing of two roads, one road leading south to a town that was a town—the settlement of Vilda Harn—and the other road leading to a ford on the Little Blue river.

Wild Town consisted of seven ramshackle shacks. Four of these shacks were, in order of importance: a tavern, a brothel, a blacksmith shop, and a Temple of Healing that came complete with a somewhat faded, but still impressive looking gilt sign. The other three shacks were currently occupied by vermin, both two-legged and four-legged.

Wild Town boasted a market, if one calls four stalls a market, and a well of remarkably clear, cold water. A ragged child sat by the well all day, collecting coppers and providing the community mug, which—for an extra copper—he would clean with the tail of his tattered and filthy shirt.

A seasoned traveler, passing through Wild Town, would have given the place either a look of disgust or a look of pity, depending on his nature, and ridden on. The two young men entering Wild Town were far from seasoned and they gazed on its tumble-down buildings and faded, wrinkled whores with awe and wonder. In their eyes, the whores were the most beautiful women they had ever seen, the shacks were the most magnificent structures conceived of by man, the market was the financial center of the universe and the tavern a place of danger, a rite of passage into manhood.

“Look, Jessan,” said his friend, reaching up a small, slender and long-fingered hand to tug on the taller youth's arm, “that woman with the yellow hair is waving at you.”

“Of course, she is, Bashae,” Jessan replied, shrugging. “Likely she has never seen a Trevenici warrior before. Nothing but soft city men, such as that one over there.”

His disparaging glance fell on a scrawny fellow in baggy, patched robes squatting on a large brick that formed the doorstoop of the Temple of Healing, fanning himself with a leaf from an elephant-ear plant.

“What does that sign above him say?” Bashae asked.

Jessan had been hoping his friend would ask him that very question. Jessan's uncle Ravenstrike, a mercenary warrior in the Dunkargan army, had taught his nephew to speak a smattering of Elderspeak, the common language of all races on Loerem. Raven had taught his nephew to read some, too, teaching what he considered to be the most important words for a warrior to learn to recognize, “temple” and “healing” being chief among them.

“Truly!” Bashae was awed. He could speak Elderspeak, but he could not read any language, even his own. “A Temple of Healing. That is where we must go. At once.”

“Wait.” Jessan caught hold of his friend's thin arm, dragged him back. “Not yet.”

“But this is what I came for,” Bashae argued. “I came to trade the jewelry for healing salves and potions.”

“Yes,” said the more worldly-wise Jessan, “but you never sell your wares to the very first buyer. You must show them around, create interest and excitement.” He himself was carrying a load of fine fur pelts.

“We must first go to the market,” he announced, although he eyed the blacksmith's longingly. He had come to barter for steel arrowheads, to replace the crude stone arrowheads he made himself.

The young men walked on. The whores called after them—or rather they called after Jessan. The women mistook Bashae for a child, although the pecwae was, in fact, eighteen—the same age as his friend. Jessan heard their shouts, but he could not understand what they were saying and thus had no idea that they were yelling at him.

 

Two people of different races watched Bashae and Jessan walk the one street of Wild Town, watched them with an interest born of intense boredom. One was a merchant, a member of the elven race, who had only recently come to Wild Town to set up his stall in the marketplace. He was bitterly disappointed with the place, that he had been led to believe was a prosperous, thriving community. He planned on packing up and leaving any day now. The other was a dwarf, whose name was Wolfram.

His name meant Wolf's Son, a common name among dwarven males, who believe that they are descended from wolves. Wolfram was vague as to why he himself was in Wild Town—not that the elf had asked. Once, during the glory days of Old Vinnengael some two hundred years before, the elves had been persuaded that they should take an interest in the other races of the world. This interest had proven disastrous for them. The fall of Old Vinnengael had resulted in a rupture between the elven ruler, the Divine, and the elven warlord, the Shield of the Divine. Every House of the Tromek nation had been involved in the devastating struggle for power that followed. Though peace had finally been declared, there was still much bitterness and bad blood between the Houses.

Thus Wolfram had been extremely surprised that the elf had deigned to speak to him at all, much less be so friendly and chatty. Wolfram figured the elf was on some sort of secret assignment. The elf liked nothing better than to talk about the politics of Dunkarga, particularly of rumors of war in the northwest part of that nation.

Wolfram saw the elf's pointed ears twitch like a dog's when he noted the arrival of a Trevenici youth. If anyone in Dunkarga would know about wars and battles, it would be a Trevenici, who fought as mercenaries in the Dunkargan army. The elf and the dwarf watched with interest as the young men came closer, both inwardly chuckling at the gaping wonder with which the two young men viewed the grubby buildings.

Wolfram had a belly laugh at the discomfiture of the whores, who could not persuade the handsome Trevenici, with his half-naked, oiled, and strongly muscled youthful body and his valuable fur pelts, to look at them twice.

The elf immediately rearranged his wares to their best advantage.

“You're wasting your time, friend,” said Wolfram. “Neither of those young men will be interested in your lacquer boxes and silk scarves.”

“Indeed?” the elf asked politely. “And why is that?”

“Both the pecwae and the Trevenici live simply. They never know when they may have to pick up and move and so they do not load themselves down with useless possessions.”

“A pecwae,” the elf repeated. “Do you make sport of me, sir?”

The elf's hand went to the curved-bladed sword he wore on his hip.

“No, I do not,” said Wolfram. “That is a pecwae. You've never seen one before, I take it.”

“The little people? The ones who speak with animals and can disappear in a twinkle of the eye? Bah! They are the stuff of legend. You are trying to trick me, and that is an insult which my honor will not permit me to abide. That is a human child.”

“Look closely, friend,” Wolfram advised. “You will see that although he is the height of a human child of eight, he has the features of an adult. That one is probably about twenty, or so I should guess.”

The pecwae and the Trevenici passed close by the elf's stall, heading for the booth of a fur-peddler that was two down. The elf stared hard at the pecwae and lifted an eyebrow. In his turn, the pecwae stared, gaping, at the elf. He attempted to draw the attention of his friend, but the Trevenici was intent upon his business and did not look around.

“I see that you are right. That is not a human child,” said the elf. “I am not prepared to say what it is, however.”

“It's a pecwae,” said Wolfram irritably. “You'll find several colonies of them in these parts. Where there are Trevenici, there you'll find pecwae.”

The elf was not easily convinced, but since it would be insulting to the dwarf to continue to express doubts, the elf politely changed the subject.

“But what of the young warrior? He will be interested in my wares. Undoubtedly he has a woman waiting for his return, a woman whose beauty will be enhanced by one of my silk scarves.”

Wolfram grunted and shook his head.

“No, he has no woman. Among the Trevenici, only a blooded warrior is allowed to take a mate. That young man has yet to fight his first battle. He probably still has his birth name.”

“Not a warrior?” The elf looked doubtful. “He is young, certainly, but he is of fighting age. How can you tell he is not already a seasoned veteran?”

“Because he wears no trophies,” Wolfram returned. “A Trevenici veteran would be decked out head to toe with shrunken heads and fingers and toes or any other body parts cut from his dead enemies.”

“You jest, surely!” the elf exclaimed, shocked. “They mutilate the dead? I have heard that these Trevenici were barbarians, but I never imagined that…that…”

“They could be this barbarous?” Wolfram concluded dryly. “They don't consider it mutilation. They consider it a compliment to the dead, in fact. The Trevenici cut off body parts from an enemy who has particularly impressed them in battle. They believe that this not only displays their own valor and will therefore strike terror into
the hearts of any who oppose them, but they also honor the fallen. If you travel to Dunkar, you will likely see more of them, for the Dunkargans hire Trevenici mercenaries to fight in their army. But perhaps you already knew that?” Wolfram added casually.

“Me? I know nothing of such barbarians. And if I had any plans of traveling south to Dunkar, you have just dissuaded me,” the elf said lightly. “I shall most certainly be heading in the opposite direction.”

“And if you are walking north tomorrow, I will fly up in the air like one of your damn kites,” Wolfram said to himself, grinning into his beard.

He lingered near the elf's booth, watching the young men approach the fur peddler's stall. The Trevenici spoke a word of greeting in Elderspeak, then indicated his pelts. The fur peddler appeared guardedly interested. The Trevenici slung the pelts off his shoulder, spread them out on the counter. He exhibited the fine quality of the fur, running his hand through it and lifting the pelts to show the skin.

The fur peddler shook his head, but Wolfram could tell the man was impressed. The Trevenici could tell, as well. This young man was no yokel with hay-seed in his hair. He knew what he was doing and although his Elderspeak was crude, he knew enough of the language to make his points. Someone had taught him well.

The pecwae had no interest in the furs. He could not take his eyes off either the elf or the dwarf, but stared at them with all his might. The dwarf found it amusing. The elf was offended.

“They are taught no manners, whatever they are,” the elf stated, a faint flush staining his pale cheek.

“We stare at him. He stares at us,” said Wolfram.

The pecwae fidgeted, digging his bare toes in the dirt and looking around. Eventually, finding that this bargaining was likely to take up a considerable portion of the afternoon, the pecwae said something to his friend and wandered off.

He came straight to the booth. He was only about four feet in height, not as tall as the dwarf. His hair was brownish blond and very curly. He wore his hair cut short, revealing his long and
pointed ears. His eyes were an intense blue color, round and large. He had a small, sharp chin and a full-lipped mouth. His teeth were blunt, like the teeth of a cow or a horse, for they had no need to tear meat. The intense blue eyes went from the elf to the dwarf and from the dwarf to the elf. The pecwae was awed, enchanted, but not in the least daunted or disconcerted.

“Jessan”—the pecwae jerked a thumb in the direction of his companion—“say that you are an elf and you”—the pecwae turned a pair of astonishingly bright eyes on Wolfram—“a dwarf. Is true?”

The pecwae's voice was shrill, high-pitched and piping. His Elderspeak was halting and barely understandable. The Trevenici are the only other race on Loerem who can speak the pecwae language, known as Twithil, and even they can only speak and understand a portion of what is said, for many of its sounds soar far above the human range of both speech and hearing.

“I am of the Tromek,” said the elf, with a chill bow.

“I'm a dwarf,” said Wolfram bluntly.

“I'm a pecwae. I make this,” said the pecwae proudly and, reaching into a pouch attached to a leather thong that he wore draped over one shoulder, he pulled out a handful of jewelry that flashed in the sunlight and deposited the jewelry on the counter.

The elf had never seen anything so lovely. Sighing with pleasure, he reached out his hand to touch the beautiful pieces.

“Skystone,” said the pecwae, watching with pride as the elf lifted the necklace to the light.

“Stunning!” the elf breathed.

Even the dwarf, who had no interest in jewelry, was taken with the work. Wolfram might have no love for jewelry, but he knew gemstones and that turquoise was the finest he had ever seen. Veins of silver streaked each nugget. The blue was the color of the summer sky reflected in a smooth lake. His fingers itched to touch it and he had to restrain himself from snatching it from the elf's hands.

“I will trade you one of my boxes for this,” said the elf. “Whichever you want. Take your pick.”

Wolfram had to bite his tongue to keep silent. Elves believe that
turquoise is magical, has the power to protect the wearer from harm. A necklace like this, made up of at least thirty turquoise nuggets—the largest the size of the dwarf's large thumb—would be worth the price of a small house in any Tromek city. Wolfram cursed the luck that left him dirt poor when such a wonderful opportunity had come his way.

The pecwae cast a polite glance over the boxes. “Nice,” he said and reached out his hand to gather up the jewelry. “Not for me.” He looked at the Temple of Healing. “Potions.”