Guardians of the Lost (52 page)

Lyall stared, appalled and astonished. “He knows! Then what—”

The Wyred shook her head. If she knew or guessed, she would not say.

“May I ask how you feel about this?” Lyall questioned her.

“The Shield of the Divine is of House Wyval. I am of House Wyval. My loyalty is to my Shield and my House,” the Wyred replied and her voice was cold.

Lyall would have to be content with that. She was obviously not going to tell him anything more.

“You know, then, that I need your help,” he said.

The Wyred raised the same eyebrow even farther. She waited for him to continue.

“If we are attacked, it must appear to the enemy that we have men enough to defend the Portal. Is this possible?”

He realized the moment he asked that question that he'd made a mistake.

The Wyred bristled. “Of course, it is possible. Creating such an illusion is simplicity itself. You realize that there is a danger in this, however. If your men are told it is illusion, they may have difficulty going along with it. Officers who lead illusory troops in a charge must do so knowing that in reality they face the enemy alone. Yet, troops who do not know the truth, who think that the illusions are real, may rely too heavily on illusory soldiers, only to find out at the last moment that their illusory comrade cannot come to their aid. I do not need to tell you that in such instances their trust in their officers and in each other will be damaged, not only now but in the future.”

“I will tell the men,” he said. “I have always told them the truth.”

“I think that is best,” she concurred and there was perhaps the slightest glimmer of respect in her eyes.

They'd said everything that was needful. He had much to think about, plans to make and he assumed that she did, too. He made another bow, indicating that he was about to take his leave. He was surprised to find her regarding him thoughtfully.

“We are to be sacrificed to save the shield's honor. You know that?”

What was this? Lyall wondered uneasily. A test of loyalty?

“It is my duty to obey the Shield,” he replied carefully. “The Shield knows what is best for us. It is not my place to question his wisdom.”

The Wyred regarded Lyall a moment longer, but he could read nothing in her expression. He met her gaze without flinching and she turned from him without comment. Walking calmly through the garden, she headed back toward the Portal.

Although Lyall had important duties to attend to, he remained to watch her, fascinated and repulsed at the same time. Lyall would have to explain matters to his officers, then he would speak to the troops—what troops remained. He would tell them the truth, but not all the truth. He would say nothing about the sacrifice.

They would figure that out for themselves.

 

In his command tent, Dagnarus, Lord of the Void and now self-proclaimed king of Dunkarga, met with his officers. His armed camp was located within striking proximity of the Tromek Portal. Taan scouts, perched high in the branches of the tall pine trees, could see the ring of stone in the distance. The heavy forest that the elves prized as part of their defense had proven to be more advantageous to their enemy. Dagnarus had used its cover to move ten thousand troops unobserved across the northern end of the Faynir mountains. He then marched south to the Tromek Portal with neither Nimorean human nor Tromek elf aware that an enemy had invaded their territory. Those few who did blunder across the taan
army were swiftly dispatched, their bodies destroyed through Void magic that left nothing of the corpse behind.

“I am delaying the hour of our attack,” Dagnarus told the assembled officers.

Some of the officers were humans, for there was a force of human mercenaries attached to his command. Most were high-ranking taan nizam, under the leadership of the taan Vrykyl, Nb'arsk. Shakur was there, as well. He hovered in the background, took no part in the proceedings. Most paid him little attention, assuming he was there as Dagnarus's bodyguard, in the absence of Valura.

“We were going to strike at dawn, but I have received information that has prompted me to change those orders. You will not attack at dawn, but will await my signal. Your troops will move forward to be in position, but they will remain hidden until the signal.”

The taan warriors grumbled, not pleased at the delay. Dagnarus cast a grim glance about him and the grumbling ceased. He wore the black armor of the Lord of the Void, including his helm. The taan revered him as their god and feared him as their god, but he was well aware that he lost something of his stature among them when he appeared in his human form.

“Don't worry,” he told the taan, “we have not marched all this way to sit in front of the Portal and watch elves travel in and out. We will attack. It may be an hour after dawn, it may be noon, it may be nightfall. But we will attack. All other orders remain standing. General Gurske, as we discussed, once we have seized the Portal, I will continue through it with the army to attack New Vinnengael. You and your forces will remain behind to retain our control of the Portal.”

General Gurske nodded. He was a human, the officer in charge of the human contingent.

“Holding the Portal should be easy, General,” Dagnarus continued. “The nearest elven force is at this moment marching back to Glymrae, the nearest human force is in Myanmin. The Shield will see to it that no elven troops are dispatched through the Portal to
reinforce those few remaining to defend it. Any travelers who come to the Portal you will seize as slaves, confiscate their merchandise.”

General Gurske nodded again. He knew his orders, foresaw no difficulty. He looked forward to being rid of the taan. His men had lived and fought alongside the taan for several years now, but the two races did not get along, had little respect for one another.

“The taan under the leadership of Nb'arsk will help in seizing and securing the Portal. Once that is accomplished, Nb'arsk will send an advance force through the tunnel to attack its elven defenders at the eastern end. The rest will then proceed through the Portal, where they will set up camp and await my orders.”

Nb'arsk indicated that she understood. Dagnarus asked if there were questions, dismissed them when there weren't. He knew his troops, knew their value. When they had all departed, he motioned to Shakur.

The Vrykyl stepped out of the shadows, came to stand before his master.

“I take it you've heard something?” Shakur said.

“I have received word from Valura that both the human and the elven portions of the Sovereign Stone travel together. She thinks, and I concur, that they are headed for the Portal.”

“I agree,” said Shakur. “I sense the blood knife coming nearer every moment. The bearer of the knife is likely the one who bears the Sovereign Stone.”

“Precisely. That's why I've postponed the attack. I do not want to frighten them away. You and a small force will enter the Portal disguised as merchant travelers. Remain there until you find these people. When you find them, signal me and I will launch the attack. During the confusion, you will seize them and bring them to me.”

“Alive, my lord?”

“If possible. In case I have any questions for them.” Dagnarus shrugged. “But it doesn't much matter. I will take the Stones either from their living bodies or their dead corpses. A word of warning, Shakur. Do not try to seize the Stones yourself. The Stones are imbued with elemental magic that guards them against the Void. Valura touched one and was very nearly destroyed.”

“Then how will
you
take them, my lord?”

“You forget, Shakur,” Dagnarus said. “I held the Stones. Each one was given into my hands by my father, King Tamaros. One by one, I carried each portion of the Sovereign Stone to give to the representatives of each race.
I
was the god's chosen.
Not
my brother, Helmos!”

Dagnarus's hand clenched, his voice rose in the intensity of his emotion. “When it came time for Helmos to call for the Stones, the other races would not relinquish them. The Stones were intended to come to me. These are the first two. The rest will follow.”

Shakur grunted. “What will Valura be doing?”

Dagnarus knew his lieutenant. He knew this seemingly innocent question was intended to point out that Valura had bungled the job and it was left to Shakur to pick up the pieces.

The flesh rots away, the bones grow brittle, the brain and the heart turn to dust. Why does the soul survive? Dagnarus often wondered this about his Vrykyl and he often cursed the fact that it was so. How much less trouble for him if these creatures of his were automatons, thinking only what he taught them to think, reacting only as he taught them to react. True, it was these inconvenient souls that made them far more “human” and therefore far more valuable as spies, as infiltrators, as assassins and military leaders. But this “humanity” also meant that Dagnarus was forced to deal with the petty jealousies, lapses in judgment, and the outright rebellion of his servants. He sometimes regretted that he'd ever laid hands on the Dagger that created them. Such thoughts came to him more frequently these days since K'let's rebellion.

Dagnarus had no fear of the taan Vrykyl. K'let dared not challenge his master in battle. Yet K'let had succeeded in defying him and this disturbed Dagnarus far more than he admitted to himself. He was confident that all the rest of the Vrykyl remained under his control, but the very fact that he must constantly reassure himself of their loyalty was highly annoying, coming right at a time when he needed to concentrate his full attention on the war that would make him rightful ruler of Loerem.

“Valura obeys my orders,” Dagnarus returned shortly. “As will you, Shakur.”

Shakur bowed silently and departed.

Dagnarus turned back to his work. In his mind, the battle for the Tromek Portal was over. He began planning the battle he had looked forward to fighting for centuries—the battle to win New Vinnengael.

T
he hippogriffs flew throughout the remainder of that day and into the night. The sky was crusted with stars, the air was clear, the moon half-full. The hippogriffs paused to rest, but only as needed, for if Damra was eager to reach the end of their journey, the hippogriffs were just as eager to complete their task and return to their young.

The Portal came into view as day dawned—a ring of white stone carved out of the verdant forest. Damra was about to tell the hippogriffs where to land, when the creatures began to circle in the air, calling raucously to each other.

“What do you suppose is the matter with them?” Damra asked Arim, puzzled. “What is wrong?”

The Grandmother poked her in the ribs, startling Damra, who thought her still asleep. The old pecwae had slept soundly through most of the trip, her head pressing against the small of Damra's back.

“They say there is a strange scent on the air,” the Grandmother called out. “Unfamiliar. They don't like it.”

Silwyth had warned of an army poised to seize the Portal.
Damra looked closely, but could not see any sign of trouble on the ground. Yet even as she did so, she realized that an entire nation might be hidden in the shadows of the forests. Odd, though, that the hippogriffs wouldn't recognize the scent. They would certainly be familiar with humans. She gave them a sharp command to proceed. The hippogriffs continued to circle. One shook its eagle head, snapped its beak, and glanced back at her with a bright eye that had a grim look to it.

“They will take us there,” said the Grandmother. “But after that we are on our own. They do not want to stay around here.”

“I don't blame them,” said Damra. “Very well.”

The Grandmother spoke to the hippogriff in what Damra presumed was the pecwae language, for it was like them: its words short and quick and bright. The hippogriffs ceased circling and flew toward the Portal. They kept a close lookout on the ground, watchful for any signs of movement.

“Can you truly understand what animals say?” Damra asked, turning to speak to the Grandmother.

“Not what they say,” the Grandmother replied. “That would be something!” She chuckled. “Listening to all that hooting and squawking, bleating and cawing. We pecwae know what animals are thinking. Most of the time.”

“All animals?” Damra asked. The Grandmother was so matter-of-fact, it was hard to doubt her.

“Except fish. Stupid creatures, fish.”

“If you understand the thoughts of animals, can you also understand the thoughts of people? Can you understand
my
thoughts?” The thought itself was not a comfortable one.

The Grandmother gave an emphatic shake of her head. “The thoughts of animals are clear and simple: fear, hunger, trust, distrust. The thoughts of people are a jumbled mess. Only the gods can read those and they're welcome to it.”

They flew over the Portal. Damra scanned the area as closely as the hippogriffs. She saw only a merchant caravan approaching along the road—a single horse-drawn wagon that looked like a toy from the air and small toy dolls that must be its owners. When she
asked the hippogriffs, through the Grandmother, if they saw anything, they indicated that they did not. But the beasts were not at ease, that much was clear. They descended rapidly, spiraling downward in ever tightening circles to land on a wide patch of cleared ground.

Once Damra and the rest had dismounted, the hippogriffs immediately departed. Leaping into the air, they spread their wings and were soon lost to sight, flying in the direction of Glymrae.

“There goes our way out of here,” Arim stated ruefully as he watched them dwindle rapidly in the distance. “They might have at least remained until we safely entered the Portal.”

“It can't be helped,” Damra said. “You saw how uneasy they were. They wouldn't have remained even if I had ordered them. They are right. There is a strange feel to the forest. I am a city girl, born and bred, but even I sense it. Do you?”

“Yes. All the more reason I am sorry to see the hippogriffs depart,” Arim said quietly.

“Like them, we will not linger,” Damra said and walked toward the gate in the Outer Ring.

They were the only people at the Gate. The merchant caravan that Damra had seen from the air had been admitted and was on its way through the Outer Ring. Damra expected trouble from the guards over the Trevenici and the two pecwae and she was not disappointed.

“Impossible,” said the Portal guard, shaking his head. “I cannot authorize their entering the Portal.”

“They have papers,” said Arim, exhibiting their documents. “As you can see, all is in order. They were permitted to cross the border—”

“I cannot be responsible for what the border guards might do,” said the Portal guard in a tone that implied the border guards were slackers who would allow two-headed trolls to cross with impunity. “You must speak to Commander Lyall.”

“We will do so,” Damra said crisply. “Tell him that Dominion Lord Damra of Gwyenoc requests admittance to the Portal for herself and her party.”

The guard bowed perfunctorily in recognition of her honored title, but then he'd already known she was a Dominion Lord by her tabard and he obviously wasn't impressed. He escorted them to a waiting room in the gatehouse. The room had no windows, contained nothing but benches. It opened out onto a corridor.

“Where does that lead?” Jessan demanded, unable to sit still.

“He doesn't like to be closed in,” explained Bashae, yawning.

“So I've noticed,” said Damra, watching the young man pace about like a hungry cat. She was nervous herself and might have emulated him, but she wanted to maintain at least an outward appearance of composure. “The corridor ends in a staircase that leads up to the commander's offices, the dining hall and various other rooms.”

“I can't breathe in here,” Jessan said and headed toward the door. “I'll wait outside.”

“Not alone,” Damra said quietly. “Please remain in here with us.”

Jessan turned to look at her, his expression dark and rebellious, and for a moment she thought he might refuse. She had carefully phrased her words as a request, knowing that he would resent an outright order. At length, with an ill-contented look, he slumped down on a bench. He was up again the next instant, pacing.

Arim slid over to speak softly to Damra, “This Commander Lyall is loyal to the Shield. Suppose he has been warned of our coming.”

“No one knew we planned to come to the Portal, not even Silwyth,” said Damra.

“No, but they could have easily guessed that we would head this way.”

“And they probably did,” said Damra.

Arim shook his head, settled back against the wall.

“Commander Lyall will see Damra of Gwyenoc,” announced the guard.

Damra accompanied the guard upstairs.

Commander Lyall rose from behind his desk to greet her. The two bowed and exchanged the proper pleasantries. Damra noted immediately that Lyall was preoccupied, worried.

“I am traveling to New Vinnengael to meet with the magi of the Temple,” said Damra. “I have made the interesting discovery that the old legends are true: pecwae can indeed speak to animals. My companion and I are conveying these two pecwae to the magi in hopes that we might study them and find out if they use magic or if this is something inherent to them as pec—”

“You are of House Gwyenoc,” Lyall said abruptly, casting a sharp glance at the tattoos around her eyes. “You are known to be loyal to the Divine.”

“As are all elves,” Damra returned smoothly.

He would refuse them admittance. She steeled herself. To her amazement, Commander Lyall took up five passes, affixed his seal to each, and handed them back to her.

“Enter the Portal quickly and do not linger when you reach the other side,” he said.

Damra started to express her thanks, but the commander turned his back on her, walked over to the window. She was being dismissed, rudely at that. She was not about to take offense, however.

As she was leaving, he remarked, “All that I am, I owe to the Shield.” His voice sounded sad.

Damra did not know what to say in response. Eventually she concluded that she wasn't supposed to say anything. The man was talking to himself. She wasted no further time, but took the passes and ran downstairs, still puzzling over that enigmatic remark.

“We have permission to enter the Portal,” Damra told her companions. “Gather up your gear. Keep together, follow me and let either Arim or myself do the talking.”

Jessan and Bashae listened and both nodded. Neither had much gear to gather. Jessan wore the sword Arim had obtained for him, wore it proudly for it was the first sword he had ever owned. Bashae clutched the knapsack. He kept tight hold of it even when he slept. Damra's reference to “gathering” had been an oblique reference to the Grandmother, who had dozed off in a sunny corner.

“Damra,” said Arim, speaking to her in a soft undertone, “I have
been eavesdropping on the soldiers. Last night, their commander received an order to strip his garrison. Nine hundred troops marched out this morning, heading for Glymrae.”

“So that explains it,” Damra said softly, thinking of the commander's remark. She cast a glance up above her, wondered if he still stood by the window, watching for his death. “He is the babe cast to the starving wolves and he knows it. He warned us to make haste.”

Damra showed the guard their passes. He pointed out the route they were to take. Damra led the way through the Outer Ring that was composed of two high stone walls separated by a grass-filled ditch. Eight stone towers, three stories in height, stood in the ditch between the two stone rings. Murder holes encircled every story. Occasionally Jessan caught a glimpse of light flashing off steel-tipped arrows or saw the shadow of an elven warrior pass by. Guards stood in plain sight on the top of the towers. Some kept watch over the surrounding countryside. Others kept an eye on what was happening inside. Their numbers were few, however. Woefully few. Damra increased their pace.

After passing through the Outer Ring, they entered a broad paved courtyard. Beyond was the Inner Ring of defense, the province of the Wyred. Damra wondered whether or not she should say something to the human and the pecwae warning them that the garden was magical. She decided against it. Most travelers—even elven travelers—had no idea the garden was more than it appeared to be. No need to rouse doubts, bring up questions. All was going smoothly. Only a few more minutes and then they would be safely inside the Portal.

Looking across the paved courtyard, Damra was disconcerted to see the caravan of human merchants parked in the center. They appeared to be having problems with their wagon, for two were peering underneath the wagon bed, gesturing at something. A fourth sat on the driver's seat, staring out at the horse's ears. Another reloaded boxes that had been taken out to lighten the weight while repairs were made.

The caravan should have been far ahead of them. The fact that
they were still here made her uneasy. Probably her worries were groundless, but she was used to trusting her instincts. She led her companions across the courtyard at an angle that would take them well clear of the caravan. She kept close watch on the merchants. The one loading boxes ceased his work. He said something to the two inspecting the wagon. They straightened up and all of them turned to watch the small procession.

“Look, Jessan. Humans!” Bashae said, excited. “I wonder where they're from. Dunkarga, maybe. Perhaps they know your uncle—”

“Keep moving. Do nothing to draw attention,” Damra said sharply.

The Grandmother came to a stop and lifted her agate-eyed stick in the air.

Every single eye in the stick stared at the humans of the wagon.

“Evil!” the Grandmother shrieked in a shrill tone that reverberated throughout the courtyard.

Hearing her scream, the elven soldiers on guard in the towers turned to see what was going on inside their walls. From outside the walls, horns blared and drums boomed. Ten thousand taan voices lifted in a fierce yell, savage and thunderous. The shadows of the forest took on shape and form and began moving at a rapid pace toward the Outer Ring.

“They've launched the attack!” Damra shouted, trying to hurry along the Grandmother. “Quickly—”

“Damra!” Arim's voice cracked. His eyes stared over her head at something behind her.

Damra pivoted, one hand touching the medallion, the other grasping her sword. The silver armor of the Dominion Lord flowed over her body. She drew her blade in a smooth arc. Yet, at the sight of what they faced, she took an involuntary step backward.

A Vrykyl descended from the wagon, walked purposefully toward them. The Vrykyl's armor eclipsed the sunlight. A chill shadow fell on them. Though the sun shone everywhere else, they stood in darkness, the darkness of the Void. Void magic drained them of courage and of hope, emptied their souls.

The human merchants threw off their disguises, revealed themselves to be soldiers. Swords drawn, they ran ahead of the Vrykyl. The soldiers' attention was fixed on Arim and Jessan. They ignored Damra. The soldiers would leave a Dominion Lord and her magic to the Vrykyl.

An ambush, Damra thought ruefully. And I walked right into it. She looked back at her companions.

As the rabbit freezes at the sight of the coyote, the two pecwae froze at the sight of the Vrykyl. They stood staring, their faces drained of color, their small bodies quaking. Damra cried out Bashae's name thrice, but he didn't hear her. He made a whimpering sound. Damra reached back, gave him a vicious shake.

“Bashae!” she shouted.

His eyes were white-rimmed with terror. He stared at her in helpless fear.

“Run for the garden! The garden!”

She pointed emphatically. Bashae gulped. His horror-stricken gaze wavered, strayed to the garden, but flicked back in panic to the Vrykyl. Damra hoped he understood, for she had no more time to tell him anything else. Grasping her sword in her hand, she ran forward to intercept the Vrykyl, hoping to draw his attention from Bashae.