Journey into the Void (20 page)

“Let it be hereby known by all assembled and let it be proclaimed to the citizens of Vinnengael that I, Havis III, king of Vinnengael, do freely abdicate the throne bequeathed to me by my father, Havis II, in favor of my cousin, Prince Dagnarus, son of King Tamaros, rightful heir to the throne of Vinnengael.”

Havis removed the crown (which was much too large for him and required padding to prevent it sliding down his nose), and handed the crown to Dagnarus with a bow.

He held the crown for a moment, staring at it, his expression somber and grave. The crown dated back about 180 years, and was modern in make and design. The old, heavy crown of Vinnengael, with its one hundred magnificent star sapphires, each surrounded by diamonds, had been lost in the destruction of the city. Dagnarus had searched for that crown, as well as the jewel-encrusted orb and scepter and other valuable pieces of royal jewelry, on his perilous journey into the ruins, but had not been able to find them. He guessed that Helmos had hidden them away for safekeeping when the city came under attack. Dagnarus intended to find them, but that would come later.

For the moment, he held in his hand two hundred years of dreams and desires, tears and blood. He looked out into the crowd. He saw the fat barons smiling and exchanging glances and nods. They thought they
had him in their pockets. He saw the courtiers prepared to fawn over him as they had fawned over the Regent, ready to shift allegiance whenever the wind changed. He saw the magi—rebellious, smoldering with anger and probably already plotting his downfall. All would bend their knees and proclaim him king, but they would do it with winks and nudges, or glowering looks, or simpering snickers.

No! by the gods or by the Void, whoever would accept his vow. He wanted them prostrate before him, all of them crushed and humbled, the arrogance bled out of them, the fight kicked out of them. He wanted them to bathe his feet with grateful tears. He wanted their ungrudging blessings.

They needed a whipping.

“I thank you, Your Highness,” said Dagnarus. “I accept this crown, but only in trust—”

The people began to murmur. The barons looked uneasy, the magi wary.

“—until I have proven myself worthy of being your ruler. And that will not happen until I have led the fight to crush the enemy that threatens you.”

Dagnarus walked over to the elderly monk, who was watching with eyes that were bright with curiosity and interest on the surface, dark and inscrutable beneath. He handed the crown to the monk.

“I ask you hold this for me, Keeper of Times, until the day has come when I am victorious over my enemies, have ground them to dust beneath my feet.”

Those in the room thought he was speaking of the taan. What the monk thought or knew was anyone's guess.

The monk gave a nod, and said something to the Omarah, in what was presumably their own language. The Omarah grunted. One reached out and took hold of the crown. Engulfing the precious object in a huge and none-too-clean hand, he thrust it unceremoniously beneath his sheepskin vest, then resumed his protective stance. His impassive expression did not alter. He might have been harboring a plucked chicken, not the symbol of the most powerful kingdom on Loerem.

Behind Dagnarus, the hall was abuzz, few knowing what to make of his action, everyone speculating eagerly with his or her neighbor.

Dagnarus ignored them. He looked across the room to the mural, to the painting of his father, Tamaros, standing proudly next to Helmos.

Dagnarus looked long at his father, long at Helmos, the child beloved.

Not anymore.

Dagnarus beckoned to a courtier.

“Send for the artist who painted that mural.”

“At once, Your Majesty,” replied the man, with an elaborate bow. “If I could perhaps give him some hint of the nature of Your Majesty's wishes—”

Dagnarus smiled. “He is to plaster over that picture and paint my portrait in its place.”

T
HE BARONS AND THEIR COHORTS WERE UNDERSTANDABLY EAGER
to hear how Dagnarus planned to defeat the taan army. During the day, the enemy army was swallowed by the gloom, and there were some who hoped that they might all march off. When night fell, their campfires could once more be seen as orange smudges in the murk. Dagnarus assured the Vinnengaeleans that he had a plan. He intended to put it into effect the very next day.

His first order as king was that a lavish banquet be prepared that night in his honor, with plenty of food and drink, and that all present were to be invited. He included the monk in his invitation. The monk politely declined. Dagnarus asked if the monk found his chambers in the palace suitable. The monk replied that he did, and he and his Omarah went off to them. Dagnarus reveled in the knowledge that what he had done that day would be recorded on the old monk's wrinkled skin, then he returned to business.

The heads of the Orders declined his generous offer to join him at the banquet. The Regent asked coldly if they might be allowed to return to their duties in the Temple, and Dagnarus permitted them to do so. The barons growled at that, said loudly that the churchmen should be kept under guard, perhaps even arrested. Dagnarus turned to them.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his tone severe, “I take offense at that kind of talk, which is an insult to the cloth. You will show the same respect for the Church that you show to me.”

The barons looked startled, some even sullen, at this rebuke.

“Come now, gentlemen,” Dagnarus added, his smile returning, “we have much to rejoice about. Proceed to the banquet hall. I will join you there shortly and we will drink to my coronation and the discomfiture of our enemies.”

The barons departed, sounding the new king's praises. The room emptied, until only the Church members remained.

“I know that you do not trust me, Revered Sister,” Dagnarus said to the Regent, “and that is understandable. But I hope that in time we can become friends. I assure you that I have the utmost respect and veneration for the gods, who have so greatly blessed me.”

The Regent, gray-faced and ill-looking, made no reply. Bowing stiffly, she asked, “Do I have your leave to depart, Your Majesty?”

“You do not need my leave, Regent,” said Dagnarus gently. “You and any other member of the Church are welcome in the palace at any time. You may come and go freely.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, and stalked out of the hall. The others, bowing, followed after her.

“Battle Magus,” Dagnarus called.

Tasgall, grim and wary, glanced around.

“I would speak with you concerning my plan for dealing with the taan.”

The battle magus returned and came over to stand before the throne. Tasgall faced Dagnarus, looked him straight in the eyes. He said nothing, waited expectantly.

Dagnarus dismissed the servants. When he and Tasgall were alone, Dagnarus stepped down from the throne.

“Come take a turn about the room with me, Revered Sir,” Dagnarus said. “I find it easier to think on my feet.”

The battle magus fell into step beside him.

“What is your name, sir?” Dagnarus asked. “Forgive me. I know we were introduced, but I have no head for names.”

“Tasgall, Your Majesty.”

“Surname?”

“Fotheringall, sire. My family comes from a small village in the foothills of the Ork Mountains.”

“There is a pass through those mountains, as I recall. Do the orks ever come through that pass?” Dagnarus asked, with evident interest.

“The occasional raiding party, Your Majesty,” Tasgall replied. “Nothing more.”

“I understand that the orks have threatened to go to war against us, because of what they believe is our complicity in the matter of the Karnuan seizure of their holy mountain. It occurs to me that they might come through the pass in force. Do we need a garrison there?”

Tasgall did answer immediately, but gave the matter thought.

“I do not think I would waste the manpower, Your Majesty,” he said at last. “The orks have little stomach for ground warfare. That much is apparent from the fact that they have not yet tried to retake their mountain.”

“I knew it was so in the old days,” said Dagnarus. “I did not know if their customs and habits had changed in the intervening time. I plan to turn to you, Tasgall, for advice and information of this sort. I trust I will be able to rely on you?”

“I am glad that I will be able to be of service to Your Majesty. It's good that finally someone is—” Tasgall paused, shut his mouth.

“Good that finally someone is taking an interest in military affairs? No, you do not need to answer that. I understand.”

“Now about the taan, Your Majesty…” Tasgall hinted.

“Always one to get down to business, aren't you, Tasgall? I like that in a man. I have a plan for dealing with the taan. To pull it off, I require the help of your battle magi—all of them, as many as you can assemble within twenty-four hours. It is essential that they be familiar with Void magic, that they know how to recognize it and counter it. I will meet with them tomorrow, to explain my plan. You will bring them to me here at the palace when the sun is at its zenith.”

Tasgall, who had slowed his pace during their conversation, finally came to a halt. He regarded his new monarch in speculative silence.

“I know,” said Dagnarus. He had continued walking, and now he rounded to look back at the battle magus. “I know what you are thinking. That this would be a fine way for me to dispose of some highly dangerous individuals who have no reason to love me.”

Tasgall made no reply, continued to stare intently at his new ruler.

“I am not a good man,” Dagnarus admitted. “I have done terrible things in my life. Things I bitterly regret. I could offer as my excuse that I was young and heedless, and that would be the truth. I could say that I was ambitious and fond of power, and that would be the truth.”

He shrugged. His smile twisted, his eyes darkened. “I could say that the gods have punished me, that I have suffered in consequence of my acts, and that would also be the truth. But know this, sir.”

Dagnarus lifted his gaze, opened his eyes, so that Tasgall could see deep inside him, see the darkness and the tiny spark of light.

“I did what I did for one reason, Tasgall. In all the evil acts I committed, I was motivated by one desire that was pure and untarnished, one desire that has guided everything I have done since the time I was old enough to understand myself. To be the King of Vinnengael, to guide her to greatness and glory, to place her in a preeminent position in this world, to see her rule unchallenged over all other nations, that is and has always been my dearest wish. I swear to you, Tasgall, that all I have done and all I will do is for Vinnengael.

“Tasgall,” said Dagnarus earnestly. “I know you believe that I am king because I held a knife to your throat. I know that you do not trust me. I plan to earn that trust, but that will take time. Time we don't have. I say only this—if I truly meant harm to Vinnengael, I would have used that knife. I would have unleashed ten thousand taan upon her. The taan are fierce and terrible warriors, whose greatest hope in life is to meet death gloriously in battle. They would have taken New Vinnengael. You did not stand a chance. I did not do that. I ask you, therefore, to give me the opportunity to prove myself by saving the city and the nation that I love.”

Tasgall was moved. Dagnarus could see it. He pressed home his advantage.

“I will make you this promise, Tasgall. I give my life into your hands. If a single Vinnengaelean dies because of my treachery, you will slay me.”

Tasgall shook his head. “Your life already spans two hundred years—”

“By the will of the gods! Yet, I am mortal!” Dagnarus said eagerly. “Give me your sword.”

Never taking his eyes from Dagnarus, Tasgall removed his sword from its sheath and handed it, pommel first, to his king.

Holding the hilt in his right hand, Dagnarus wrapped the left hand around the naked blade, clasped it tightly, and then slowly and deliberately slid his hand along the razor-sharp edge.

“Your Majesty!” Tasgall gasped. He took an instinctive step forward, hand reached out to stop him.

“Stand back!” Dagnarus ordered. He winced slightly at the pain, but that was all. Letting loose the sword, he opened his palm.

Blood smeared the steel blade. Blood, red and gleaming, filled his cupped hand and dripped from his hand onto the floor of the Hall of Past Glories.

“You see, I
am
mortal,” Dagnarus said.

Tasgall stared at the blood on his king's wounded hand, on the blood that continued to drip onto the floor.

“The battle magi will be assembled and ready for you to command by morning, sire.”

“Excellent,” said Dagnarus. Using the sword, he carelessly sliced a long strip of cloth from his cloak and bound it over the wound.

“I could heal that for Your Majesty,” said Tasgall.

“Come now, sir,” said Dagnarus, smiling, “what would be the point of this exhibition if I permitted you to heal me? No. The wound will be a constant reminder to us both of my promise to you.”

Dagnarus wiped the blade clean of blood with the tail of his maltreated cape, then returned the sword, with a flourish, to Tasgall, who received it solemnly and thrust it back into its sheath.

Certain of Tasgall's admiration, if not yet his complete trust, Dagnarus proceeded to explain his plan for the annihilation of the taan army. As Tasgall listened, he became more and more intrigued. Forgetful of time, they remained talking in the Hall of Past Glories until one of the barons came to carry Dagnarus off to feasting and celebration.

 

As for the taan, instead of the battle they had been promised, they watched their god, Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, ride alone into the city they had come all this way to attack. The taan knew of this strange custom of the derrhuth, that they must talk before a battle, “to try to prevent bloodshed,” or so their god had told them, but they did not understand it.

Since taan live to shed their blood in battle, they saw no need to waste time bandying words. The fact that these derrhuth would do anything to avoid a fight further convinced the taan—who needed little convincing—of the inherent weakness of the species. The taan returned to their campfires and their topaxi and their stories of brave warriors. The topaxi was stronger than usual, and the celebration grew rowdy. Needing
a vent for the aggression, the taan started to take it out on each other. The fights were not good-natured. They were brutal and ugly and more than one nizam had to wade in to break them up.

Nb'arsk stalked about the camp, watching the morale of her people dip lower and lower, and she could not imagine what Dagnarus was up to. This was not the first time he had showed that he had no real understanding of the taan, for all he claimed to be their god.

The other derrhuth in the camp—the human mercenaries, who served Dagnarus—were not bothered by this lack of action. The humans spoke laughingly of sieges that lasted months, even years, during which time enemy armies did nothing but take an occasional potshot at one another from over the walls. Nb'arsk had thought at first they were telling her falsehoods that were meant to be funny—joking was another mysterious aspect of the derrhuth—but she at last became convinced that they spoke the truth. Derrhuth really did fight that way.

Nb'arsk watched the humans laughing and cursing over their games of chance, watched them roll about in the bushes with some of their females, or lie on the ground, wrapped in their blankets, snoring. She watched them with loathing, despised them for cowards. She wondered that her god could stomach being around them, and, not for the first time, Nb'arsk wondered about her god.

Dagnarus fought like a god of the taan, he had the courage of a taan, the ferocity of a taan, the cunning of a taan. For all this, Nb'arsk revered him. Yet, there was a mystery about him she could never understand. When he was not wearing the miraculous black armor that marked him as Lord of the Void, Dagnarus the god chose to walk about in the skin of a derrhuth.

Now he had gone off to the city of derrhuths—a fat city, he said, with stores of steel armor and steel weapons, with treasure chests filled with the gemstones the taan first enchant with Void magic, then place beneath their hides, and with many derrhuth to be taken into slavery and used for food. All that, their god had promised them. Better, though, he had promised them war against a well-armed foe, the chance for the young warriors to prove themselves and advance in rank, and for the older warriors to achieve glory.

Three times the sun had risen on this city and three times it had set, and there was no talk of battle. There was just talk.

Nb'arsk was a kyl-sarnz, a Vrykyl. Three taan had been “god-touched,” as the taan knew it—transformed into Vrykyl. The eldest of these, K'let, an albino taan, had been among the first taan to meet Dagnarus when he entered their world. Dagnarus had slain K'let with the Dagger of the Vrykyl, transformed him into the undead, soul-stealing fiends of the Void.

The Vrykyl are bound to Dagnarus through the Dagger, forced to do his will or face banishment into the emptiness of the Void. All Vrykyl were constrained to obey Dagnarus, but not K'let. When Dagnarus sought to exert his control over K'let, the Vrykyl defied him. K'let saw then, as Nb'arsk was beginning to see now, that Dagnarus had no care for the taan, but was merely using them for his own ends.

K'let broke with Dagnarus—the first and only Vrykyl ever to do so. K'let left Dagnarus's army, taking with him taan loyal to him. K'let's goal was to prove to the taan that Dagnarus was not a god, that he was nothing but a derrhuth playing at being a god.

Nb'arsk knew because she was in touch with K'let through the Blood-knife—something Dagnarus did not know.