Journey into the Void (21 page)

Nb'arsk did not believe K'let. She was pleased and honored to be among the “god-touched,” and was proud to serve Dagnarus. Nb'arsk should have told Dagnarus that she was in contact with K'let. Yet she did not. She did not speak to K'let either, but kept her misgivings to herself.

Her misgivings had grown during their march through the land of the gdsr—the elves, a race of derrhuth so weak and spindly that they did not even make good slaves. The cities of the gdsr were fat and filled with jewels and steel, and the taan looked forward to conquering them. Dagnarus forbade it. The taan swept through the lands of the gdsr by means of a magical hole-in-the-air. They fought one battle, and that was over one of these holes.

No cities, no slaves, no armor, no jewels. Only talk. The gdsr, Dagnarus announced, were going to surrender to him. He would be their ruler and, because of that, he wanted their cities left intact, their people unmolested.

After that, the taan had marched into the land of the xkes, the humans, and it was then that Nb'arsk contacted K'let. She did not agree with all his views—in her mind, Dagnarus was still her god—but her doubts were beginning to grow.

Dagnarus did not return to his armies that night. Nb'arsk had no fear that something might have happened to him—he was a god, after all. When she heard shouts and cries coming from the city, she was pleased. She expected that any moment the taan would be summoned to battle. The taan hastily caught up their weapons and waited for the call.

The call did not come.

Nb'arsk rounded up one of the half-taan, a miserable race, yet one that was useful, for they could speak the language of both the taan and the xkes. Commanding the cringing half-taan to accompany her, Nb'arsk entered the camp of the mercenaries and searched for their leader, a human named Klendist. Klendist had taken command of the army, following the execution of the former mercenary leader, Gurske, following the ill-fated battle of the elven Portal.

“What is going on?” Nb'arsk demanded through the translator. She pointed toward the walled city. “What is the meaning of all that noise? Has our god started the killing without us?”

“Hardly!” Klendist began to laugh, then clamped his mouth shut. He was not afraid of the Vrykyl, as were most of the other humans. But he didn't like her, didn't like being around her. “That's cheering you hear. I don't know what's going on, but it must be good. Likely the city has surrendered.”

The half-taan translated as best she could, for the taan have no word for “surrender.” Nb'arsk had come to understand it, however.

Nb'arsk glared balefully at the city, which smelled so strongly and sweetly of human flesh. “So again we are not to fight.”

“Who knows?” Klendist said, shrugging. “His Lordship will tell us, one way or the other.”

“I don't like this,” Nb'arsk growled.

“It is not your place to like it, Vrykyl,” Klendist returned. “You will do what your god tells you.”

The half-taan sank to his knees before translating Klendist's words, begging that the Vrykyl would not think they were his own words. Nb'arsk knew well enough that they were not.

She turned on her heel, about to depart, when a sudden thought struck her.

“Dagnarus is not your god, is he?”

Klendist was first startled by her question, then amused.

“No,” he answered shortly.

“Who is your god?”

“I don't believe in gods,” Klendist returned. “A man does for himself in this life.”

Nb'arsk considered this. “None of you xkes believe Dagnarus is a god. Why is that? He is as powerful as a god.”

“I guess because he was born human,” Klendist said. “Whatever may have happened to him after that, he started out the same as us. Likely his old man walloped him on his backside, same as my old man did me. So, no, I don't consider him a god.”

The human walked off, shaking his head at the stupidity of the “savages.”

Nb'arsk stared after him. She had wondered about the humans' impiety before now, but she had always put it down to the fact that they were an impious race. They held nothing sacred, unless it be their physical pleasures. She was often angered by their lack of reverence around Dagnarus; but now that she looked back, she saw that he did nothing to encourage reverence for himself among the xkes. Not as he did among the taan.

“What if K'let is right?” she muttered, chilled. “What if he is not a god? What does that mean for us?”

Nb'arsk walked among the taan, who slept soundly, after their revels. She pondered such questions all the rest of the night.

She had her answer in the morning.

Dagnarus returned to his forces as the sun's light illuminated the eastern sky. Darkness still lay upon the land; the taan warriors slept. The taan taskers were up and about, preparing the meal that would break their fast. Cloaked in the Void, Dagnarus emerged from the mists rising off the river, seemed to materialize right in front of Nb'arsk.

She was startled and impressed and uncomfortable. He seemed godlike, shredding the mists that clung to him with ghostly hands. The black armor of the Void gleamed in the predawn gray light. Catching sight of Nb'arsk, he motioned her to walk with him.

She could not tell what he was thinking, for she could not see his face. He wore the bestial helm of the Lord of the Void, kept his face concealed. The faces of the derrhuth were weak faces, soft and pliable, revealing every emotion, every thought. Dagnarus always wore the helm
when he spoke to the taan, well aware that when he came before them in his human form, he lost something.

He turned the bestial metal face toward Nb'arsk. She saw dark eyes and inner fire, and for a moment she cowered, for she feared that he might have seen her rebellious thoughts. She very nearly sank to her knees, to beg him to forgive her, but then he spoke, and his demeanor was brisk, businesslike. They communicated through the Dagger of the Vrykyl, thought to thought, thus sparing the need for a translator.

“I have orders for you, Nb'arsk. You will take five thousand taan and march south to a city known as Delak 'Vir. I will send one of the taan sages to you with maps. You will attack and seize the city and the Portal that is there. Once you have conquered the city and slain or enslaved all the inhabitants, you will leave one thousand taan to guard the city. The rest of you will enter the hole-in-the-air. The Portal will take you to the land of Karnu, where you meet up with the other taan Vrykyl, L'nskt, and you will reinforce those taan already fighting there.”

Nb'arsk was pleased and relieved. No derrhuth-talk of negotiating or surrender. This was talk a taan could understand: seize, conquer, slay, enslave.

“You will leave at once,” Dagnarus continued. “Rouse the taan and get them started. I want the army on the road by first light.”

The taan were always prepared to pick up camp and move, so a swift departure did not present a problem. But why were they splitting forces? What were the remainder of the taan going to be doing?

“Tomorrow at first light, we enter New Vinnengael,” he replied.

“Enter,
Ko-kutryx?” Nb'arsk asked, displeased. “Not attack?”

“There is no need to attack,” he returned. “The city has surrendered to me. The people have made me their god.”

“I am pleased for
you,
Ko-kutryx,” said Nb'arsk. “But for the taan this means no slaves. No gemstones, no armor.”

“On the contrary,” said Dagnarus. “These city people are an arrogant people. They need to be humbled in both spirit and body. They need to understand that
I
am their god and that my word is law. I plan to use the taan to teach them what it means to respect my authority.”

Nb'arsk was skeptical. “How will this come about, Ko-kutryx? How will we gain entry to the city without battle?”

“The city people think, in their arrogance, that they are preparing a
trap for the taan, a trap into which the taan will walk blindly because the taan are ignorant beasts.”

Dagnarus laughed at this, as did Nb'arsk.

“In reality, of course,” he continued, “it is the taan who will be setting the trap for the humans—a trap I will spring once the taan are inside the city.”

“I would like to be a part of that trap, Ko-kutryx,” stated Nb'arsk eagerly. “So will all the taan.” She made a dismissive gesture. “We will conquer this hole-in-the-air another day.”

“I gave you an order, Nb'arsk,” said Dagnarus. “I am not accustomed to having my orders questioned. You will march at first light, as I have commanded.”

“Yes, Ko-kutryx,” Nb'arsk replied, chastened. “I did not mean to question you.”

“I will not be here to see you leave, for I must return to the city. Remember, you must be on the road with first light. Glory in battle, Nb'arsk.”

“Glory in battle, Ko-kutryx.”

Nb'arsk roused the taan and gave the order to march. The taan worked swiftly to dismantle their camps, and in less time than it would have taken the humans to have crawled, bleary-eyed, out of their tents, the taan were packed up and ready to go. The prospect of more slaves, more armor, and a grand battle lay before them. Their spirits high, the taan cheered Nb'arsk as she took her place at the head of the column and gave the order to move out.

Glancing back at the city, Nb'arsk was sorry and ashamed of her previous feelings of doubt and disloyalty. The taan Vrykyl and half the taan army headed south for Delak 'Vir.

O
NE OF THE FIRST LESSONS GIVEN A MAGUS IS A LESSON IN SLEEP.
Since the ability to sleep is inherent in all living creatures, the notion that one must be taught to sleep seems ludicrous to those who do not have to rely on the use of magic for either their lives or their livelihood. Magic is termed a “gift” of the gods, and so it is—a power akin to that of the gods given to mankind for his use. But the term “gift” does not imply, as some laymen mistakenly believe, that magic may be used without cost.

Wielding magic is hard work, drains the strength of the magic-user. The only means of renewing that strength is through sleep; deep, peaceful, restful, uninterrupted sleep. Thus, all magi must know how to leave behind them all worldly thoughts and cares and find strength and renewal in sleep.

Battle magi, in particular, must learn to find peace and relaxation under circumstances that are far from peaceful or relaxing. Thus Tasgall was able to banish all his mental turmoil, his worries, anxieties, fears, and doubts with a few moments of silent prayer. He slept well and deeply, woke with the dawn feeling refreshed, to find that his worries, anxieties, fears, and doubts were exactly where he had left them the night before.

The bell that woke the inhabitants of the Temple and sent them about their daily chores had barely rung before the knocking started on Tasgall's door. He was summoned to meet with the Regent. He was summoned to meet with the Inquisitor. He was summoned to meet with both the Regent and the Inquisitor.

He sent back word that he would meet with the heads of the Orders, that the meeting would be brief, and that he would do all the talking.

They didn't like that, of course. He'd known they wouldn't, but he could not afford to spend the time required for them to hear his plan, discuss it and debate it, view it from all sides, turn it inside out, then try to decide whether and how to proceed with it.

He planned to talk privately to only one person that morning, and that person was Rigiswald. Tasgall sought out his old teacher in the library.

Entering, he searched among the tables and their silent readers doggedly pursuing their studies even in the midst of turmoil and war, to find Rigiswald seated near a stone-light. Tasgall rested his hand upon the magus's shoulder.

Rigiswald glanced up. Seeing who it was, he immediately closed his book and accompanied Tasgall to the room where they had talked earlier.

“I do not have much time,” Tasgall said. He did not sit down, and neither did Rigiswald. “I have to meet with the heads of the Orders in a few moments to explain the course of action we are going to take tomorrow against the taan. The heads are not going to like it,” he added grimly. “I don't like it. And yet, this course is our only way to live through this, that I can see.”

“What do you want of me?” Rigiswald asked.

“You know this man, Dagnarus.”

“I wouldn't say that,”

Rigiswald replied.

“You have studied him—”

“As best one can. I have studied what has been written of him, but he is, as are we all, a very complex individual.”

Tasgall brushed all that aside with an impatient gesture. He then proceeded to outline Dagnarus's plan for dealing with the taan. When he had finished, he looked intently at Rigiswald.

“Well?” Tasgall demanded.

“Well, what?” Rigiswald returned irascibly, unwilling to be drawn into that matter. “You have obviously made up your mind to go along with him, Tasgall. I don't understand what you seek of me. My approval?”

“No,” said Tasgall. “From what you know of him, is this a trap—”

“Certainly it is a trap.”

“But a trap for whom?” Tasgall asked tensely. “For the taan? Or for us?”

Rigiswald was silent, thoughtful, then he asked, “Do you now believe that the young king is one of Dagnarus's Vrykyl?”

“I don't know what to believe,” Tasgall returned impatiently. “At one point yesterday, yes, maybe I did. But now I'm not sure, and, anyway, does it really matter? The young king is no longer king.”

Rigiswald could have said that it mattered a great deal, but, of course, it didn't. Not to Tasgall, who held the lives of thousands in his hands. Rigiswald sighed deeply.

“Dagnarus pledged his faith with his life,” Tasgall argued, seeming to try to convince himself as much as Rigiswald. “He has given himself as hostage. We are to slay him if he betrays us.”

“If he is the wielder of the Dagger of the Vrykyl, he has as many lives as there are Vrykyl in this world, for everyone of them bequeaths a life to Dagnarus when he dies. You might have to kill him forty times over in order to truly slay him,” Rigiswald said dryly.

“He is mortal!” Tasgall stated. “He cut himself. The red blood flowed.”

“And did he permit you to heal his wound?”

“No. He said…” Tasgall paused.

“Of course, he didn't. He didn't let you heal him because you couldn't. Dagnarus is the Lord of the Void, and, as such, he is tainted with Void. All the Earth magic in the world could not have healed him. If it is any comfort to you, Tasgall, I myself found Dagnarus to be quite charming, engaging, even sympathetic. We both know what he is, yet we both feel drawn to him. He is like one of the bitter potions the healers must mix with honey so that patients will swallow it. Except that he is poison.”

“And is this honey-coated poison meant for us?” Tasgall asked. He looked worn, suddenly, weary.

Rigiswald hesitated. “It is not so much the lies that trouble me, as it is the multitude of truths.”

Tasgall snorted, exasperated.

“I believe Dagnarus when he claims that this trap is a trap for the taan,”

Rigiswald said. “I believe him when he says that he will not turn against us and hand us over to those monsters. From my studies on Dagnarus and from what I saw of him yesterday, his dearest wish in this life is to be what his father was—the beloved and honored ruler of Vinnengael. He won't accomplish that by betraying us to the taan.”

“That is how I read him,” said Tasgall. “But I have one more question for you: Why have the taan entered New Vinnengael at all? He promised to send away half his force and, from reports I received this morning, he has done so. Five thousand taan marched off to the south at first light. Why not just send them all away?”

“He wants us to view the taan in action. He wants us to see how vicious they are, how well they can fight. Yes, we may defeat them now, but the battle won't be easy. He wants us to know that at any time he chooses, he can unleash this vicious dog and send it leaping for our throats.”

“That was my take, as well,” said Tasgall. “I will have to cram it down the throats of the heads of the Orders. Thank you for discussing the problem with me. I needed to be sure that I have made the right decision.”

“I am not certain that you have, Tasgall. I think we'd all be better off in a taan stewpot. But then, you don't have much choice.”

“You say yourself that he has the good of Vinnengael at heart. It might not be such a bad thing to have a strong monarch for a change,” Tasgall returned testily. “One who is determined to raise Vinnengael in the world's regard and restore her to her former place of glory.”

“On top of a charnel heap?” said Rigiswald.

Tasgall eyed the elder magus. “As you say, sir, I don't have much choice.”

He left Rigiswald, glad for his advice, yet sorry he'd asked. Tasgall was put in mind of his dreams. Not the substance, for that continued to elude him, but the spirit that left him with a disquieting sense of defeat, loss, and impending doom.

 

The council meeting went as he'd expected. Tasgall presented Dagnarus's proposal, stated that he was in favor of it, and then stepped back to wait for the breaking storm. The others were convinced that Dagnarus meant to destroy them, that by opening the gates to the taan they might as well be opening the gates to their own doom. Tasgall stood fixed and immovable in the midst of the howling winds that raged at him, ignoring the aspersions and recriminations that buffeted him, answering their arguments by restating his position over and over. He won by being the last man still standing. Over and over he asked if anyone had a better plan and, finally, they were forced to admit that none of them did.

By the end of the meeting, the Regent was suffering from heart palpitations and had to be assisted from the room. She was taken immediately to the House of the Hospitalers. Tasgall permitted the others to depart only after he'd received their sworn promises that each would assist him or at least not get in his way. The head of the Order of Hospitalers had the most to do, for the Houses of Healing would have to be made ready to receive large numbers of casualties.

The one upshot of the meeting that Tasgall found most disconcerting was the fact that the Inquisitor came out on Tasgall's side. Tasgall had never liked the Inquisitor, not even when they were in school together. Tasgall guessed that the only reason the Inquisitor was siding with him now was so that the man would have the opportunity of insinuating himself into his meetings with Dagnarus. Tasgall had seen the Inquisitor and the Regent whispering together. He had no doubt that he was now suspect.

Fine. Let them suspect him of being drawn into the Void. Upon becoming a battle magus, he had sworn an oath to the gods to defend Vinnengael and its people with his life. He would do as he had vowed, though he made enemies of his fellows.

Though his very heart misgave him.

 

Tasgall brought his battle magi to the palace at the appointed hour. There were fifty in all, a number that included some of the most powerful magi then living. All were highly trained, highly skilled. Most were veterans, having fought the Karnuans at Delak 'Vir and the dwarves on numerous occasions, for the dwarves constantly raided Vinnengaelean territory. Most wielded both Earth and Fire magic, which was the preferred weapon of battle magi because of its extremely destructive nature.

Tasgall was proud of his people. His men and women met Dagnarus with cool detachment and a professional demeanor. They had a job to do, and, whatever their thoughts and feelings about Dagnarus and this sudden shift in power, they kept those thoughts to themselves. As Tasgall had foreseen, the Inquisitor asked politely to be permitted to sit in on the meeting. The asking was a formality. Tasgall could not deny him. His only hope was that the Inquisitor had enough care for the people of New Vinnengael not to do anything that might put them in danger. Knowing the Inquisitor's fanatic adherence to duty, his hope was a faint one.

Dagnarus was in an excellent humor and why not? He had achieved his dearest wish, at long last. He came to greet the magi all personally. He insisted on shaking hands with each and every one of them, asked their names, then escorted them to the meeting room himself. All this he did with a regal air, remaining friendly, but keeping his distance, managing to be at once both king and comrade.

Tasgall could see his magi warming to the man, and he could not blame them. He had to work very hard not to fall under Dagnarus's spell—a spell that had nothing to do with magic.

Dagnarus led them to a meeting room furnished with a round table on which was spread a detailed map of the city. The magi stared at the map in amazement, for none had ever seen anything like it.

“I had a team of mapmakers work on it all night,” said Dagnarus. “I knew we would need it, you see. Pure folly to go into battle not knowing the terrain. Is it accurate? Can any of you find fault with it?”

He appeared anxious for the commendation and was pleased as a child by their praise.

“Thank you. Or rather, thank your mapmakers. Excellent fellows, every one of them. I sent them home with a bag of silver tams each. Now”—Dagnarus rubbed his hands—“down to business.” He leaned over the map. “The taan will enter here—”

Dagnarus continued talking, pointing to various locales as he explained his plan. The magi focused on his discussion, intent upon the map. Suddenly Dagnarus lifted his eyes, looked straight at the Inquisitor. The king continued to talk, never missing a word, and Tasgall was perhaps the only one who noticed, with the exception of the Inquisitor. His bony face did not change expression. He did not flinch or move. Yet some word passed between the two, of that Tasgall was certain.

Dagnarus smiled slightly, then lowered his eyes to the map. He proceeded with his plan. The Inquisitor stood in silence, his emotions unreadable, except that a muscle twitched in the man's jaw, his hands clenched, knuckles whitened. Tasgall would have given a bag of silver tams himself to know what had occurred. He would ask, of course, but the Inquisitor might not be inclined to answer. By the look of it, whatever had happened between them had not gone the Inquisitor's way.

The discussion and development of the battle plan went on for another two hours without a break. Dagnarus had many good ideas, but some that
weren't so good, arising mainly from an imperfect knowledge of the capabilities of a battle magus. He was willing to listen, quick to understand, asked intelligent questions, and glad to give way to superior knowledge.

At the end of two hours, he called a break. He ordered the servants to prepare food and drink for his guests in the dining hall, after which they would resume their discussion. He was pleased with the way the plan was shaping up, had no doubt that they would be victorious on the morrow. He was sorry to hear that the Inquisitor would not be with them during the upcoming sessions, but knew that duty called. The king led the way to the dining hall, conferring with several of the battle magi as they walked.

Tasgall excused himself and managed to catch up with the Inquisitor before the man exited the palace. He fell into step beside him.

“What happened back there, Inquisitor?” Tasgall asked.

“Nothing happened,” said the Inquisitor.

“Oh, yes, it did. I saw the exchange. Whatever it was, I need to know. Listen to me,” Tasgall added in exasperation, grabbing hold of the man's sleeve and forcing him to halt and face him. “
I
am not the enemy.”