Journey into the Void (28 page)

The dwarves knew by his long beard and lack of clan markings that Wolfram was Unhorsed, and they regarded him with pity. Wolfram ignored them. He'd seen that look before, all too many times. He walked straight up to Kolost, who was bent, peering beneath his horse's belly, checking the tightness of his saddle girth.

“Kolost,” said a dwarf, warningly. “One comes.”

The clan chief straightened, turned to face Wolfram. If Kolost had been smug or smiled knowingly or looked triumphant in any way, Wolfram would have turned on his heel and walked off that instant. The clan chief's expression was grave, calm, gave nothing, expected nothing, and so Wolfram stayed.

“How long ago did this theft take place?” he demanded.

Kolost gave the matter thought. “The full moon has shone on our journey three times since then.”

Wolfram gaped. “Three months?”

“It has taken us that long to travel this distance,” said Kolost. “We are not elves. We cannot fly.”

“Neither can elves,” Wolfram muttered.

“I would not know,” said Kolost politely. “I have never met an elf.”

“You're not missing much.” Wolfram stood in thought, wavering, undecided. He looked back at Kolost. “I don't know what you expect me to do about this theft. By the time we travel back, three more months will have passed. Or longer. The thief could be on the other side of the world by then. He might be there now, for all we know.”

He shook his head. “No, it's hopeless. There's nothing I can do. Nothing anyone can do. I get around a lot, though. I'll keep my ears open. If I hear anything—”

“Hello, Wolfram,” said Ranessa, walking up from behind. “Who are your friends?”

Wolfram's toes curled. His hair rose. He could have cheerfully thrown himself off the mountain and, for a brief moment, actually considered it.

She was in her human form, the first time he'd seen her that way since she'd become a dragon. He'd forgotten just how strange she looked with her black, uncombed hair straggling down over her face; her well-worn and none-too-clean leather pants and tunic; and that wild, half-mad glint in her eyes.

Dwarves have no use for humans. The clan dwarves exchanged dour glances. Kolost looked stern and disapproving.

Wolfram had been speaking Fringrese, the language of the clan dwarves. He shifted to Elderspeak.

“Now is not a good time, Ranessa,” he growled. “You can annoy me later. What are you doing here, anyway? And in that getup?”

“I came to see if you'd gone,” Ranessa returned coldly. “And, of course, you hadn't. As for this ‘getup' as you call it, Fire won't let me use my dragon form around the monastery. She says I might break something.”

“Who is this human, Wolfram?” Kolost demanded, in Elderspeak.

“Nobody important,” said Wolfram, shifting back to Fringrese. “A human who latched on to me. I can't get rid—”

“I am Ranessa,” said Ranessa, drawing herself up and regarding Kolost with disdain. “And I am a dragon.”

“A dragon!” Kolost repeated.

“She's mad as a mistor,” said Wolfram in low tones. “I know you want to get an early start, so I'll just say my good-byes. Have a safe journey—”

“I am not mad!” cried Ranessa in a towering rage. “I am sick and tired of people thinking me mad!”

“Don't, Ranessa,” Wolfram begged, realizing he'd made a terrible mistake. “I'm sorry.”

“I'll show you who's mad!” Ranessa stated.

Her human form flowed into that of the dragon. Her arms became wings. Her head glistened red as the scales sparkled over her flesh. Her black hair transformed into a black, spiky mane that quivered with indignation and triumph. Her green eyes glinted. Thick, heavily muscled back legs supported a massive body. Her red shining tail lashed moodily across the ground.

Catching one sniff of dragon, the horses stampeded, some galloping off down the mountain, others dashing around the eastern wall of the monastery.

The dwarves stared in horrified, frozen shock for a single moment. Then Kolost shouted out orders. He grabbed his battle-ax and held it, braced. The other dwarves snatched up sword or ax or bow and prepared to attack.

Wolfram yelled himself hoarse, trying to calm the dwarves on one hand and Ranessa on the other. The dragon gave out a roar and bared her glistening fangs. Startled from their studies by the horrendous noise, the monks looked out the windows and peered out from the door. The Omarah came pounding across the compound, brandishing their huge staves, intent on quelling the disturbance.

Suddenly, Kolost pointed.

“Another one!” he cried. A second dragon came flying out of the east, winging her way over the mountains.

At the sight of her mother, Ranessa collapsed back into her human form. She huddled behind Wolfram, trying to hide. Since she was tall and he was short, this was not a great success.

The red dragon swooped low over the monastery.

“Put away your weapons, gentlemen,” said Fire, circling above them. “My daughter means you no harm. Do you, Daughter?” Ranessa, crouched behind Wolfram, shook her head.

“Forgive my child, sirs,” Fire continued. “She is newly hatched and has not yet learned proper behavior. I am sorry about your horses. The Omarah will round them up and see to it that they are returned to you.”

Kolost gazed upward in dazed awe, too stunned to react. Wolfram touched the clan chief's shoulder.

“You better do as she says,” Wolfram advised. “Put away your weapons. Now.”

Kolost lowered his battle-ax and gave orders for his escort to do the same.

“This is all your fault!” Ranessa cried, and smote Wolfram between the shoulder blades, a blow that knocked him to his knees. She stalked off, leaving him to pick himself up.

“Again, sirs, I apologize,” said Fire.

Lifting her wings, she sailed among the clouds, vanished around the side of the mountain.

The dwarves shifted their stares from the dragon to Wolfram. Let them stare. He didn't care.

“They'll bring your horses back.”

Wolfram turned on his heel and walked off, headed for the monastery to retrieve his pack. He was worn-out from lack of sleep, but he figured he could put several miles between himself and Dragon Mountain before he collapsed.

He snatched up his pack, put on his new fur-lined hat. He was on his way out the door and off Dragon Mountain—this time, for good—when the heavy hand of one of the Omarah engulfed his shoulder.

“Fire wants to see you.”

“I don't want to see her,” said Wolfram. “I'm leaving.”

“Fire wants to see you,” the Omarah repeated. The hand tightened its grip.

Wolfram found Fire staring out the window, her hands clasped behind her back. When she turned, she had a worried, anxious expression on her face that reminded Wolfram forcibly of his own mother, who had often worn just such an expression. He felt suddenly and unreasonably guilty.

“Ma'am,” he said, snatching off his hat. “I'm truly sorry—”

“It's not your fault, Wolfram.” Fire smiled ruefully. “If it's anyone's fault, I suppose it's mine. Ranessa is my first child, you see. I have fallen into a trap common to parents with their firstborn. I have been overprotective of her. Too indulgent. She is willful and headstrong, much as I was when I was a young hatchling. In other words, I've made a hash of motherhood.
I'm going to send Ranessa out into the world, Wolfram. And I want you to go with her.”

Wolfram tried to protest, but all he managed was a strangled gargle.

“This could be the solution to all your problems,” Fire continued, pretending not to notice his discomfiture. “Ranessa will have a chance to see the world through her dragon eyes. You and Kolost will travel swiftly and safely to the city of Saumel. The disappearance of the dwarven portion of the Stone is extremely serious, Wolfram. You understand that, don't you?”

“I…I suppose so, ma'am,” said Wolfram, dazed. “It's just…I don't know who could have taken it. Who would even want it…”

“Don't you, Wolfram?” Fire asked quietly. Reaching down her hand, she toyed with a small silver box, adorned with turquoise.

Wolfram stared at the box that had once been in the possession of the dead Dominion Lord, Gustav. Memories came flooding back. Gustav had died defending that box, which had once held the portion of the Sovereign Stone given to the human race. Gustav had bequeathed the box to Wolfram. Perhaps the Dominion Lord had bequeathed something else along with it.

Horrible suspicions flooded Wolfram's mind. He'd had two encounters with Vrykyl, and he didn't want a third. The memories alone were enough to shrivel his private parts. But then he thought about the children.

Wolfram cleared his throat. “I'll go back to Saumel, ma'am. Though I'm not a Dominion Lord, I'll do what I can.”

“Why aren't you a Dominion Lord, Wolfram? You underwent the Transfiguration—”

“The gods made a mistake,” he said, feeling the heat rush to his face. He waited tensely for Fire to say something more, but she remained silent. Taking a deep breath, he went on. “And Ranessa can come with me. She's a pain in the butt, no offense, ma'am, but, well, I think I understand her now. I know what she's feeling…”

“That the gods made a mistake with her, too?” Fire asked, with a sad smile.

Wolfram put his hat on his head. “I don't know about Kolost. Dwarves are fine riding horses, but dragons…I don't know, ma'am. I don't think he'll do it.”

“I have seen into his heart. He is eager to return to the dwarven lands. He fears that while he is away, his rivals are working against him. I will speak to him. I do not think he will raise any great objection,” said Fire. “And I will speak to Ranessa.”

Wolfram had ridden a griffon before—on a dare—and he'd enjoyed it. Flying was an exhilarating experience, like galloping full tilt over a sunlit meadow. He had a sudden vivid image, though, of riding on the back of the willful, wayward, and awkward young fire dragon. He recalled her inept, clumsy, and bone-jarring landings, and he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Uh, ma'am, if you could have a word with her about carrying riders. How it wouldn't be wise to suddenly decide to flip over in midair and how she might want to watch where she's setting down and not make it a lake, for example, or an ocean or the pit of a volcano…”

Fire smiled. “I think you will find that Ranessa has more sense than you give her credit for, Wolfram.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Wolfram politely, dubiously, and he bowed his way out.

T
IME PRESSED ON THE OTHER PEOPLE OF THE WORLD, HOUNDED
them with its steady, unrelenting pace. Time for Dagnarus was measured in centuries, yet he heard its ticking clock.

Time had slowed for Shadamehr and Damra and Griffith. Time for them was measured in the ringing bells that announced the changing of the watch on board the orken ship. Blessed with fair weather and a fast wind, they left the Sea of Sagquanno, sailing west for the Sea of Orkas. Their days were filled with leisurely strolls on the decks, serious discussions of the future, less serious stories and songs, and, always, ork omens. Yet every four hours they heard the bells, reminding them that even in the stillness of the night, time rode the waves that flowed beneath their bow.

Time beat with steady wings for Wolfram and Kolost. Ranessa managed, for the most part, to take seriously the responsibility for the safety of her riders. Her landings improved to the point that Wolfram could now almost keep his eyes open. As for Kolost, he was enchanted with flight, saw immediately how useful it could be in battle. He began to consider seriously how he might import griffons, who were not native to the dwarven lands.

Time galloped on swift horses' hooves for the Grandmother and Jessan and Ulaf, riding west, riding home. Time cantered for Rigiswald, who had fallen in with a wine-merchant's caravan traveling to Krammes. He exchanged his services as a healer for protection and companionship and
wine enough to wash away the bitter aftertaste left by his experiences in New Vinnengael.

Time shoved at the backs of all those who had come into contact with what might be called Lord Gustav's Sovereign Stone, with one exception. For Raven, traveling with the taan, time was a long day's march, the breaking down of one camp and the setting up of another, and more marching.

The Trevinici make some attempt to count the passing of days, for a warrior home on leave needs to know how many sunrises he can remain with his people before he has to return to his post. But for Raven, time had essentially stopped. There was nowhere he had to be, nowhere he needed to go.

Raven looked back across time to see his past life receding in the distance. He watched without regret as it dwindled and faded away. He could never go back to that life—a life of dishonor for a Trevinici who had been captured in battle and dragged off a prisoner, while his comrades fought and died.

The killing of his captor, Qu-tok, was the bright beacon fire that now lit Raven's way. He had taken revenge on the enemy who had brought shame on him. He had taken his revenge on the enemy who had mocked him, laughed at him, made sport of him. In slaying his enemy, Raven had earned a dubious honor—he'd attracted the notice of one of the hideous, undead Vrykyl, an albino taan called K'let, who had made Raven his bodyguard. Raven had attained another honor, one that meant more to him. He had gained favor with the taan tribe.

No longer a prisoner, Raven was a warrior among the taan, granted full warrior status. He had been given Qu-tok's weapons, his tent and its place of honor in the outer circle of warriors, and all of Qu-tok's possessions, which included a half-taan slave called Dur-zor. Raven had no use for most of Qu-tok's possessions. Qu-tok had some fine armor, which had been presented to him as a reward for his bravery in battle, but it wouldn't fit Raven, and so he gave it away to some of the other taan in the tribe, further gaining in goodwill. The very finest piece—a helm that had been presented to Qu-tok by the hand of their god, Dagnarus, himself, Raven gave to Dag-ruk, the nizam, leader of the tribe.

Dag-ruk was pleased with the gift and pleased with the giver. If Raven had known how pleased the female taan was with him, he would
have buried the helm in the deepest hole he could dig and crawled in after it. He had no notion, however. Dur-zor knew, for she saw the way Dag-ruk looked at Raven, and she understood the true meaning that lay behind Dag-ruk's flattering remarks. It was not for Dur-zor to stand in the way of Raven's glory, and so she said nothing.

The days passed, mostly unnoticed by Raven, who found it easier to live from moment to moment, refusing to think of the past and ignoring the future. He had work to keep him occupied, for which he was grateful. Dag-ruk's tribe had made the decision to join with other tribes under the rebellious taan, K'let.

Dag-ruk's tribe had met K'let's tribes in battle, but the Vrykyl had not wanted to fight his fellow taan. He had wanted to convert them to his cause. He had spoken to Dag-ruk and her people, told them that this god they worshiped, this Dagnarus, was not a god at all, but a mere human. A human who cared nothing for the taan as he claimed, but who was using them to gain ascendancy over the soft and sniveling races of Loerem. When he was through with the taan, K'let claimed, Dagnarus would not reward the taan, as he had promised. He would turn on them and try to destroy them.

K'let urged the taan to break with Dagnarus, to go back to their worship of the old gods, who were taan themselves, and who cared for and understood the taan. K'let's words were persuasive, and Dagnarus was not around to refute them. Dag-ruk had been taught to worship the Vrykyl, or kyl-sarnz, as the taan know them—the “god-touched.” She admired K'let, as did all taan, who knew the story of his rebellion against Dagnarus, and she felt in her heart that he spoke the truth. She had agreed to follow him and brought most of her warriors along with her. Those who did not agree had either kept their mouths shut or left the tribe.

K'let and his taan supporters, including Dag-ruk and her tribe, traveled east, heading for some unknown destination. What that was, K'let would not say, but they were apparently in a hurry to reach it. He commanded the taan to march long hours every day. They made no stops, but that was nothing out of the ordinary for the nomadic tribes. All the taan felt the urgency of their travel, and many speculated at their destination, including Raven.

What with the long marches by day, the evenings spent in practicing how to use the strange taan weapons that he'd inherited and teaching
Dur-zor the ways of human lovemaking in the night, Raven had all he needed to keep his mind occupied.

He enjoyed most of it, even the marches, for he was accustomed to roving and liked the freedom of the road. The exception was the time he spent around K'let. The very sight of the Vrykyl gave Raven the horrors, reminded him of that terrible ride he'd made to Dunkar, burdened with the accursed armor of the dead Vrykyl who had slain Lord Gustav.

Raven liked learning the use of a new weapon—the tum-olt. Similar to a greatsword with a serrated edge to the blade, the tum-olt required two hands to wield. He also enjoyed his nights with Dur-zor, whose only idea of lovemaking up to now had been the brutal treatment of human females or the almost-as-brutal coupling of taan mates.

Dur-zor lived for the nights when the two of them could be alone together, shut out the rest of the world. She yearned all through the day for the touch of his hands on her body, the touch of his lips on hers. She had come to learn the word “love” from him. She knew what it meant—the wonderful, terrible feelings she had for him. She never spoke the word to him, though, for Dur-zor knew that he did not love her, and she did not want to give him pain.

After their lovemaking, they would lie together, and she would teach him words in the taan language. Raven could never speak taanic, the guttural language of the taan. The human throat is not capable of making the sounds. He was learning to understand it, however. Because of their years of serving among the armies of other countries, Trevinici had developed an affinity for language. Raven was a quick study, and he rarely needed Dur-zor to translate what he was hearing, though he still needed her to give his replies.

This night, Raven had just returned to the tribe after spending two hateful nights standing guard duty for K'let. Several taan tribes had come together under K'let's leadership. Dag-ruk's tribe had set up camp about five miles from the main tribe, where K'let had tented. Raven came back late at night. He was ravenously hungry and disappointed to see the cook pot empty.

“What is this?” he asked Dur-zor.

She dropped down to her knees. “I'm sorry—”

Raven took hold of her hands, lifted her up. “I've told you, Dur-zor, you don't kneel to me. I'm not your master. We're equals, you and I.” He gestured to her, then to himself. “Equals.”

“Yes, Raven,” said Dur-zor hurriedly. “I'm sorry. I forgot. Dag-ruk has sent—”

But Raven wasn't interested in Dag-ruk. He glanced around the camp, his frowning gaze going to other half-taan, most of whom were down on their knees, doing the menial jobs that were beneath the taskers, or accepting the blows they received on a daily basis.

“I can't believe they treat you and your kind like dogs,” he said, his anger growing. “Worse than dogs. I've a good mind to speak to Dag-ruk about it.”

“Please, Raven,” said Dur-zor, pleading. “Don't start this again. I've told you before. You cannot help us. You will only make trouble for us and for yourself.” She cast a fearful glance at the tent of the nizam. “Dag-ruk wants to speak to you, Raven. You should not keep her waiting.”

Raven set his jaw. His expression grim, he left his tent and walked through the camp toward the tent of the nizam. Dur-zor hurried after, worried and fearful. She had come to know that stubborn look. Nothing she could say would deter him. He'd worn that same look when he'd challenged Qu-tok in the kdah-klk.

Dag-ruk stood in front of her tent, laughing at something with several taan warriors. Tall and strong Dag-ruk bore her battle scars with pride. She had won the favor of the shaman, R'lt, and her arms were lumpy with the magically enhanced stones he had inserted beneath her leathery hide. She was a fearless warrior and a powerful nizam. At Raven's arrival, Dag-ruk turned from her conversation. She frowned, and the warriors grinned. Although the taan admired Raven for his defeat of Qu-tok, the warriors—particularly the young ones—were jealous of him and did not mind seeing him take a fall.

“You have kept me waiting, R'vn,” said Dag-ruk, her tone severe.

Before Raven could respond, Dur-zor intervened.

“It was my fault, great Kutryx,” she said, dropping to her knees, humbling herself before Dag-ruk. “I forgot to tell him.”

“I might have known,” said Dag-ruk with a sneer.

She started to kick Dur-zor. The half-taan braced herself for the blow, but before Dag-ruk could strike, Raven stepped between the two of them.

“If you want to kick someone, Kutryx, kick me,” he said. “Only know this—I kick back. Tell her what I said, Dur-zor.”

“Raven, please!” said Dur-zor, trembling. “Don't do this.”

“Tell her!” he said coldly.

Dur-zor repeated the words in taanic, although she said them so brokenly and softly it is doubtful if Dag-ruk heard them. Dag-ruk didn't need to hear them, though. She understood Raven perfectly.

So did the watching warriors. Their grins vanished. They stared, appalled and shocked at his audacity. Most expected to see him die on the spot, for no one defied the nizam.

Dag-ruk's hands clenched to fists. Raven stood his ground, ready, waiting.

Word of the confrontation spread as the shaman, R'lt, hastened to the scene. He said nothing, moved silently, glided along the fringes of the crowd. Dag-ruk was aware of him. Although she did not acknowledge him, her hands relaxed. Her lips parted in a bestial grin, revealing rows of yellowed teeth.

“You are very bold, R'vn, to speak this way to your nizam,” said Dag-ruk.

“The nizam knows my great respect for her,” answered Raven, astonished, as was everyone else in the crowd, that he was not flat on his back. “The nizam is fair and just. The fault was mine, not Dur-zor's.”

“She is a half-taan,” said Dag-ruk dismissively. “The fault is always hers.”

Raven opened his mouth, but he heard, behind him, Dur-zor make a soft, pleading whimper, and he kept quiet. He had yet to find out why Dag-ruk had summoned him.

“You are bold, R'vn,” Dag-ruk continued. “And you are brave. You have proven yourself in the kdah-klk and in the calah. You please me, R'vn. You please me so well, in fact, that I am going to take you for my mate.”

A gasp went through the ranks of the warriors. No one dared say a word, however, except R'lt. He made a hissing sound. Dag-ruk glanced at him disdainfully, ignored him.

Dur-zor had to swallow twice before she could translate the hateful words, the words that would take Raven away from her forever. She wished in that moment that Dag-ruk had crushed her skull. The pain of death would be nothing compared to this.

Raven understood, though he could not believe it. He waited for the translation to be certain.

“Tell the nizam that I thank her for this great honor,” said Raven. “But I must refuse. Tell her I already have a mate. You are my mate, Dur-zor.”

Dur-zor stared, her breath stolen away. At last she managed to whisper, “Is that true, Raven? Am I…yours?”

“Of course, Dur-zor,” he said. “I would not lie with you otherwise. To do so would dishonor you.”

“A half-taan has no honor, Raven,” said Dur-zor, though her heart sang within her. “Still, I thank you for that. You have made me very happy. I will remember always. Now I will tell Dag-ruk that you will be proud to be her mate.”

“What? No, you won't,” said Raven. Catching hold of Dur-zor's arm, he dragged her up to stand beside him. “I thank you, Dag-ruk,” he said, speaking loudly and distinctly, as though that would help her to understand his words. “But I have a mate. Dur-zor is my mate.” He raised Dur-zor's hand in the air.

“Furthermore,” Raven called out, turning to face the crowd, “I expect all of you to treat my mate with the same respect you treat me.”

Dur-zor tried to shrink into nothing. She was terrified, though not for herself. She was terrified for Raven. Still, even as she cringed, she could not resist casting one, small, triumphant glance at the furious nizam.