Journey into the Void (47 page)

T
HE PEOPLE OF NEW VINNENGAEL WERE MAKING PREPARATIONS
for the annual spring festival. They had worked hard to remove all traces of the taan invasion, repairing buildings that had been damaged, scrubbing the exterior walls to remove the black, greasy soot that fell from the skies after days of burning the bodies. They had washed most of the blood stains from the streets. The wounded were healed by now, although they would bear scars of the battle for the rest of their lives. Few would show off there scars or boast about them to their grandchildren. None was proud of what had been done that day. Everyone looked forward to the fragrant spring winds, which would blow away the lingering stench of death, and the gentle spring rains, which would cause flowers to bloom in the blood-soaked ground.

Even though the festival was yet a month away, shop owners sent out apprentices to cover the plaster walls with a fresh coat of whitewash. Sign painters repainted or touched up the colorful shop signs. Dressmakers plied their needles by candlelight, for every gentle lady must have a new gown to wear to His Majesty's Spring Revels.

The sounds of hammer and saw could be heard from dawn to dusk, as the carpenters erected booths on the fairgrounds. Small boys were employed to walk every inch of the grounds, clean them of stones and sticks. The innkeepers and tavern owners and Hospitalers laid in fresh supplies, for this was the busiest time of year for them all. The Spring Faire attracted people from every part of Vinnengael. Merchants would travel
from Dunkarga, Nimra, and Nimorea. Even in this time of civil war, elven merchants were expected from Tromek, and a few dwarf merchants would make the trek from Saumel. Ork ships filled with goods had already started to clog the harbor.

The weather might be gray and gloomy, rainy and cold now, but the sun always shone on the Spring Faire. People listened to the rain dripping from the eaves and closed their eyes and imagined warm sun and laughing children.

Times were good for the people of New Vinnengael. They were pleased with their new king, and they had reason to be. Dagnarus might have climbed over the broken, twisted bodies of hundreds to reach the throne, but, once there, he washed the blood from his hands and tried his best to do what he considered right.

“Someday, they will speak of King Dagnarus of blessed memory,” he said to himself, standing before the portrait of his father. “Well, perhaps not ‘blessed memory,' for I won't be dead. I won't be a memory. I will be their living king, ruling through the ages, leading Vinnengael to eternal prosperity.”

He had long puzzled how he was going to explain the fact to his people that he would never age, never die. He could not tell them the truth, of course, that he lived on lives stolen through the Dagger of the Vrykyl. Already, since he'd been king, he'd found two people willing to give their souls to the Void in return for favors from their royal master. The favors they received were not quite the favors they had sought. The Dagger of the Vrykyl had found them both acceptable candidates, and now Dagnarus had two new Vrykyl, one of them a lord who spied on his privy council and the other a Temple magus.

Dagnarus decided to tell his people that the gods would grant him eternal youth in return for the safe recovery of the blessed Sovereign Stone. The Church would be appalled. He'd let them rant and rave, silence those who grew too tiresome. He had his supporters, and they would come through for him. Meanwhile, the people would see their young and handsome king standing with his hand upon the sacred Stone, all four parts together at last, as it was meant to be. In time, the clamor would diminish. His opposition would dwindle away. Those who were babes in arms today would grow old under his kingship and commend their children to him on their deathbeds.

All was in readiness to accept the Sovereign Stone. He'd ordered the carving of a new marble altar on which to place it. Curiosity ran high as to what this altar might be for, but Dagnarus would say only that it was destined to bear the greatest gift the gods had ever given mankind.

Dagnarus was meeting with his privy council when he felt the Dagger of the Vrykyl grow pleasantly warm against his flesh. He carried the dagger with him always, thrust into his belt beneath his silken shirt. The warmth meant that one of his Vrykyl was seeking to contact him. Dagnarus hoped and expected it would be Shakur, for the last report he'd received from Gareth indicated that the four Dominion Lords bearing the Sovereign Stones were drawing near the ruins of Old Vinnengael.

“Gentlemen,” said Dagnarus, rising to his feet. “No, please, do not stand up. I must beg your indulgence for a few moments. I hate to interrupt our discussion, but I must make use of the privies. I do not know why it is that happens to me whenever we meet, gentlemen,” he added with a grin. “I'm beginning to think that is why it is called the ‘privy' council.”

The members laughed heartily. They always laughed at the king's jokes.

Dagnarus managed to rid himself of courtiers and servants and hangers-on, who continually dogged his footsteps. He recalled Silwyth, how adept he had been at filling the royal life with courtiers when they were wanted and shooing them away when they weren't. The elven chamberlain had taught him all he knew about the intrigues of court life. Dagnarus supposed that elves had a natural gift for this sort of thing. His current chamberlain was an ass. Dagnarus made a mental note to contact the Shield and ask that he send him an elf to serve in this capacity.

On reaching the royal bedchamber, Dagnarus ordered his chamberlain to shut the door, ordered his guards to refuse entry to anyone. A modest man who was fond of his privacy, Dagnarus had built for himself a water closet for his own personal needs. In this windowless chamber, with its stone walls and stone floor and heavy doors, Dagnarus responded to the Dagger's call.

“There is a problem, my lord,” Shakur said. “Klendist did not arrive at our meeting place. I warned you that he was unreliable—”

“What happened to him? Something must have happened.”

“I have no idea, my lord. When I went to their camp, it was empty.
They had not been there for several days, by the looks of it. I waited another day, but they never came back.”

“And the Dominion Lords? The Sovereign Stone?”

“I have no idea,” Shakur said dourly. “I have lost track of them. It was not my responsibility—”

“If you value your tongue, Shakur, you will cease to wag it,” said Dagnarus.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I should not have left this to underlings,” Dagnarus muttered. “Yet how could I leave my responsibilities here? There are certainly disadvantages to being king. It curtails the freedom of one's movement. By the Void! If only I could find a way to split myself in two, be in two places at once.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Shakur. “What are your commands?”

“I will come take charge of the situation. It is what I should have done all along.”

“Yes, my lord. By the way, my lord, K'let has arrived, along with a large force of taan.”

“If you think to disconcert me with this news, Shakur, you fail. I know K'let's plan. The taan is clever, but he is not capable of subtlety. I will deal with him, once I have dealt with the Dominion Lords.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“I will be with you shortly, Shakur,” said Dagnarus, and the contact ended.

Fortunately, he had already made arrangements for his absence. He had let it be known that he was fond of hunting. The former king had kept a hunting lodge in the Illanof Mountains. Pleading a need to escape the rigors of court life, Dagnarus was going to go hunting. The dragon of the Void, one of the five who lived upon Dragon Mountain, was already waiting for Dagnarus's call, waiting to bear him swiftly to Old Vinnengael. Once there, he would search for and find the four Dominion Lords.

He ran his finger lightly over the sharp edge of the Dagger of the Vrykyl.

 

“Where is Silwyth?” Shadamehr asked.

Damra glanced around. “I thought he was helping you and the Captain with the boat.”

“And I thought he had gone ahead with you to scout,” said Shadamehr. “And now, it seems, he's nowhere.”

Acting on the advice of Silwyth, the Dominion Lords left their boat behind on a shore some distance from the ruins of Old Vinnengael. They walked along an old highway running through the Grain Coast, a stretch of rich land nicknamed Vinnengael's “bread basket.” Even now the remnants of farming villages could still be seen. Although the villages had escaped the effects of the magical blast, they had not escaped the ravages of war. Dagnarus's troops had raided the farms, stealing the food, slaughtering the cattle, setting fire to anything they had not been able to carry off.

“Good soil here,” said Shadamehr. He bent down to pick up a handful of the black earth, let it trickle through his fingers.

“I am surprised that no one has returned to farm this land,” said Damra. “It is far from the ruins of the city. They could ship their goods down the river.”

“There's the reason,” said Shadamehr, and he pointed to the side of the road. “Bahk tracks. Fresh ones.”

“Those tracks are enormous,” said Damra, awed. “I could lie down full length in one.”

“Yes, nasty beasties, the bahk. I've fought one or two in my time. Didn't enjoy it much.”

“It figures. What with us hauling around the Sovereign Stones,” said Wolfram, returning from a trip to the underbrush, “those great hulking monsters will be drooling all over us.”

“Do not worry, Wolf's Son,” said the Captain in sonorous tones. “They drool on you only after they rip you apart.”

“Wolfram!” the dwarf insisted dourly. “I keep telling you. It's Wolf-ram.”

The Captain grinned and shrugged as she always grinned and shrugged when the dwarf corrected her, something he did at least three times a day. The ork had made up names for all of them. Shadamehr was Shadow Man and Damra was Dame Rah. The Captain was quite fond of these names and stuck to them. Only the dwarf was bothered by it. Something about his nickname struck a nerve, seemingly, a fact that did not escape the ork. The only person she had not given a nickname to was Silwyth, and that was because the Captain rarely spoke to him directly, though she spent a great deal of time watching him, her expression grave and troubled.

She read the omens everywhere they went. As the others were staring at the bahk tracks, the Captain left the trail, went crashing through the underbrush. She came back holding the carcass of a dead squirrel. She muttered words over it, then stood gazing at it, her lips pursed.

“What's the outcome?” Shadamehr asked.

The Captain shook her head.

“I can't say. My shaman is not with me,” she told him.

She had left the other orks behind with the boat, with instructions to wait for her for a moon's half cycle. If she had not returned by then, the orks were to go back to their people and choose a new Captain.

“I may not be reading these right.”

“But are they good or bad?” Shadamehr persisted.

The Captain handed him the maggot-ridden corpse. “See for yourself.”

“I can see the omens were bad for the squirrel,” said Shadamehr, with a grimace.

The Captain again shook her head.

“Will the bahk attack us?” Damra asked. “I've never encountered a bahk, but I know that they are drawn to magical objects and, as Wolfram says, we have with us four of the most powerful magical objects in the world.”

“It depends on where they have their lairs. Silwyth said he knew—”

Shadamehr turned to find Silwyth at his elbow.

“Damn!” Shadamehr took an involuntary step backward. “Don't sneak up on me like that. You took ten years off my life. Provided, of course, that I have ten years to spare, which at this point appears doubtful. You should really make some sort of noise, my dear fellow,” he added earnestly. “Belch or sneeze or something. The dead make more racket than you do.”

Silwyth bowed and took a step backward. “I am sorry if I have offended.”

“No, no, that's all right.” Shadamehr mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve. “Did you see the bahk tracks?”

“Yes, Baron. I followed them a mile or so.” Silwyth pointed north. “They go north, toward the ruins. A single bahk, probably an elder by the size and depth of the tracks.”

“Heading straight for Old Vinnengael?”

“Yes,” Silwyth replied. “There are many bahk in the area. The tracks of this one joined several others, all traveling north. My guess is that they make their homes in those cliffs over there to the east. The rock is limestone, and it is riddled with caves.”

“Why are they here?” Damra asked.

“There was a part of the city known as the Mysterium, where you could buy magical artifacts from all over Loerem. Hundreds of these artifacts still lie in the rubble. The bahk are drawn to them, seek them out.”

“So how do we avoid them? And what do we do if we come across one?”

“Run,” said Shadamehr succinctly. “No, I'm quite serious. The bahk are huge, hulking creatures. They move relatively slowly, and most of the time you can outrun them.”

“We will not be going into the Mysterium, so I trust that we will not encounter them,” said Silwyth. “Still, if we meet one, the Baron's advice is sound.”

Old Vinnengael lay due north of them. To the east was the good, rich bottomland, surrounded by limestone cliffs. To the west was Lake Ildurel. The lake water was a deep, deep blue, cool and dark in the early-morning sun. The ruins of the city were shrouded in clouds, a fact that struck Shadamehr as odd, for the day was warm and dry, and no mists rose from the motionless lake.

“Where does that mist come from?” he asked.

“The waterfalls,” answered Silwyth. “Once there were rainbows, but not anymore. Now there is only gray fog.”