Journey into the Void (48 page)

They continued walking in silence, each thinking, perhaps, about the rainbows.

“It was a bahk took the Sovereign Stone from Dagnarus,” Silwyth said quietly, almost as if he were talking to himself.

“Eh?” Wolfram said sharply. “How do you know that?”

“So say the legends of my people,” Silwyth replied, with a sidelong glance at the dwarf. “I do not know for certain, of course.”

“Well, your legends are right,” stated the dwarf bluntly. “I was with Lord Gustav when he died. He found the Sovereign Stone on the corpse of a dead bahk.”

“Come, Silwyth,” said Shadamehr. “Let us hear this legend.”

The elf's face darkened. He seemed to regret having spoken.

“According to what I have heard, the magical blast that destroyed much of the city spared the life of Dagnarus. How is that possible, you ask? Only the Father and Mother know.”

“Or the Void,” said Damra coolly.

Silwyth glanced at her, but did not reply. He continued with his story. “Dagnarus regained consciousness to find himself in a forested land unknown to him. He was horribly hurt, but he was alive, and he had the prize for which he had sacrificed so much, the prize that should have been his by right. He had with him the blessed Sovereign Stone.”

“‘That should have been his by right'?” Damra repeated. “I thought you were on our side, Silwyth.”

“I relate the legend as I have heard it, Damra of Gwyenoc,” said Silwyth.

Damra and Shadamehr exchanged looks.

“I don't much like the sound of that,” Shadamehr whispered, his brow puckered.

“I don't either,” said Damra. “In fact, I think our Silwyth has been acting very strange lately.”

Silwyth continued to talk, his voice soft and empty. “Dagnarus gave thanks to the gods for giving him the Stone, and he vowed he would be worthy of their faith in him. At that moment, a monster of a type that had never before been seen in this land came out of the forest—a bahk. Drawn by the magic of the Sovereign Stone, the bahk attacked Dagnarus. He fought with the very last ounce of strength he had remaining, fought to save what the gods had given him. He was too weak, however. The bahk tore the Stone from his hand and took it away. Dagnarus lost consciousness. He was too weak, too horribly wounded to go after the Stone. Many long years he searched, but in vain.”

He looked up at them. “So goes the legend.”

“Strange,” said Damra. “I've never heard that tale.”

“You are not of House Kinnoth,” he returned. “We should increase our pace. We have no time to waste. You do not want to be caught in Old Vinnengael after dark.”

“Where are we going once we get there?” Shadamehr inquired. “The temple? The palace? Your favorite tavern?”

“We are bound for the Temple of the Magi, or what is left of it,” said Silwyth. “To the Portal of the Gods.”

“Is that where we're going to meet up with Dagnarus?” Shadamehr asked, offhandedly.

Silwyth remained impassive. His expression did not change, although reading any expression in that wrinkled mass of flesh was difficult. Silwyth's almond-shaped eyes, in their slits of puckered flesh, were always hooded, shadowed. The elf had developed a trick, in later days, of never quite meeting one's gaze full on—a trick Shadamehr found intriguing.

He looked into the eyes, hoping to see a flicker of surprise, annoyance, fear—he wasn't certain what. What he saw astonished him so much that he almost forgot the question.

“I don't know what you mean,” Silwyth said, and his voice was calm. He had hesitated a moment too long, however.

“I am…um…sure you must recall it,” said Shadamehr, recovering his wits with an effort. “What we talked about in the cave. How Lord Dagnarus—”

“He is now your king,” Silwyth corrected.

“I beg his pardon,” said Shadamehr. “How His Majesty King Dagnarus was setting a trap for us. Wolfram told us. He'd had a message from my friend Ulaf. Surely you remember?”

“You must forgive an old man,” said Silwyth, “who is often forgetful.” He glanced pointedly at the sun, which was starting to sink into the west. “We should be hurrying. We have several more miles to cover before darkness. We will want to enter the city in the morning hours and it will take us all day to reach our goal. We do not want to be trapped there after dark.”

“Speaking of traps,” Shadamehr said blithely, “I was just wondering if Dagnarus was setting his trap for us in the Portal or somewhere else.”

“The others perhaps find your foolery amusing, Baron,” Silwyth replied. “I fear that it is lost on me. Each of you has been told that you must take the Sovereign Stone to the Portal of the Gods. I will guide you there or not, as you choose.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “If you think it is a trap, do not go.”

He bowed and walked off down the road. The dwarf stumped after him, and the Captain fell into step beside Wolfram. Damra was about to follow, but Shadamehr caught hold of her arm, detained her.

“Look into his eyes!” Shadamehr said softly.

Damra stared at him. “What—?”

“I've looked into eyes like that once before. Back in the palace in Vinnengael. When I picked up the young king.”

“Do you mean Silwyth—?”

“He's not Silwyth,” said Shadamehr grimly. “Not anymore. He's a Vrykyl.”

F
OUNDED BY VERDIC ILDUREL IN THE YEAR ONE, THE CITY OF OLD
Vinnengael had been built on the shores of the lake that would one day bear his name. Originally a fortress, the city grew quickly and was forced to expand up into the cliffs. Over the years that followed, magi skilled in the manipulation of rock and stone built ramps and stairs that extended from one level to another, providing access for both wagons and pedestrians. Bridges spanned the gorges. Orks constructed marvelous cranes that raised and lowered goods too heavy to be moved by wagon. Wealth flowed into the city by boat from the sea and by land, traveling over the smooth roads built by the Earth magi and guarded by the Vinnengaelean army.

The city was already the center of Loerem when, under the reign of King Tamaros, the magical Portals made it the center of the universe. Forged by magi of all the elements, the Portals extended into the home-lands of the other races, bringing elves, orks, and dwarves to Vinnengael. Journeys that would have taken months or years were cut to days and weeks. Traders from all races came to Old Vinnengael. Though they might have small use for humans, they had great use for the glittering silver coins known as tams, in honor of Vinnengael's King Tamaros.

Envisioning a world in which all races could live in peace, King Tamaros encouraged all people to come to Old Vinnengael, and he did everything in his power to make them welcome. The city was at the height of its glory at that time.

The king's magnificent palace, set against the backdrop of the seven waterfalls, was one of the wonders of the known world, and many made the climb up the steep stairs that led from cliff to cliff to gape at it and envy those fortunate enough to live in such splendor. Their envy would have changed to pity had they known the jealousy and malevolence and sorrow that dwelt within those shining walls amongst the glittering rainbows. None could know, and so they went away thinking how great and wise was their king and that his strong rule, as evidenced by the castle, would never falter.

Tamaros's younger son, Dagnarus, decided that he should be king. Defying the gods, Dagnarus was the chosen of the Void. He became Lord of the Void and was given the Dagger of the Vrykyl. Banished from the kingdom by his elder brother, Helmos, Dagnarus returned a year later to lay claim to the throne, bringing fire and death to the city. With the help of Gareth, his childhood friend, who had become a powerful Void sorcerer, Dagnarus dried up the River Hammerclaw, which Vinnengael counted upon for defense of its walls, and marched his troops down the riverbed to enter the city from the rear. Led by the Vrykyl, whom few could withstand, his armies attacked the city from the front. His siege towers hurled flaming orken jelly into the city, and fire soon raged throughout Vinnengael's streets.

Dagnarus's two objectives were to obtain the Sovereign Stone and make himself king. To do so, he had to depose his elder brother, Helmos. Dagnarus looked for his brother in the palace, but could not find him. He determined that his brother must have fled for help to the gods, and so Dagnarus went to the Portal of the Gods, located inside the Temple of the Magi.

According to legend, Dagnarus and his brother, Helmos, met and fought over the Stone. The magical forces unleashed in that terrible battle swirled out of control, snapped like whips. The resulting blast brought down the Temple and the surrounding buildings, sent shock waves through the city. Buildings collapsed and fell into the streets, which were clogged with fleeing people and battling soldiers. Cracks opened in the ramps, sending people plunging to their deaths. The great cranes toppled, crushing many beneath.

Death and ruin came to Vinnengael and her people. The survivors fled. The city was left to its ghosts.

The Dominion Lords and their fell guide entered the outskirts city at dawn. They stood at the edge of the lake, where the turgid water lapped at their feet. The remains of what had once been the bustling docks of that great city stood crumbling around them.

This part of the city had been the farthest from the blast and had been little damaged by the explosion. Fire had been the enemy here. The fires started by the orken jelly set the wooden docks ablaze, destroyed the warehouses, with their rich store of goods, burned down the taverns and the brothels and the homes of sailors and fishermen. The remains of the docks could still be seen—blackened fingers of charred wood reaching out into Lake Ildurel, like the blackened hands of the wretched burn victims, who had flung themselves into the chill water to try to ease the terrible pain. They had found ease, most of them, by drowning.

“People ran from the upper levels to the lake level to escape the flames,” said Silwyth, pointing to the cliffs high above, barely visible in the strange gray mist that hung over the ruins. “Those who lost their footing were crushed to death beneath the feet of the panicked mob. Those who reached the lake had nowhere to go, for there were no boats. They were trapped on the shore, the deep waters of the lake before them and the fires behind.”

The Dominion Lords stood amidst the rubble, their hearts subdued. They had heard all their lives of the terrible tragedy of that day, but it was a legend, a tale told in the twilight. Now they stood inside the tale. The smell of burnt wood was sharp in their nostrils. The water that lapped on the shore was filthy, littered with debris. The gray mist from the falls congealed on their skin and made everything wet to the touch, so that their clothes felt clammy. The air was chill. The sun shone on the lake, but could not burn through the watery fog that made every object seem misshapen and distorted. The streets had disappeared under piles of debris that had once been buildings. The Dominion Lords stared in shock, overwhelmed by the appalling level of destruction. The thought came to each of them: How do we find our way through this?

The practical and pragmatic Captain put the thought into words.

“If the ramps that lead to the upper levels are destroyed, how do we reach the Temple?”

“I did not say the ramps were destroyed,” Silwyth replied. “I said that
there were cracks in them. The ramps are still there and can be climbed by those with courage.”

“But if we have to crawl and hack and pick our way through all this mess, it will take us days—months maybe—to reach our destination,” said Shadamehr.

“And you have warned us not to be caught here after dark,” Wolfram stated. He gestured to the rubble, which was stacked up in great heaps. “Hah!”

“Yet there is a way,” said Silwyth. “Remain here while I search it out.”

“Wait, Silwyth!” Shadamehr said. “I'm going with you—”

Silwyth vanished. Wolfram plunged into the mists searching for him, but returned alone.

“He's disappeared,” Wolfram reported. “I lost him in the fog.”

“I think he's made of fog, that one,” said the Captain.

“Or worse,” said Damra. She looked at Shadamehr. “Should we tell them?”

“Tell us what?” Wolfram demanded.

“That Silwyth is no longer Silwyth,” said Shadamehr. “We think that the real Silwyth was murdered and that this one is a Vrykyl.”

Wolfram reached for his sword. “Then we should kill it.”

“What makes you think so?” the Captain asked, laying a restraining hand on the dwarf's shoulder.

“He has changed,” said Damra. “When I first met him, I trusted him even though I did not trust him. Now”—she shook her head—“I do not trust him at all.”

“I never trusted him,” Wolfram stated.

“I agree with Dame Rah,” said the Captain. “He has changed. I trusted the Silwyth I caught in my fishing net. But I do not trust the one who brought us here.”

“The question is, what do we do?” Shadamehr asked. “Do we confront him and maybe risk his turning on us?”

“Yes,” said Wolfram, raising his sword.

“I think we have to,” Damra agreed.

“No,” said the Captain. She folded arms across her chest. “We don't say a word to him.”

“I side with the others,” said Shadamehr. “Why should we continue to follow this evil being?”

The Captain shrugged her massive shoulders. “Each of us was told to take the Stone to the Portal. And that is what we must do. Do you know the way to this God Portal, any of you?”

“But the Vrykyl is most probably leading us into a trap,” argued Shadamehr.

“All the better,” the Captain said.

“Wait!” Shadamehr raised his hand. “I fell off when you went around that curve. Please explain.”

“If the elf is a Vrykyl and the Vrykyl intended to kill us, it could have done so anytime,” said the Captain. “Instead, the Vrykyl promises to take us to the Portal of the Gods. Probably, as you said, Shadow Man, to fall into the trap of this Void lord. Therefore, the Vrykyl will see it to that we arrive at the Portal safely.”

“In order to kill us once we get there,” said Shadamehr.

“The fish you have been eating has done your brain good, Shadow Man,” said the Captain, nodding in approval. “Once we reach the Portal, then we confront the Vrykyl and this Void lord and do whatever it is that must be done.”

“I wish I could be that calm about it. Still, forewarned is forearmed,” said Shadamehr thoughtfully. “At least we'll be prepared.” He shrugged and kicked at a bit of charred wood at his feet. “I'll stay here and wait for our friend. The rest of you might want to take a look around, see if there are signs of any bahk.”

 

The party split up. Wolfram and the Captain went to investigate the ruins of a large building. Damra walked along the shoreline, which was littered with the burnt-out hulks of ships; twisted, rusted iron, and rotting nets. She stepped on something and, looking down, she saw that she had trodden upon a skull, half-buried in the sand.

Elves revere death, for in death the soul is free to return to the Father and Mother, to dwell with them in the wondrous, glittering realm of heaven. Elven dead are treated with immense respect, the body burned, so that the soul is freed to rise into the heavens, on the breath of the gods. The skull seemed to repudiate everything in which she believed.

There are no gods, the empty eyes revealed. Death is the Void, and there is nothing beyond.

Hearing her cry out, Shadamehr came to her. He took hold of her, drew her close. His arm around her was strong, warm and comforting.

“I'm sorry I frightened you. It's only a…skull. But there is so much death here. So much terror and despair.” Damra pressed her hands over her eyes. “It is too awful, too sad to bear.”

“I know,” Shadamehr said somberly, his own heart oppressed. “I understand.”

“Do you?” She looked up at him, her brow furrowed. “I don't believe you. You never take anything seriously.”

“I'll tell you a secret,” said Shadamehr. “The reason I laugh is to keep my teeth from chattering.”

He looked up at the cliffs they were going to have to scale, at collapsed buildings, cracked roads, crumbling stairs. In the distance, he could hear the roar of the falls, a roar muffled by the dank mists that shrouded the city.

“I'll tell you something else, Damra,” he said somberly. “From here on out, things are only going to get worse.”

 

“I heard something!” said Wolfram. He pointed toward the ruins of the building. “It came from in there.”

“I heard it, too,” said the Captain. She drew the enormous curved-bladed weapon that she wore thrust into her broad leather belt.

“This used to be a warehouse, maybe,” said Wolfram, eyeing the rubble warily.

“Whatever it was,” said the Captain, “it's not anymore.”

The two moved closer, keeping their eyes fixed intently on the rubble.

“What did you hear?” Wolfram asked in a low voice. “What did it sound like?”

“A board moving,” said the Captain. “I don't see anything. Do you?”

Three of the four walls of the warehouse were still standing. Built of brick, the walls had resisted the fire that had destroyed other structures nearby. The roof had collapsed, however, taking down most of the front portion of the building with it. Sword in hand, Wolfram peered through the mist into the darkness. He strained his ears, but could not hear the sound again, nor any sound, beyond the rasping breath of the ork.

“Why don't you orks breathe through your noses, like the rest of us?” Wolfram asked irritably. “I can't hear anything with you huffing away like a bellows.”

“Our noses are smaller than our mouths,” said the Captain. “We take in more air this way.”

Wolfram thought this over. He couldn't very well find a flaw in her argument, and he let the subject drop. He poked at the rubble.

A board shifted. Something moved, and Wolfram leapt backward.

“There!” he gasped.

“A rat,” said the Captain, sheathing her sword in disgust.

“What's going on?” asked Shadamehr, coming up with Damra.

“We heard a sound. Turned out to be a rat,” said the Captain.