Journey into the Void (49 page)

“Maybe it was,” said Wolfram, still peering into the rubble. “And maybe it wasn't. It sounded bigger to me.”

He took a long look into the mist-shrouded shadows, but saw nothing. Even the rat had fled.

“Smart little bugger,” he muttered. “Smarter than us.”

“Silwyth's been gone a long time,” Damra observed, shivering in the chill, dark air. “Maybe he isn't going to come back.”

“I wouldn't, if I was him,” Wolfram said.

“But you are not me, dwarf. I am back and I have found a path through the ruin,” Silwyth announced, emerging from the mist. “The path will take us to the first of the ramps. From there, we climb. I will show you the way.”

He started off, then realized that he was alone. He looked back.

“Are you coming? Or would you rather hunt for rats?”

“We found one already,” said Shadamehr. “And one is more than enough. Lead on, Silwyth. We're right behind you.”

 

At a gesture from K'let, Raven left the mist-shrouded shadows of the warehouse in which they'd taken refuge and looked to see if the dwarf and his companions were well away. The Trevinici had been amazed to see the dwarf, Wolfram—but Raven did not need K'let's sharp, warning hiss in order to keep silent. The dwarf was from another world, another time. He had nothing to do with Raven, and Raven wanted nothing to do with him. He'd had his fill of dwarves and humans, orks and elves. Let them go their way. He would go his.

This City of Ghosts was a city of silence, anyway. To give voice in these blackened ruins would be as disrespectful as shouting in a tomb.

Raven noted that K'let was not surprised to see the dwarf and his oddly assorted companions traipsing around the ruins. K'let might have been expecting them, even watching out for them, for he and Raven had kept watch on the city for days before they entered it. The taan Vrykyl had brought Raven to the ruined warehouse, where they crouched in the shadows, watching as the dwarf and his friends entered the ruined dockyards, had their little talk, then went their way.

Certain that they were alone, Raven returned to the warehouse, where K'let was waiting for him.

The Vrykyl was in his taan form, as he had been throughout their journey. Raven had the impression that K'let didn't much like his black, Void-made armor, for which Raven was thankful. The Trevinici could almost fool himself into believing he was with a taan, not one of the hideous Vrykyl.

Their journey together had been a strange one. K'let could not speak Raven's language, although Raven had the feeling that the Vrykyl understood much of what Raven said. Raven could not speak the taan language—his throat could not make its crackling, popping, and whistling sounds, but he had learned to understand many of the words. They managed a communication of sorts.

“They are gone,” Raven reported.

He was about to say more, when he felt the ground shiver beneath his feet. The rotting, blackened timbers shook and trembled.

K'let made another hissing sound, his lip curled back from his teeth. He ducked back into the shadows, motioned Raven to follow.

“Bahk!” K'let said and pointed.

An enormous creature, standing some twenty feet high, lumbered slowly along the crumbling street. Raven had heard stories of these monsters from warriors who had fought them, but he had never truly believed the tales. Not until now.

The bahk's hulking head with its small eyes, shadowed by an overhanging forehead, swung back and forth as it walked. The bahk's shoulders were stooped and rounded. Bony protrusions extended the length of its spine. Its huge feet shook the ground as it walked. The bahk halted as it came near the warehouse. Its head shifted in their direction, the small and lackluster eyes turned their way.

K'let snarled low in the back of his throat. Raven held still, not daring to breathe. The bahk gave a grunt and went on its way, continuing into the ruined city. For a long time after its passing, Raven heard the crashing and rending of timbers and the thud of falling rock—the bahk clearing a path through the debris.

K'let sniffed the air, appeared satisfied. He left the warehouse, gestured to Raven to accompany him.

Raven held his ground, shook his head.

“You can understand me, can't you, K'let? You've been around humans a long time and, if you can't speak our language, you know what I am saying. I want to know what we're doing here in this accursed City of Ghosts.”

Raven forced himself to stare straight into the Vrykyl's empty eyes, though it was like looking into a well of darkness.

K'let took a step forward and thrust a taloned finger into Raven's chest. At the touch, Raven could see through the façade of taan flesh and taan hide to living death—the bestial skull, marred by the cracks and fissures left by old injuries; the yellow teeth; the empty eye sockets. He smelled the stench of rot and decay.

K'let tapped his finger against Raven's chest. “I made you nizam. In return, you promised me your life.”

Raven said nothing. He stared into the dark eyes.

“It is time for you to fulfill your promise,” said K'let. He frowned, leered. “Or are you just another oath-breaking xkse?”

“I keep my promises,” said Raven.

“Good,” said K'let with a grunt. Turning, he walked off into the dark mists.

Raven stood a moment, thinking of Dur-zor, thinking of his people.

“I keep my promises,” he repeated, and followed.

T
HE DOMINION LORDS LOST TRACK OF TIME, FOR THE SUN'S LIGHT
was blotted out by the swirling mists. Their way was easy at first. The streets on the lower level had been cleared of debris, the rubble swept aside, pushed into precariously balanced piles along the edges of the street or shoved down alleyways. They marveled, until Shadamehr explained the cause.

“The bahk did this,” he said. “They've cleared a path to the inner part of the city.”

“But they won't go up top,” said Wolfram, tilting his head to try to see through the gray tendrils of mist that dragged across the higher levels of the dead city.

“Not according to Silwyth,” said Shadamehr.

Wolfram placed his hand on an enormous iron beam, part of one of the marvelous cranes that the orks had built. Forty feet long, heavy as a house, the huge beam had been picked up and tossed aside as if it weighed no more than a twig.

“A beast that can move this crane,” said Wolfram, “is afraid to go up there.” Shaking his head morosely, he sighed and moved on.

They followed the bahk-cleared streets through the first level and up into the second, where the way grew more difficult. Silwyth chose to make a wide detour around the central portion of the city that was frequented by the bahk, thus they could no longer rely on the bahk to clear the path.

They climbed over and around and sometimes under piles of debris and were soon weary and aching, wet and filthy. Without Silwyth's guidance they would have been utterly lost, for the mists grew thicker as they drew nearer the waterfalls, and they soon lost sight of cliffs above them. The buildings on the second level had been better constructed than those in the dockyard. Many had survived both fire and the blast. Standing amid the rubble, these sentinels, with their gouged-out windows and scarred faces, stood silent and lonely watch over the dead. Here and there, one had finally tumbled down, its broken stones clogging the streets.

But though the destruction was less, the sadness and sorrow were greater. The houses had once been vibrant with life, and the absence of that life was emphasized by the simple possessions of the living: chairs and tables, pitchers and cups. A spinning wheel in a corner by a fireplace. A kettle on the hearth. A rag doll. A wooden sword. Dust-coated. Cobwebbed. Whole. Broken. Sometimes these objects lay in the streets, as though the owners had taken them with them in their mad rush to flee the devastation, only to drop them by the wayside. Too heavy, perhaps. Too cumbersome. Or maybe the people realized that this bit of their lives to which they clung so desperately meant nothing anymore, was useless.

“How unfair it seems,” said Shadamehr, picking up a cup that had rolled out into the street, “that something so inconsequential as this should survive, when the hands that made it perished. Makes you wonder, doesn't it. We work and strive and suffer, and all that remains of us in the end is some pewter mug.”

“That is the Void talking,” said Damra in a low voice.

“Maybe it speaks the truth,” said Shadamehr bitterly, and he tossed the mug aside.

There were bodies on this level, skeletal remains lying where they had fallen two hundred years before. Many of the bodies were those of soldiers who had fought a raging battle in the streets. Some lay on the cobblestones, side by side, the shafts of arrows or rusted sword blades mingling with their bones. Some lay slumped on crumbling door stoops, as if they had grown weak from loss of blood and sat down to rest, only to fall into a sleep from which they never woke. Several bodies carried shields marked with the symbols of elven nobility. They were found lying around a single corpse, probably their commander.

The bodies of ordinary citizens were here, too. Those who waited too
long to flee their homes, or who had been caught up in the battle or the firestorm, succumbing to the choking smoke, crushed beneath a fallen building. In one area, they came across the remains of a family: man, woman, child, and the small skeleton of a dog.

The sorrow and the horror of the piteous sights weighed on their hearts and drained their souls.

“I hear their voices,” said Wolfram in hollow tones. “And I feel their touch. They don't want us here.”

“Stop it,” Shadamehr said sharply. “We're scaring ourselves. They're dead. They died long ago.”

“Wherever their spirits are, they are at rest,” Damra added gently and whispered a prayer.

“The elves do not rest,” said Silwyth. “They were traitors, who died dishonored. They lie here unburied; their spirits refused admittance to the blessed presence of the Father and Mother.”

For the first time since Damra had known Silwyth, he betrayed emotion. When he said “refused admittance” his tone was one of bitterness, regret.

Is the voice speaking Silwyth's? Damra wondered. Or the Vrykyl who has seized hold of him? Or are they both so close that the living and the dead speak as one?

She was tempted to ask, but Silwyth kicked suddenly, savagely, at the corpse of the elf.

“We must hurry,” he said, and led them on.

It was about midday, or so they guessed, when they reached one of the ramps that ran from the second level to the top of the high cliffs, where stood the magnificent Temple of the Magi and the wondrous palace, set against the backdrop of the seven waterfalls. They could hear the thunder of the water, though the falls themselves remained unseen in the fog.

The ramp had been carved out of the cliff by human magi, experienced in Earth magic. The ramp did not lead straight up the cliff, for the grade would have been too steep for wagons and pedestrians. Instead, it made a gentle curve that wound round the face of the rock.

On a bright and sunny day in Old Vinnengael, walking up this ramp would have been a pleasurable experience. One could have looked upon the vast and bustling city spread out below, the blue lake beyond, and upward to the palace, with its glittering towers and dancing rainbows.

The rainbows had gone gray, the glittering towers had fallen to ruin. The mists blotted everything from view except the ramp, which was slick and slime-ridden, pitted and crumbling, with wide, gaping cracks. Each person in the group knew that this ramp carried them to destiny.

What a strange and terrible path to lead us to the gods, thought Damra.

I wish I had brought some rope, thought Shadamehr. A few stout lengths of rope would make all the difference.

“Dunner walked this road,” Wolfram said to Gilda, whose spirit he felt near him. “I am walking in his footsteps. I must do nothing to disgrace him.”

The shaman read the omens, recalled the Captain of Captains. The omens were bad for the humans, but good for the orks, or so the shaman said. Omens do not lie, but sometimes they do not tell us all the truth.

“Are you here, my lord?” Valura called out silently to Dagnarus. “Do you lie in readiness? I bring you the gift you have long sought. They follow me like sheep, trusting, unknowing. It will be easy to take them by surprise. Tell me that you are here, my lord. Tell me you are here, waiting for me.”

No answer came. Only the rushing crash of the water spilling over the falls.

 

The climb was long and arduous, the rock so slippery and treacherous that in places they had to crawl on all fours. Their hands and knees were soon scraped and scratched, their clothes soaked, torn and covered with slime. They kept away from the ramp's edge, so that a misstep would not send them plunging over the side. At one point, Shadamehr slipped and slithered halfway back down the ramp before he could stop himself. At another, they came to a crack in the ramp so wide that Wolfram, with his short legs, could not jump across. The Captain picked up the dwarf. With a heave of her huge arms, she sent the stout Wolfram flying. He landed with a thud on his stomach on the opposite side, the breath knocked clean out of him.

And as they climbed, a sense of dread fell on them, grayer and danker than the mists.

“What did you say?” Wolfram looked around at the Captain.

“Me? I said nothing,” replied the ork. “I need my breath for more important things—like breathing.”

“You said something,” Wolfram stated. “I heard you clearly.”

The Captain shook her head and continued climbing.

“What is it?” Shadamehr asked, alarmed, looking around at Damra.

“What is what?” She stared at him blankly.

“You touched me on the arm,” he said. “I thought you wanted something.”

“I did not touch you,” Damra said. Both her hands clung to a stone jutting out from the wall. “I don't dare let go. If I did, you'd have to pick me up at the bottom.”

“Something touched me,” said Shadamehr.

“And I heard a voice,” said Wolfram.

Then they all heard the voices, distant, indistinct, echoes of shouts or screams from centuries before. They felt the hands, unseen fingers grasping, clutching, pushing. They began to see things, too, glimpses of movement caught from the corner of the eye, only to vanish when confronted.

“Let go of me,” Wolfram cried, taking a swipe at something with his fist.

He lost his balance and would have toppled into a crack, if the Captain had not caught him by his belt and dragged him back. They were near the top of the cliff. The path was here steeper and more treacherous, for parts of the ramp had been buried beneath rockslides. The mists closed in. They could not see the ground below, nor could they see anything above them. They seemed suspended in nothingness.

It was hard to move, to keep going. Unseen bodies buffeted them, pushing and shoving.

I can't keep this up much longer, Shadamehr realized, gasping for breath. He shivered with the cold; sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled down his neck. He lost two steps for every step he took forward. Then something struck him, knocked him off his feet. He fell onto his hands and knees on the rain-slick rock. The crowds surged around him. They were carrying him over the edge of the cliff…

Stop it! Damra pleaded.

Their voices clamored in her ears, all of them filled with terror or crying out in pain.

Please stop! I cannot help you! She pressed back against the wall, crying for them to stop.

The Captain struggled on, then the unseen force slammed her up against the side of the cliff, held her pinned. Voices shrieked and howled,
so that it seemed she must go deaf or mad. Fists pummeled her, feet kicked her.

Walking within the Void, Valura could see what the others could not. She could see the screaming mouths and the panic-widened eyes, the battering fists and the bloodstained hands. The mob caught her up and swept her back in time to the night that should have been a triumph for her lord, but had gone so terribly wrong. Caught in time, Valura could not move. She fought and struggled, but centuries stood in her way.

“My lord!” she cried in silent supplication. “The dead have us trapped. We are within sight of the Temple, but we cannot reach you. Our path is blocked. If you do not come to my aid, I must fail you!”

But if he responded, she could not hear his voice for the terrifying cries of the dying.

Caught in the unseen tide of terror, Wolfram couldn't see for the mobs that surrounded him, couldn't hear for the screams that shrilled in his ears.

I have to get away from here, he thought, his heart swelling with panic. I have to flee the flames and the falling rock and the murderous soldiers. Death stalks me. I have to flee death and no one is going to stand in my way. These are not people who block my way. They are beasts, trying to save their lives at the cost of my own.

With a roar, he turned around and started to run back down the ramp, only to slip and fall. He lay on the ground, cursing and shrieking.

Shadamehr was on his knees, his hand raised in a futile effort to protect himself. Damra huddled in a crack in the wall, her hands covering her ears. The Captain fought unseen foes, lashing out at the gray nothing in a frenzy of panic.

“What is this that blocks our way?” Shadamehr cried.

“Ghosts,” said Silwyth. “Ghosts of despair. Ghosts of terror. Ghosts of fear. Held prisoner by the wayward magic, the ghosts endlessly scream, endlessly flee, endlessly try to escape the inescapable. None can withstand them. They carry all before them in a mad rush to an end that for them is nothing but another horrible beginning.”

A chill, pale light glimmered before them, burning like ice on wet flesh. The figure of a woman, helmed and armored, took shape out of the mists.

“Did my master send you?” Valura called out.

“I am come,” said the chill voice.

“That is no answer,” Valura returned.

“It is the only answer you will have from me,” was the response.

“You are a Dominion Lord. I can tell by your armor.”

“I am.”

“What are you, then?” Valura cried. “What are you called?”

“I am the Lord of Ghosts.”

The woman stood before them, clad in armor that shone ephemeral and beautiful as moonlight on a cobweb. Her helm was a mask of her face, set in the calm serenity of death. She carried no weapon. The dead fight no battles, know no fear.

When she spoke, the screams and clamoring voices went silent. She raised her hand, and the shoving, pushing, bashing hands fell limp. The ghosts halted in their terrible flight, fell back, gave way. They bowed before her, permitted her to pass.

The Lord of the Ghosts.

She passed the Tests for a Dominion Lord. She underwent the Transfiguration, and she was granted the blessing of the magical armor. But though her spirit was strong, her body was weak. Her heart burst, and she fell down dead before the altar.

The Lord of the Ghosts beckoned to the four Dominon Lords, motioned them to come forward.

“I have watched for you a long time,” said the Lord of the Ghosts. “And so have others. They await you in the Portal of the Gods.”

“Who is it that waits for us in the Portal of the Gods?” Shadamehr demanded, not moving.