Journey into the Void (51 page)

“Have you done as I commanded? Are the Dominion Lords coming? Do they bring with them the four portions of the Sovereign Stone?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Gareth replied.

“I am king, now,” said Dagnarus sharply. “King of New Vinnengael.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Gareth replied. “I'm sorry. I am accustomed to the old way of speaking.”

“Never mind,” Dagnarus muttered. “You can call me what you want. The other sounds funny when you say it.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

Dagnarus paced the narrow corridor, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze going to that annoying smear of blood on the wall.

“Will it take them long?” he demanded, rounding on Gareth. “I never liked waiting. You know that.”

“The way for them is difficult, my lord,” said Gareth. “You remember—”

“I remember too damn much.” Dagnarus stared, frowning, at the blotch on the wall. “I am sorry for that, Patch,” he said abruptly.

“Sorry for what, my lord?”

“For…this.” Dagnarus touched the bones with the toe of his boot. “You served me well for many years. You tried to warn me what would happen if I defied the gods. Perhaps I should have listened to you, Gareth. What do you think? Should I have slunk off like a whipped pup, my tail between my legs? Should I have lived out my days in the small, mean room of my brother's charity?”

“I do not know, Your Majesty,” said Gareth, quietly.

“Neither do I, although sometimes…” Dagnarus turned his head. “Is that you, Shakur?”

The Vrykyl emerged from the shadows of the narrow corridor. “I have been trying to talk to you, my lord—”

“You've been trying to talk to me. Valura's been trying to talk to me!” Dagnarus made an impatient gesture. “I can barely hear myself think for all the yammering in my head. Well, you're talking to me now. What is it you want?”

“I found out what happened to Klendist and his command.”

“What in the name of the Void makes you think I give a damn?” Dagnarus demanded impatiently.

“He ran afoul of K'let.”

Dagnarus fell silent. Having no orders to the contrary, Shakur went on.

“I told you about the tribes of taan camped near Old Vinnengael. I do not know for certain what happened, for there were no survivors, but my guess is that Klendist and his men found the taan and decided to raid their camp. Unfortunately for them, one of the camps turned out to be K'let's.”

“So K'let is near here—” Dagnarus murmured.

“K'let is very near, my lord,” said the taan. “K'let stands before you.”

“Gareth, Shakur, now K'let. This place is getting crowded. Shakur, leave me.”

“Never, my lord!” Shakur protested.

“I said leave me, Shakur. Go find out what is keeping those Dominion Lords and my Sovereign Stone.”

Shakur cast a glance of loathing at the taan. “K'let has brought someone with him, my lord. A human warrior.” Shakur motioned to the shadows.

“I can handle K'let and his human,” Dagnarus said. “Shakur, you have your orders.”

Sullenly, the Vrykyl stalked off. Dagnarus placed the lamp on the floor, near Gareth's outstretched, dead hand.

“Come closer, K'let, so that I can see you. Unless you are afraid of me.”

“How many times have we fought together, Ko-kutryx?” K'let asked, striding forward. He retained the image of a taan warrior, a proud taan warrior. The scars of his triumphs mottled his white hide. He did not wear the armor of the Void. He wore the armor that the taan fashioned in their homeland, armor made of bone and hide and sinew. “In all those times, did you ever know me to be afraid? Even my last battle, was I afraid, Ko-kutryx? When you stabbed me, did I flinch or cry out?”

“No, K'let,” Dagnarus answered. “You did not. Of all those who served me, you were the best, the most courageous. We might have been brothers, you and I. And that is why your treachery hurt me, K'let.”

“My treachery!” K'let hissed the words in taanic. “What of your treachery, Ko-kutryx? What of the five thousand taan who fought your battles and gave you victory after victory. Death was their reward. And what of the rest of the taan you have brought to this godless land? Will death be their reward, as well?”

“I promised—”

K'let pointed a taloned finger. “You have promised much, Ko-kutryx! And all that we have seen of that promise is death!”

“Are you listening to yourself, K'let?” Dagnarus asked in contempt. “You whine like a slave! I brought the taan to this fat land. I gave the taan their pick of females and strong food. The taan have grown rich with slaves and steel armor and weapons. Your bellies and your waterskins have always been full. Your children have grown into powerful warriors. Yes, many taan have died, but what better fate for a warrior than death in battle? What fate does he want?

“You did yourself and your people a disservice when you defied me, K'let. I would have made you powerful—a king in your own right. I would have given the taan all the land and slaves they wanted and strong food for every meal. All that and more, I would have done for you, K'let,” said Dagnarus. “If you had not betrayed me.”

K'let was silent, pondering.

“I did not know, Ko-kutryx,” K'let said at last. “You are right. A warrior's fate is death. To be taken by the gods…”

“One god, K'let,” Dagnarus interrupted. “I am the god of the taan.”

“You are the god of the taan, Ko-kutryx,” said K'let. His clenched fingers relaxed, his twisted scowl eased. “I am sorry I spoke as I did. I came here intending to ask for your forgiveness, to be taken back into your favor. Anger ran off with my tongue. Will you forgive me?”

“I will,” Dagnarus said. “And now, if that is all, you have leave to go. I will have orders for you later. You are dismissed.”

He turned to Gareth. “Where are the Dominion Lords?” he demanded.

“Soon, Your Majesty,” said the whipping boy. “Soon.”

Dagnarus frowned. “If you have failed me, Gareth…”

“I have not, my lord.”

“Ko-kutryx,” said K'let, thrusting himself forward. “To prove my loyalty, I have brought you a gift.”

“Very well,” said Dagnarus, frustrated and impatient. “What is this gift?”

“Him,” said K'let.

Raven stood in the shadows of the strange place and tried to make some sense of what was going on. Worn-out by his long and exhausting climb, he was confused by the darkness and the maze of corridors. He had come suddenly out of the darkness into the daunting presence of Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, and Raven was shaken to the depths of his soul.

Raven had heard of Dagnarus from Dur-zor, who had once worshipped him, until Raven had told her of his gods. Even though she said she believed in all that he believed in, Raven still suspected that Dur-zor had not quite given up her worship of her Ko-kutryx. Standing before him, Raven could understand why.

Raven was a military man, and he judged all men in those terms. He knew, at once, that here was a born soldier, a born commander. Dagnarus was not a god, but he was a man whom other men might follow to the Void and back.

To the Void. That old saw held new meaning for Raven. This Dagnarus had given his soul to the Void. He owed his power and his long life to the Void. The handsome, strong, commanding man who faced down
K'let and, with a snap of his fingers, brought the terrifying taan Vrykyl to heel, was Lord of the Void. Raven shrank back among the shadows, and asked himself, “What am I doing here?”

He had been able to follow the conversation between Dagnarus and K'let. The taan spoke taanic. Dagnarus spoke Elderspeak, his native tongue. Even if Raven had not been able to understand, K'let's fury transcended mere words. Raven admired K'let's temerity, but he didn't think defying this Void lord was very wise. Raven was vastly surprised that Dagnarus did not blast K'let to the ground. The two appeared to mend their differences. Raven was thinking that this was the end of the matter, it would be time to go. And none too soon.

And then K'let said, “I have brought you a gift.”

Raven understood the taan word for “gift.” He did not understand, at first, that the word applied to him. He found this out when K'let grabbed hold of his forearm and gave it a yank that nearly tore his arm from the socket.

K'let dragged Raven forward, flung him in front of Dagnarus.

The Lord of the Void cast Raven a bored glance. “A fine specimen of a Trevinici, K'let, but at the moment I have all the barbarians I need.”

“You do not have all the Vrykyl you need, Ko-kutryx,” said K'let. “This R'vn is a valiant warrior, an excellent commander. He has taken a bunch of useless half-taan and transformed them into warriors as skilled and valiant as himself. I know your loathing for Shakur. I know that you think he has outlived—so to speak—his usefulness. Here is a fine replacement. Accept this xkes and make of him a Vrykyl. I will deal with Shakur, if such is your command.”

Dagnarus disliked waiting, disliked uncertainty. He was beginning to grow angry at the delay. He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. The fact that he couldn't have it meant that situation was not entirely under his control. Here was K'let, where he had no business being. The Dominion Lords were
not
here and neither, for that matter, was the Portal of the Gods.

“Any sign of the Dominion Lords, Patch?” Dagnarus demanded.

“My lord, you must be patient—” Gareth began.

“Oh, shut up,” Dagnarus snapped. He eyed Raven, who stared at him, stupefied. Dagnarus needed something to do. He needed to show he was
master. Reaching beneath his cloak, he removed the Dagger of the Vrykyl.

Shaped like a dragon—with the blade the body, the hilt the head, the crosspiece the wings—the Dagger was an object of revulsion and horror.

“You are right, K'let.” Dagnarus grasped the dagger firmly. The hilt had a strange way of conforming to his touch, nestled securely in his grip, almost as if it were alive. “I am sick to death of Shakur's whining, his insubordination. I need a new commander of the Vrykyl. This man is a soldier. Where did you serve, sir?”

Raven stared at the commanding figure, and he stared at the dagger.

“I was a captain in the Dunkar army, my lord,” Raven managed to reply.

He had to try twice, to moisten his mouth enough to force out the words. He did not know what was going on, but he sensed danger. He glanced swiftly around, searching for some means of escape. Every Trevinici knows that there is a time to fight and a time to run for your life. This was assuredly the latter.

The Lord of the Void stood in front of him and beyond him was a cul-de-sac, a dead end, nothing but a small, windowless room. The way behind was blocked by K'let, and the walls of the corridor blocked Raven in on either side. He glanced down at the corpse of the murdered man, and his throat constricted.

“You see, Gareth,” Dagnarus was saying. “This man is accustomed to obedience. Look at him. He guesses he is about to die, yet you see no panic, no groveling or pleading. He searches for a way out. He sees none. His hand goes to his sword. I fought the Trevinici in my youth, Raven. Your people gave my poor father fits. Doughty warriors, all of your kind, the women as strong and fierce as the men.

“I would very much like to have a go at you, Raven, soldier to soldier,” Dagnarus concluded, “but I do not have time. I am expecting guests.”

He raised the dagger.

“Do not do this, Your Majesty,” Gareth warned. “He is not of the Void!”

“Nonsense, Patch,” Dagnarus scoffed. “This human lives among the taan! Isn't that what you said, K'let?”

“True,” K'let replied. “He lives among the taan much as you did
yourself, Ko-kutryx. R'vn has even killed his own kind in defense of the taan.”

“There, you see, Gareth? I'm going to kill you, Captain,” Dagnarus told him. “Your death will be quick, painless. I am going to make you like K'let here, a Vrykyl. Only I hope that you will have more sense than K'let and not try to defy me.”

Raven understood his fate. He was to become a thing of evil, an abomination to the gods. He would be cursed by every living being, cursed by the honored dead. His soul shriveled within him. Fear seized hold of him, blind panic. Raven gasped and shuddered. He raised his gaze, saw the dragon-headed dagger poised above him.

“Hold him, K'let,” Dagnarus ordered. “I must strike to the heart.”

K'let reached out his hands. Seizing hold of the Dagger of the Vrykyl, K'let wrenched it from Dagnarus's grasp.

Raven lunged sideways, careened into the wall. Smashing against it, he nearly knocked himself senseless. Dazed, not certain what had happened, he slid to the floor. Beside him lay the corpse of the murdered man. Feeling a strange sort of companionship with him, Raven slumped down next to the shattered skull and the outstretched bony hands and kept as quiet and still as the corpse itself.

“This time, K'let,” said Dagnarus, cold with rage, “there will be no forgiveness. I will send your soul to the Void! Give back the Dagger!”

“My prince,” said Gareth, coming to stand between Dagnarus and K'let, as he had once stood between Dagnarus and Helmos. “Let it go. You do not need the Dagger. You have the Sovereign Stone.”

Dagnarus looked into the dome of heaven and there, standing beneath it, were the four Dominion Lords, armored in silver, armored in light, armored in the blessing of the gods. Around each neck, resting against each heart, was a quarter of the Sovereign Stone, bright against the radiant light, as the evening star dims with the sunrise.

T
HE DOMINION LORDS STOOD BENEATH THE DOME OF HEAVEN
and looked up into the stars and the endless and eternal darkness that bound the stars together, and they knew themselves to be very small and yet very large, for they were made of the stars and of the darkness.

An elderly man stepped out of the darkness and the stars. His face was benign, his eyes wise. The stern lines of arrogance and willful pride that had once creased the mouth had been softened. He was royal as his portraits had portrayed him, yet more frail, more vulnerable. He had cast aside all trappings of his kingship—the crown, the robe, the scepter. He had cast off his human body. He was, as we all are at the end and the beginning, a child of the gods.

The Dominion Lords knew Tamaros, knew him in their souls, and they did him homage, each in his or her own way. He spoke, and they answered, but the words were silent as the emptiness that lies among the stars.

“Captain of Captains,” said Tamaros, “Child of Dunner, Lady Damra and Lord of Seeking. I would say that you have fulfilled the oath I once asked of each bearer of the Sovereign Stone, but I know now that the oath I asked and the oath your forebears swore—some falsely, some under constraint, some without true understanding—was not mine to ask. As the Sovereign Stone was not mine to give.”

“Then why did the gods give you the Stone?” asked Shadamehr.

“I do not know, Lord of Seeking,” said Tamaros. “Sometimes I think
I was meant to keep it secret, keep it safe, use it to work small increments of good where and when I could. Sometimes I think I was meant to know myself well enough to refuse it.”

“Yet you must know, Your Majesty. The Church says in death we are given all the answers.”

Tamaros smiled. “They are wrong, Lord of Seeking. In death, we are given more questions, as many questions as there are stars. It is our privilege to roam the universe in search of answers, and it is then we come to know what the gods know, that there are as many answers as there are stars and that each answer leads only to more questions. The blessing is that in death, we do not fear either—the questions or the answers.

“When the world was first made, the gods fashioned creatures in the images of themselves to place upon the world and care for it and prosper and thrive. Orks, elves, humans, and dwarves lived together in the world, existing in harmony as the elements themselves exist, Air and Water, Earth and Fire. Content, the people lived from day to day, but they did not thrive, the world did not prosper.

“On that world were two brothers and two sisters, one of each race, much as yourselves. The gods gave to the four a jewel of such radiant, dazzling beauty as none of them had ever seen. They all immediately wanted the brilliant gem for their own. The four, who had once loved each other as siblings, fell to quarreling over it. Their love turned to hatred, so that they could not stand the sight of each other. Each determined, in his or her own heart, to take the jewel and leave his siblings, use the jewel to establish his or her own kingdom. In the night came each brother and each sister and stole away the Sovereign Stone—or thought they did. In reality, each took only a portion of the Stone. Each sibling moved to a different part of the realm. When the jewel was split, the interior was revealed and thus did discord and disharmony, enmity and hatred, sorrow and death enter the world.”

The four Dominion Lords could not look at Tamaros, and they could not look at each other. Each knew, with shame, that he or she was a part of the story.

“True, the jewel had a bitter center,” said Tamaros, “but each portion of the stone gleamed and sparkled, and rainbows danced within. Only now the siblings could see them, where before they had been blind to the beauty. Death opened their eyes. Realizing that their time was brief, they
came to enjoy what time they had and to value it. With sorrow came hope. With death, came life.

“The gods took back the Sovereign Stone. Once more after that, they sent it into the world, but that is another story. Then I asked for it and it was given to me and whether I did right or wrong, only the gods know. And now I ask you, what will you do with your portion of the Stone.”

“I know the answer,” said Shadamehr. “I give it to my brother.”

He held out the portion of the Sovereign Stone in his hand.

“And I,” said Damra, holding out hers.

“And I.” “And I,” said the Captain and Wolfram.

Within the Portal of the Gods, beneath the dome of heaven, each brought the four portions of the Sovereign Stone together. The four parts formed a pyramid of radiant light, beautiful, sparkling, dazzling, gleaming with myriad rainbows. Bright as a sun, the Sovereign Stone shone, and each Dominion Lord withdrew his hand.

The Sovereign Stone fell to the floor of the Portal of the Gods, the floor that was hard and cold and stained with blood. The Stone shattered, broke again into four pieces.

“Why did that happen?” Shadamehr demanded.

“Because you forgot the bitter center,” said Dagnarus.

Accoutered in his black armor, which had been forged in his soul to fit his body, the Lord of the Void entered the Portal of the Gods, his steps quick and firm, his hand on his sword hilt. He wore no helm. He looked then much as he had looked two hundred years before, when he had last entered this dome. His auburn hair, thick and carelessly arranged around his face, brushed his shoulders. His handsome face was smiling and certain of his victory.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said. “And for bringing the Sovereign Stone. My friend, Gareth—that's his corpse you see, lying on the floor—did his job well. Valura, my dear, I do not like you in that guise. The traitor Silwyth is dead, finally. Let's have no more of him.”

The façade of Silwyth rippled, as on still water. The ripples, faded away. The form of a Vrykyl, clad in black armor, emerged from the shadows and came to stand beside Dagnarus.

And then he saw his father.

Dagnarus retained his smile, but his eyes were suddenly watchful, wary.

“If you have come to stop me, Father…”

“I would stop you, if I could,” Tamaros said. “But not perhaps for the reason you think. I cannot raise my hand to you. I cannot touch you. My mortal body lies at rest. I cannot move you, my son, save only with my prayers.”

“And it's late for that, Father,” said Dagnarus. “The one prayer you should have prayed, you didn't. The prayer that I had never been born.”

Dagnarus reached down to pick up the glittering portions of the Sovereign Stone. A sword blade struck the stone floor near his hand, nearly severing his fingers. Dagnarus snatched back his hand, looked up.

“And who might you be, sir?”

“I am called Shadamehr. And my hand
can
touch you.”

Shadamehr had no armor. He wore his usual clothes and his traveling cloak, now much stained with wear, mud-spattered and wet. Dagnarus looked from him to the three Dominion Lords, their armor shining in the lambent light of the flickering stars, and he laughed.

“What's the matter, Baron Shadamehr?” said Dagnarus. “Could the gods find no human Dominion Lords to come to challenge me? Or did they all die of mold and mildew along the way?”

“Strangely enough, I am a Dominion Lord,” Shadamehr replied. “I know. Surprised me, too. I didn't want it, mind you. I didn't ask for it. The honor was thrust upon me, so to speak. But,” he added, more gravely, “since the gods have chosen me as their champion, I will intervene on their behalf. The Sovereign Stone cannot be yours. It was never meant to be yours or any man's.”

“And you are going to stop me from claiming it?” Dagnarus said. He drew his sword. “I should warn you, Baron, that I have more lives than the proverbial cat. You will need to kill me forty times over to stop me.”

“Well, then, I guess we had better get started,” said Shadamehr, taking his stance.

Dagnarus faced him, but he could not take this contest seriously. His gaze was drawn by the Sovereign Stone that glittered at his father's feet.

Shadamehr watched his opponent's eyes and, taking advantage of his distraction, lunged to strike Dagnarus.

The Lord of the Void, armored in the Void, did not shift his rapt gaze. There was no need. As Shadamehr's sword hit the black armor, the blade splintered, broke apart. Shadamehr dropped the sword's hilt, all he had left of the weapon, and clutched his hand. His palm was covered with blood.

Smiling, Dagnarus reached down to pick up one quarter of the Sovereign Stone.

“He will not be able to touch it,” cried Wolfram hoarsely. “The gods will stop him.”

“No they won't,” said Dagnarus. “They can't.”

Grasping the portion of the shining Stone that Shadamehr had carried and Bashae before him and Lord Gustav before him, Dagnarus gazed at the jewel admiringly, turning it this way and that to see it sparkle in the starlight. Then he thrust it into his belt and reached for the next part.

Wolfram stood over the Sovereign Stone, his sword in his hand. His twin, Gilda, stood before him, her shield raised to defend him.

Dagnarus struck the shield with his sword. The blow sliced it in half. Dagnarus ran his sword through her.

Gilda fell, the bright light of her spirit fading. Crying out in grief and rage, Wolfram attacked Dagnarus.

The Lord of the Void plucked the dwarf's sword from his hand and crushed it in his grasp. He dropped the dust onto the dying Gilda.

Reaching down, Dagnarus picked up the second part of the Sovereign Stone.

Damra caught up the elven part of the Stone, held it tightly in her hand.

“My sword was given to me by the Divine and was blessed by the Father and Mother,” she said, facing the Void lord without fear. “I may not be able to slay you, but I can unravel the foul magic that holds you together long enough for me to retrieve that which you have stolen.”

“I do not steal,” said Dagnarus. “I take back what is mine. And you can do your damnedest, Lady, but I will have the Sovereign Stone.”

“My lord, she speaks the truth!” Valura cried out. “Her weapon is holy and will do you harm! Do not go near her.”

“Be gone, Valura,” said Dagnarus impatiently. “I am finished with you. Trouble me no more.”

He feinted a lunge, then, shifted his blow, striking at Damra's sword in an attempt to knock it from her hand.

Damra was not fooled by his maneuver. She was ready for his attack and, deftly, she dodged him. The shining blade that had lain for seven years upon the altar of the Father and the Mother slid through the black armor of the Void and pierced to the dust that had once been a beating
heart. But the armor was not Dagnarus's armor. The heart was not his heart.

Valura threw herself in front of her lord, took the blow meant for him. The blessed sword filled the Void that was her soul. Valura gave a strangled scream. Her body writhed in agony.

Damra fought to wrench her sword free, but Valura wrapped her hand around the blade and held it fast, though that meant holding the terrible blade within herself. With her other hand, she grasped hold of the Sovereign Stone, tore it from Damra's grasp.

The black armor vanished, revealing the grisly remains of what had been a woman, beautiful and vibrant. Valura shed no blood, for that had been drained from her long ago. Leathery skin stretched taut over her bones. Her hair, ragged and long, flowed over her mummified remains. Moving with pain-filled effort, Valura reached out her ghastly hand, reached for Dagnarus.

He drew back from the horrible touch, stared with loathing at the rotting corpse.

“Dagnarus,” said Valura. “I am dying…”

“You are already dead,” he cried. “And I wish to the gods that I had never brought you back to life. I have long learned to hate the very sight of you!”

“Not me,” she whispered, a whisper that was almost all that was left of her. “Yourself.”

She crumbled, dwindled, withered to ash, a heap of ash that fell to the floor. Dagnarus reached into the dust of the dead, plucked out the eleven Sovereign Stone. Last to face him was the Captain of Captains.

“Your grandfather sought to try to convince my father to slay me,” said Dagnarus. “He saw what none of the others could see. He saw what I would become.”

“It would have been better if he had killed you then,” said the Captain. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, the Sovereign Stone in one hand, her blade in the other.

“There are moments, Captain,” said Dagnarus, “when I reach the same conclusion. Give me the Stone. For the sake of your wise grandfather, I do not want to harm you.”

“For the sake of his wisdom, I give you the Sovereign Stone,” said the Captain. Bowing her head, she lowered her sword and held out her hand.

All four parts of the Sovereign Stone were his in the Portal of the Gods, beneath the dome of heaven. Dagnarus stared down at them, the prize he had sought all his life, two of the parts of the jewel sparkling in his left hand, two in his right.

Exulting in their beauty and his triumph, he brought the four pieces together. He remembered, as he did so, the moment that his father had split the sacred Stone. Tamaros saw only the beautiful, radiant rainbows. Dagnarus had looked into its heart and seen the darkness. He did not see the darkness now. He saw only the rainbows. He brought together all four pieces.

One by one, they slipped from his grasp and fell to the bloodstained and dusty floor.

Angrily, Dagnarus bent down to retrieve what he had lost.

“Beg pardon,” said Shadamehr politely. “Those belong to us.”

He kicked Dagnarus in the teeth.

The black helm of the Void shielded Dagnarus from harm, but the force of the unexpected blow sent him staggering backward.

“The Void take you!” he cried, and tendrils of oily black swirled from his fingers, crawled toward Shadamehr…

Toward twenty Shadamehrs. Damra's magic peopled the corridor with Shadamhers. Dagnarus glared furiously from one to another, his own deadly magic coiling about him. He pointed at Damra.