Journey into the Void (9 page)

 

Back at the Crow and Ring Jessan kept vigil over the body of his friend. The night was quiet—the sort of soft and heavy quiet that oppresses the spirit and deadens thought. Ulaf had been gone for some time. Maudie had tried to remain awake to keep an eye on these strange visitors, but the excitement and shock of events had worn her out. She was asleep in her chair.

Jessan was grateful to Ulaf for having provided him with an occupation, a means of being of service, of use to someone. He could not have accepted Ulaf's offer to travel with them otherwise, for he would not be beholden to anyone, not even to this friend of the baron's. Many Trevinici hired themselves out to travelers to serve as guards in return for food and shelter along the way. Jessan might have suspected that this job was being offered him out of pity, but he had seen respect in Ulaf's eyes and heard it in his voice.

Jessan knew himself to be valued for his courage and his skill, and the thought brought a modicum of comfort and warmth to him as he stood alone in the howling, frigid, darkness of his grief and his desperate desire to return home.

Jessan had been eager to go out into the world, eager to prove himself
as a warrior. Bored with his humdrum life in the village, as the young are often bored, he could not understand the joy felt by his uncle and the other warriors on returning home after a long absence. How could they trade a life of adventure, danger, and excitement for a life of digging in the fields and minding children? Jessan's thoughts winged to those same ordinary and oft-despised comforts with a longing that ached and burned in his heart.

Jessan remembered even his crazy aunt Ranessa with compassion. He wished that he'd been kinder to her, more understanding. She was family. She was part of the tribe, and that made her welfare important to him, a sacred trust, as Bashae had been a sacred trust.

Jessan did not blame himself for Bashae's death. His conscience was clear. He had done all he could to protect his friend and save him from the Vrykyl. As he had said, to blame himself would take credit from Bashae. The pecwae could have dropped the Sovereign Stone and fled, but he'd made the choice to fight for it, valiantly overcoming all his instincts to remain loyal to the task given him by the gods.

“I honor your courage, Bashae,” said Jessan softly. “But part of me wishes you
had
run away. That same part is angry that you didn't. You left me here alone and friendless. I am sorry for my weakness. I hope you understand.”

“He does,” said the Grandmother. “Where he is, he understands everything.”

The time passed, long and heavy. The Grandmother stared into the fire. Jessan's thoughts retraced the footsteps of the remarkable journey that had carried him into foreign lands, introduced him to a kite-maker, the Nimorean Queen's daughter, an elven Dominion Lord, and a madcap baron.

Jessan was thinking how each had made its mark upon his life when he heard the creaking sound of door hinges. He jerked around, his hand going for the weapon that was no longer at his side. He realized then, seeing the gray light outside the door, that dawn was near.

“It's me,” said Ulaf softly.

He crept across the floor, not wanting to disturb the slumbering Maudie.

“I have found most of our people,” he said. “I've left messages for the others. They'll catch up with us on the road. I have the horses—mine and
Alise's and Shadamehr's. He'd never forgive us if we left his horse here to be eaten by the taan. Are you ready?…”

He glanced askance at the body of the pecwae, lying with limbs composed, eyes closed, before the fire. But for the whitish blue pallor of the skin, Bashae might have been asleep.

“We should wrap the body in something,” Ulaf suggested uncomfortably. “Otherwise…” He fell silent, not certain what to say.

Jessan looked to the Grandmother, who roused herself from her reverie. Rising to her feet, she smoothed the folds of her skirts, setting the bells to tinkling softly. Closing her eyes, the Grandmother began to sing.

She sang an ancient song, a song taught to the pecwae in a time when elves were newborn creatures wandering the continent with wonder in their eyes, a time when the orks left their brothers who swim in the vast oceans to live upon the land, a time when the dwarven young rolled on the ground with wolf cubs, a time when humans used their magic to wrench stones from the earth and fashion them into weapons.

As the Grandmother sang, she spread out her hands. Strands of silk flowed from her fingers. The silken threads wrapped around Bashae, spun a cocoon around his body. Every so often, at set intervals in the song, the Grandmother would tear one of the stones from her skirt and toss it among the twining threads. Her tears flowed at the song's beginning, but the ancient mantra that sped the soul of the dead upon its journey to the sleep world also brought comfort and solace to the living. With the end of the song came an end to tears.

“We are ready to go,” the Grandmother said to Ulaf. She was dry-eyed, stiff-chinned. “His soul is departed, and the cocoon will keep his body safe until we place him in the burial mound.”

“I have kept the warrior's watch,” Jessan added. “I introduced Bashae to the fallen heroes of our tribe and told them of his valor, so that they will accept him among them and honor him.”

Ulaf had a momentary picture of the diminutive pecwae walking into the halls of heaven, to be greeted as a hero by the likes of such Trevinici legends as Bear-Mauler, Skull-Basher, and He-Who-Dines-on-the-Brains-of-His-Foe. Ulaf added his own silent prayer, hoping that Bashae would be honored by them, but also trusting that the pecwae would soon be able to make good his escape and go running freely in the meadows, to bask in heaven's eternal sunshine.

“We should hurry,” Ulaf said. “No sign of the taan yet, but it's just as well to be away from here.”

Removing some coins from his pouch, he laid them on the table beside the sleeping Maudie. Jessan wrapped the small, cocooned body in a blanket and carried it out to the waiting horses, where Ulaf helped him lash the body onto Shadamehr's steed. The horse was usually restless and ill-tempered, but the Grandmother spoke to the animal, told it the nature of the burden it bore. The horse stood quietly, with head lowered.

That done, the Grandmother looked around at her sleep city, at the tall buildings, just starting to emerge from the shadows of night, and smiled sadly.

“When it is my time, I will come back,” she promised.

Jessan picked her up, set her on the back of his horse. “When it is your time, you will join the heroes, Grandmother.”

She heard the sorrow and loneliness in his voice, felt it echoed in her own heart. Each was all the other had left now.

“Bah!” she said briskly. “They'd just want me to cook for them.”

Jessan smiled, as she had hoped he would. Mounting the horse, he made certain that the Grandmother was securely settled, then they rode off through the gray dawn, following Ulaf's lead.

A
FTER FLEEING THE ILL-FATED FIASCO IN THE PALACE, DAMRA
and her husband Griffith had made their way through the slumbering city without difficulty. A member of the Wyred, that mysterious sect of elven wizards, Griffith had the ability to transform himself into an airy being who could pass through the streets as lightly as a breath of wind. Damra was not a wizard, but she could call upon the magical power of the armor of the Dominion Lords to cloak herself in the black wings of the raven. Thus the two elves were able to escape the vigilance of the Imperial Cavalry, who had orders to arrest them, along with the outlaw Baron Shadamehr.

Damra had been to New Vinnengael before, on those rare occasions when the Dominion Lords were summoned to conference. She recalled that all streets in the city bore names that had to do with their location. They had only to find River Street, which would lead them to the docks. Since it was a major thoroughfare, it was not hard to locate. Patrols passed them by without a glance, a tribute to their powers of magic. On reaching the docks, the elves were just starting to search for the orken ship they'd been told would be waiting for them when they heard a blast and saw a lurid, orange glow light the sky.

“A building has caught fire,” said Griffith, his voice seemingly coming from thin air, for he remained concealed by his magic. “I wonder if that means the taan have entered the city?”

Damra watched a moment, waiting for more fires to break out,
waited to hear screams and shouts. All was silence, except for some noise made by a nearby patrol, who had seen the flames and were wondering if they should go find out what was going on.

“I don't think so,” Damra replied. “Why do I have the feeling it has something to do with Baron Shadamehr?”

“Because trouble follows him like a stray dog?” suggested Griffith.

Damra smiled and looked in the direction of her husband's voice. “I wonder how we're supposed to find that ship? There are undoubtedly several ork ships in port. I'm not sure how we figure out which one is the one we're looking for. In all the excitement, I forgot to ask the baron the ship's name.”

“Would there be that many?” Griffith asked dubiously. “I thought the orks and humans were practically at war.”

“Orks never let politics stand in the way of profit,” Damra replied. “There are always several orken ships moored at the docks of New Vinnengael, and a good many orken traders to be found in the city markets.”

“I hope we locate the right ship quickly,” said Griffith somberly. “My strength is giving out. I'm not certain how much longer I can hold on to this spell.”

“And I hope that the orks will help us,” said Damra, sounding dubious. “I do not like having to rely on creatures who are so unpredictable.”

“They are not ‘creatures,' dear,” said her husband, mildly rebuking. “They are people, the same as us.”

“Orks are
not
the same as us,” returned Damra severely.

Griffith said nothing, wanting to avoid a quarrel. Damra kept silent for the same reason.

Arriving at the docks, the weary elves were astonished to find only one ork ship in port, swinging at anchor in the middle of the dark river.

“That's strange,” said Damra.

“Not really,” her husband replied. “The orks have warned their brethren of the approach of the taan. The rest of the orks have fled.”

The orken ship was distinctive for her painted sails, featuring crude images of whales, dolphins, sea serpents, and seabirds. The ship was the
Kli'Sha
, orken for “seagull,” and she was aglow with light, her nervous crew keeping watch.

The rest of the harbor was quiet, except for the occasional patrol. The orks were not the only sailors to have word of the enemy, apparently.
Those Vinnengaelean merchant ships who could put out to sea had done so immediately, taking with them family and friends.

“Where is the Vinnengaelean fleet?” Damra asked suddenly. “Vinnengael is known for its navy. I am surprised that they are not here to defend the city.”

“The king ordered them out to sea about a month ago in response to a rumor that a Karnuan fleet would attempt to attack New Vinnengael from the south. The fleet has not been heard from since,” Griffith said. “The baron believes it possible that they were lured to their doom by the Lord of the Void.”

“Speaking of that fell lord,” said Damra, “look there, on the far shore.”

Narrow and swift-flowing at this point, the Arven River glimmered darkly in the half-light of a waning moon. Damra pointed across its rippling surface to where pinpricks of bright orange light could be seen ranging up and down the riverbank.

“Bonfires,” said Damra.

“Yes,” Griffith agreed. “Dagnarus's troops are massing on the riverbank.”

“He will attack with dawn.”

“I am not so certain he will attack,” Griffith said. “Dagnarus is a cunning man, a genius when it comes to warfare, according to legend. He went to the trouble of insinuating his Vrykyl into the Royal Palace. Why would he do that if he meant to level the city. I believe he has other plans for New Vinnengael.”

“The gods help them,” said Damra, “And us. Here comes another patrol. Try to hold your spell a little longer, my husband.”

They needn't have worried. The soldiers paid little attention to their duties. They stared across the water toward the flaring bonfires, every man knowing well what they meant.

Once they were gone, the two elves made their way to the pier, where the ork captain paced and muttered to himself in orken, occasionally saying something to a companion, who lounged at his ease on a coil of rope.

Griffith ceased his spell-casting, letting go of the magic with relief. Damra threw off her magical raven's cloak.

The orken captain gave a violent start at the sight of two elves materializing out of the night almost under his nose. He grabbed his sword.
The first mate leapt up from the ropes and Griffith found the point of a long, curved-bladed sword at his throat while Damra stared down the blade of a wicked-looking dagger.

“Baron Shadamehr sent us,” Griffith said hurriedly, using Elderspeak, for he knew very little Pharn 'Lan, the orken language. “He told us we could gain passage on your ship. You must recognize me, Captain Kal-Gah. I am Griffith. I've lived with the baron the past month. This is my wife, Damra, a Dominion Lord.”

The orken captain lowered his sword, but only to Griffith's chest. Lifting a lantern, he thrust the light into Griffith's face, peered at him intently, then shifted his penetrating stare to Damra.

Tall and slender, his movements graceful, Griffith wore the traditional black robes of the Wyred, which set them apart from all respected members of elven society. He wore his black hair smoothed back from his face, bound in a long braid at his back. Damra had discarded the magical armor of the Dominion Lord, so as not to look intimidating. She wore a blue silken tunic, bound around her slim waist with a crimson sash and over that the tabard of the Dominion Lord. Since she, too, was considered outside the pale of proper elven society, she eschewed the restricting dress of elven women, choosing instead to wear long, flowing silk trousers. She cut her hair short, wore it tied back in a club.

The orken captain took all this in, stared at them long and hard.

“You know my name,” he grunted. He frowned, seemed to think this suspicious.

“Yes, Captain Kal-Gah,” said Griffith politely.

The ork captain, who stood seven feet tall and was built on the order of Shadamehr's Keep, was hard to forget. Clad in leather breeches, he stood bare-chested in the teeth of the chill wind blowing off the river. His huge underslung jaw jutted forward, two protruding lower fangs gleamed in the lanternlight. His voice boomed in the night's stillness as though he were roaring over the howl of a gale. His eyes were small, but his gaze forthright and intense. He had shaved his head to reveal some remarkable tattoos. All that was left of his hair was a scalp lock that trailed down his back in a tar-covered braid. A large conch shell hung around his neck, suspended on a length of twined leather.

“We were introduced by Baron Shadamehr at his castle,” Griffith continued. “Your shaman, Quai-ghai, also knows me. She and I had a
most fascinating discussion about certain Air magic spells she was interested in learning from me.” Griffith glanced about. “If she is here—”

“She is on board ship,” said the captain. “She sleeps. We sail with the morning tide. Where is the baron?”

“We don't know,” Damra replied. “We thought he might be here—”

“He's not,” said Captain Kal-Gah.

Damra and her husband exchanged glances. “There was trouble at the palace—”

Kal-Gah grunted again. “I am not surprised. The omens were bad. Very bad. So bad that I might have raised anchor and left with last evening's tide, but I gave the baron my oath. I would not have stayed even then, but the moon is on the wane, which makes oath-breaking unlucky. Then again, I might have stayed anyway. I like the baron. He thinks like an ork.”

He eyed the elves. “So you want to board my ship.”

“Yes, Captain, if—” said Griffith.

“I will have to consult the omens,” Captain Kal-Gah stated decisively. “The shaman is asleep. She will wake in the morning. Until then, sit there.” He pointed to a coil of rope.

Damra and Griffith again exchanged glances.

“Captain,” said Griffith, “there are soldiers looking for us. As I said, there was trouble. We are elves in a city of humans—”

“Disappear,” said Kal-Gah, waving his hand. “Turn yourself into smoke, or whatever is you do.”

“I would, Captain,” said Griffith, “but I am very tired, and I'm not sure I have the strength. Please—”

“You demean yourself, my husband,” Damra snapped, shifting to Tomagai, the language of the elves. “Don't beg him. This was a mistake from the beginning. There is nothing for us to do in human lands. We should return to Tromek. I will take the Sovereign Stone to the Divine. It is what I should have done in the first place. We will go north into the mountains, travel to Dainmorae. I have some money, enough to purchase two horses.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Griffith.

Hearing the exhaustion in his voice, she regarded him anxiously, raised her hand to touch his cheek, which was pale and wan. “Can you keep going a little longer?”

“I can manage,” he said with a smile. Capturing her hand, he kissed her fingers, then, holding fast to her hand, he turned to the ork. “I thank you, Captain Kal-Gah, but we have decided to—”

“Wait!” The captain had been staring out at his ship. He raised his hand, cutting off Griffith's words. “Look there.”

“I don't see—”

“There!” The ork jabbed his finger. “The birds!”

Two seagulls, attracted by the lanternlight, were flying among the rigging, probably searching for food. One bird settled on the jibboom. The captain looked from the seagull to Griffith.

“Ah,” said Kal-Gah.

The other seagull landed next to the first. The captain looked from the seagull to Damra. “Ah,” he said again.

The seagulls perched there, ruffling their feathers. An ork advanced, lantern in hand, and offered food that was graciously accepted. One bird lifted its head, craned it backward, and let out a raucous caw.

Captain Kal-Gah lowered the sword. Deftly flipping the enormous blade as if it were an eating knife, he thrust the blade into his wide leather belt. “The omens are good. You can both go aboard. I will tell the crew you are coming.”

He lifted the conch shell he wore around his neck, put it to his lips, and gave a bellowing blast. One of the crew members waved his lantern back and forth in response.

Captain Kal-Gah jerked his thumb at a shore boat moored to the dock. The six crewmen were asleep, slumped over the oars. Some twitched and grumbled at the conch shell blast, but continued to slumber. It took the captain's shouts and the first mate's oaths and kicks to wake them. Yawning prodigiously, they sat up and peered around, bleary-eyed.

“My boys can sleep through anything,” the captain stated proudly. “Help these lubbers aboard,” he told his crew, speaking Pharn 'Lan.

The orks obeyed with alacrity. Two strong orks grabbed hold of Griffith and, before he knew what was happening, they swept him off his feet and tossed him bodily into the boat. Two more orks caught him as he landed and hustled him to the back, plunked him down unceremoniously on a benchlike seat, and grunted orders to stay there.

Damra drew herself up stiffly. “Thank you, Captain,” she said, “but I can manage on my own.”

The captain grinned, shrugged, and motioned his crew to stand back. Damra walked down the pier, looking at the boat that floated in the water below, and suddenly she was not so certain of herself. The boat rose and fell with the waves, and at the same time, it rocked back and forth, bumping against the sides of the dock. She would have to jump down into it, and she must time her jump just right or fall into the water. Damra was not afraid of drowning. She was a good swimmer. But she would look extremely foolish, and elves are very sensitive about their dignity.

She hesitated on the pier, watching the boat bob up and down, seeing the leering grins of the ork sailors gazing expectantly up at her. Then she heard her husband's voice reciting the words to a spell. The wind caressed her, soothed her, and lifted her up in its strong arms. Damra floated on her husband's magic and drifted down into the boat as lightly as a feather falling from a seabird to land gently among the amazed orks, who fell all over themselves and each other to get out of her way.

The first mate howled in dismay, but Captain Kal-Gah only laughed.

“The elf has the wings of a gull, as well as the beak and the squawk,” he chortled.