Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “Perhaps,” he said, slowly, “if you are not determined to be on your way at this very moment, you might share with me your name? It makes conversation awkward.”

  “Call me ‘Vlad’.”

  “A strange name.”

  “It’s a very old family name where I’m from.”

  “May I ask where your home is? I do not do so to pry, but merely to try to understand how you cannot know upon which shard you stand.”

  “I’m a traveler—a traveler to really far places. Not always voluntarily. Humor me and tell me about these shard thingies.”

  “Very well, although I do not understand how a far-traveler cannot know these things… In the earliest days of the world, all the lands were one. Then came a great cataclysm—its cause is unknown to me—which rent the world asunder. Blasted into shards, these pieces of the world hurtled around one another for many years. All the races struggled to survive the upheaval. Every century or so, one shard would collide with another. Often, this would cause rains of shattered stones to fall from the skies of other shards. Rarely, two shards would touch more gently and crumble together, as great mountains of the sky collapsing on top of each other.

  “At last, a great druid on the shard Kannevos gained wisdom in his study of the heavens. He marked out the movement of each shard of the shattered world, charting their courses in the heavens. He commanded great, enchanted stones be erected in precise alignment with each shard, these circles of stones to act as anchors in a manner beyond my understanding. The druids did as he bid them, for these rings of stones have some power over the heavens. Their power reaches across the sky to the shards of the world, touching and guiding them.

  “Today, every shard is held in place, each relative to all the others, such that they cannot collide and bring more death and destruction upon us. Or so I am told.”

  “I see. I think. So, people live on all these shards?”

  “Most of them. Some are little more than jagged rocks and wastelands. Those closest to the sky-fire are barren deserts. Farther away, they are always icy, wintry places.”

  “Got it. And you come from a different shard?”

  “Yes. I was born on Trayvor. Gorgar came from this one—Lamaeos—and we came with him to attend the wedding of his sister.”

  “How big are these shards?”

  “They differ considerably. I am told there are many no larger than great boulders, although such as those bear no stone rings of their own. The smallest with a ring is known as Sliver, a mountain range in the sky. Others are so large they take many weeks to ride and sail across. Many are single kingdoms, some greater, some lesser.”

  “And this one, the one we’re on, is the shard where Gorgar’s sister got married? Lamaeos?”

  “Yes. The town of his birth is Trinnian, some four days’ ride eastward. It is at the edge of the dragon’s influence. You can see the way the land grows more healthy and wholesome as the dragon’s influence wanes. Closest by is the city of Pelamir, although it has diminished greatly. I do not think it will survive the dragon’s presence for much longer. Their crops fail and their spirits wither under the dark force of the dragon’s presence.”

  “There’s my cosmology and draconic ecology lessons for the day. Thanks. Now, if I understand this right, your problem is you need more resources to successfully handle a dragon. Which you can’t get, because you don’t have anyone or anything to get you from this shard to a shard where you still have friends. Or can you?”

  “One may travel through the stone circles to other shards, but it requires the powers of a priest or wizard to open the way.”

  “How about a holy warrior of…?”

  “Namae,” he supplied. “No, my knowledge and my faith are insufficient for such a miracle.”

  “What about a druid? They built the things, right?”

  “They dislike such travel, but permit it, in exchange for a small gift.”

  “A bridge toll?”

  “Exactly so, although they do not call it such. Other than that, they seldom take action other than to assure the safety of the circles. To buy their aid in opening a Skybridge would cost more—much more—than the customary gift.”

  “And you don’t have the money for it?”

  “In truth, if our campsite has been unplundered, it is possible I may have enough to buy my passage. But all I have—all that is left of our wealth and gear—is yours, should you wish it.”

  “Forget it,” I advised. “I have everything I want.”

  Firebrand’s snort of psychic laughter was brief. I laid a hand over the pommel, covering the dragon-head and it did its best to be silent.

  “Did you… I beg your pardon, but did you laugh as you spoke?”

  “No.”

  “I would almost take my oath I heard laughter.”

  “Maybe you did; I know I didn’t laugh. But you left your stuff in a pile before going off to kill a dragon?”

  “We left behind nonessentials,” he corrected. “One does not carry everything one owns into battle. Besides, it was unlikely to be disturbed. Few venture this close to a dragon’s lair—if we yet remain upon the same campsite—and we made camp where we would not easily be seen. Y’vin placed spells on most of the boxes and such, as well. If the tent has not been taken—as I see it has not—I would guess nothing is stolen, although the horses may have wandered far afield.”

  “Fair points. Okay. So, you need your wizard or priest to open the way, or you need a way to carry a ton of stuff to… where?”

  “A circle of standing stones marks the foot of a Skybridge. There is always a town or city nearby. The one we passed through on this shard is called Bridgetown. It is many days’ ride.”

  “Hmm. A ride to Bridgetown isn’t out of the question,” I mused. “Still, ‘teach a man to fish,’ and all that…”

  “I already know how to fish.”

  “It’s a saying from my homeland, or near enough. Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and he’ll never go hungry. Something like that.”

  “What do fish have to do with it?”

  “It’s—no, nevermind. Can I persuade you not to go Heroing or a-questing for dragon heads until I have a chance to do some wizardy things to help?”

  “I am in your debt,” he told me, completely seriously. “I have been rescued by your hand. You have guarded my sleep, tended me in my infirmity, and accepted nothing in return. You have but to ask of me and I shall do all within my power to grant it.”

  “While I’m not sure I like the blanket agreement, I empathize and approve of the nobility of character it indicates.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “No problem. You finish eating. Would you mind if I took a look at your armor? It looks a bit hammered.”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  I spent much of the rest of the day cooking and keeping my patient from being too active. His name was Aramon, generally Sir Aramon, Knight of the Church of Namae, Holy Warrior in the service of Light, but he was content to let me skip the titles. I was amazed at his recuperative powers until I recalled Someone was helping him. His wounds were at least a week along in the first day, and some of his broken bones were completely mended. I’m not sure why some were fixed and some weren’t, but I conjecture it’s better to completely repair a bone than to half-repair several and risk breaking them again.

  I learned a lot about the world from Aramon. When questioned in return, I told him what I knew about Karvalen. It seemed easiest.

  Late in the afternoon, I helped him to a camp toilet and bedded him down again in the tent. Since I’m not exactly an attractive nurse, I cast a cleaning spell in lieu of a spongebath. He was duly thankful. I left him to his nap and went off to body-bag my way through the sunset.

  Nighttime.

  The first thing I did—well, the second thing, after some personal cleaning spells—was look up at the sky. Bronze stood next to me and I scratched her forehead absently as my inhumanly sharp eyes fo
cused on the far stars.

  They weren’t all stars.

  “Well, spank me rosy and call me Suzie.”

  Why would anyone do that?

  “It’s an expression of surprise. There really are a bunch of world-chunks up there, complete with blue fringes of atmosphere, clouds, oceans, the lot.” I sighed. “Gravity is obviously even more weird here than elsewhere. I think I can say we’ve got another candidate for gravity variables. It’s not a straight alteration in the gravitational constant, obviously.”

  You mean it’s almost as if the rules are different everywhere we go?

  “Oh, shut up. I’m examining a massive magical working.”

  I’m not the one doing the talking.

  “I can see the lines of force,” I continued, ignoring the comment. “They look like spatial distortions rather than actual vector lines. They all connect to… that one. Must be Kannevos.” I squinted at it for a moment, wishing I had a serious astronomical instrument. I could just barely see some weather in the sunshine and wondered how the whole celestial mechanics thing worked here. Do the shards rotate independently? Does their sun run on a track around the shards? I felt the beginnings of a headache.

  “It doesn’t look very big. Compared to some of the others, I mean.”

  Are we going there?

  “No. I’m not even staying here very long.”

  Just long enough to interfere?

  “Only a little. I’m almost done helping. I feel bad for the guy.”

  You wouldn’t feel bad for him if you’d passed on by.

  “What you say isn’t wrong, but it’s also not right.” I ran the tips of my extended talons through the fur on the side of Bronze’s neck. She snorted and extended her neck. Even in the body of a Black, her long mane lifted itself and flipped over to the other side, clearing the way. Interesting.

  Which means you agree, but you still don’t think you made the wrong choice. Right?

  “Yes and no. I agree, and maybe I did make the wrong choice. But helping—or trying to—is a habit I don’t seem to be able to shake. Another brick in the road to Hell, maybe—good intentions and suchlike.”

  And you do it anyway because you’re a sucker.

  “Sometimes.”

  So, what’s on your agenda for further interference?

  “First, I’m going to see what I can find in the underground area where I found him. As we go, we’ll drag what’s left of the guys who tried to rob us. I’d rather not attract predators to Aramon while he’s wounded. After that, I’ll finish mending some of his dragon-damaged gear.”

  And what else?

  “Depends. I may have a brilliant idea.”

  I’d like to see that.

  “You know what?”

  Shut up?

  “Good guess.”

  I eyed the mountain, trying to pick out where I found Aramon. Fixing him up and sending him back to tackle a dragon all by himself seemed counterproductive. Still, his companions were dead. If local custom demanded… hold on a minute. Just how dead are they? Recently dead? Recently enough, maybe? I guess it all depends on whether or not they were consumed like sacrifices or simply killed like enemies. Presumably, their deaths were sudden and violent, and occurred in a high-magic zone…

  I swung up into the saddle and Bronze whisked me away into the night.

  Going back down the mountainside to Aramon’s little tunnel was no trick at all. Finding my way through the caverns wasn’t too terribly difficult, either. I can see perfectly well in absolute darkness, and Aramon, dragging his armored self along with one working arm, left a trail even on raw rock. The blood-trail alone would have done it for me, even under the oily, sulphurous scent of dragon on the underground draft.

  On the other hand, I didn’t go too quickly. If the locals were to be believed, there was a wounded dragon somewhere nearby. So I walked quietly and carefully, with every cloaking and stealth spell I had.

  I found Aramon’s sword. It was dinged up and dusty. I tried to pick it up and suppressed a yelp. It burned like a holy artifact. At least Aramon wasn’t holding it. I don’t want to know how much it hurts when it’s plugged in to a divine source. I wrapped it in a corner of my cloak to insulate it from my hand. Neither the cloak nor the sword seemed to mind, which suited me.

  The blood trail ended where I found the sword. It took me a minute to figure it out. He didn’t come from farther down the passage. He came down through the crevice in the ceiling. From the look of it, he bounced off two or three outcroppings on the way before hitting bottom about where I stood.

  Ouch. Even in armor, ouch. No wonder he had so many broken bones.

  I listened intently. Anything breathing up there? No?

  I climbed—very carefully!—up the crevice, ears open like a rabbit near a fox’s den. Or like a vampire entering a dragon’s lair. I stuck my head up to look around. No, nobody home, but there was a nice pile of loot. Firebrand grumbled.

  Problem? I asked.

  No.

  You seem upset.

  I’m not.

  You still seem upset. What’s wrong?

  It’s not… I just… Look, I remember being a dragon, okay? Collecting shiny things was…

  I’m sorry.

  Yeah. So am I.

  You miss being a dragon?

  Sometimes. It’s strange, remembering. It’s who I was, not who I am. What I was mixed with who you are, then got bound up in what I’ve become. It’s hard to explain.

  Anytime you want to talk about it, I’ll listen.

  Thanks. I’m not into the whole self-analysis thing.

  I slithered up over the edge and sat down, still listening. Nothing. No sounds of scales on stone, no huge inrush of breath, no leathery shifting of wings, no scrape of claws on stone, no clinking of gold and silver as a head lifted from the pile. All good negatives.

  I’m not much of a necromancer, but I know the drill. I also knew their names from Aramon. Gorgar, Tindal, Fliss, and Y’vin.

  I got to work. It was going to be a busy night.

  Unnamed World with Dragons and Boojums, Day 3.

  On second thought, I’ll call the place “Shards.”

  Shards, Day 3

  It was a bit of a struggle to get what I wanted and exit the dragon’s lair before it came back. The hardest part was gathering up and defragmenting the patterns of the individual ghosts. Technically, they weren’t in too bad a shape. The patterns themselves were fairly coherent, but the energies that would normally make them functional ghosts were surprisingly low. An effect of a draconic presence, maybe? Fortunately, they didn’t have much competition in the free-roaming vapor department. It didn’t seem as though the dragon brought live prey into its lair for dismemberment. It also shot down my theory it was eating spirits along with the flesh. Maybe the withering effects of its presence were the mechanism, instead.

  I heard it when it started down the main tunnel—the only tunnel into the chamber big enough for a dragon. An old lava tube, I think. I stuffed myself down the crevice, dragging a cleaning spell after me to hopefully eliminate any scent.

  Rather than wait for a blast of dragonfire to inform me of any failure, I booked it down the passage, headed out. I didn’t hear or feel any pursuing flames, so maybe I got away with it. I didn’t disturb so much as a copper piece in the treasure pile, so maybe.

  I finished up my necromantic spell work back at camp. I also did some mending on Aramon’s combat gear, mostly his armor. Those tooth-holes were annoying, but a repair spell started fixing them. Firebrand helped by heating the metal, allowing it to flow more easily. I threw repair and cleaning spells at his sword without touching it. It didn’t seem to mind, but it didn’t seem any more friendly, either.

  Then it was back to work on the spirits of the dead. Fortunately, the heroes had a pretty decent pile of stuff they didn’t take into battle, including valuables of various sorts. I stole four of their gems—well, borrowed—but I suspected they wouldn’t mind.

 
Then I worried Aramon would mind, considering what I did with them.

  Well… bridge to blow up when I get to it, I guess. I stacked his stuff in the tent, quietly, and worked on another gem.

  I did my undead burrito impression while the sun came up. I cleaned up and returned to the camp in time to see Aramon emerge from the tent, armored, sharpened, and raring to go. Whatever else his personal deity had going for it, it did a bang-up job of putting him back together. He eyed Bronze with a peculiar expression. Bronze nodded at him, ears perked forward. She liked Aramon.

  “Breakfast?” I asked, sitting by the fire.

  “Yes,” Aramon agreed, not taking his eyes off Bronze. “You have a very black horse.”

  “She’s also a very friendly horse, unless something’s trying to kill us.”

  “She’s trained for battle?”

  “In the interests of avoiding a long explanation, how about I say ‘yes’ and leave it there? Come sit down, please; I have something for you.”

  Earlier, I cut sections of a log into seats. Aramon noticed them and cocked his head in puzzlement as he ran fingertips over the smooth-cut upper surface. I handed him a bowl and the ladle to distract him.

  “Now, correct me where I’m wrong,” I started, “but your friends were Gorgar, Fliss, Y’vin, and Tindal, right?” Aramon nodded, filling his bowl. “Okay. Gorgar was a brawny guy and a good fighter. Fliss was on the short side and very fast. Y’vin was the spell-working guy. Tindal was a priest of a sun-based deity. Still tracking?”

  “If by ‘tracking,’ you ask if you are correct, then yes, you are tracking.”

  “Okay. You’re aware I’m a little bit of a magic-worker?”

  “If you are a ‘little bit’ of a magic worker, a shipwreck is a ‘little bit’ damp.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Yes.”

  I blinked at him. He simply looked at me.

  Boss?

  Yes?

  He’s not upset. He takes magic in stride. I know you think you’re being subtle, but you’re not.

  I need to work on that.

  Like a legless man needs work on his sprinting.