Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  The elf held up five fingers.

  The pecwae, now on firm ground, shook his head.

  Finally, sighing deeply and looking as though he’d been forced to sell his grandmother, the elf rooted through the coin bag and dug out ten argents. The pecwae took these, examined each one, and placed them carefully in his pouch. He handed over the turquoise. The elf disappeared into his wagon with it. He was a long while inside, probably finding the best place to hide it. After all, even for ten argents, he’d made an excellent bargain.

  By his standards, so had the pecwae. Wolfram knew the Temple priest. The man had probably not seen ten silver argents in a year. The pecwae would leave loaded down with all the potions and salves he could carry.

  “That is beautiful skystone,” said Wolfram. “Where do you find it?”

  “Near camp,” the pecwae answered.

  His gaze shifted momentarily to his Trevenici friend. Jessan, he’d called him. Wolfram had been right. Jessan was a birth name, meaning Lasting Gift, a common name for children among Trevenici. The young man had yet to achieve his adult name. That would happen only after he completed the ceremony of becoming an adult, when he would take the name the gods would give him in a vision. This name would be revealed only to those close to him. To all others, the young man would select a name in Elderspeak, a name of his own choosing.

  The pelt bargaining was nearly complete. The peddler had spread a great many steel arrowheads on the counter. The Trevenici was studying them with a practiced eye.

  “We find silver near camp, too,” the pecwae added, as an afterthought.

  “Do you mine it?” Wolfram asked.

  “Mine?” The pecwae didn’t understand.

  Wolfram made a chopping motion, as if wielding a hammer.

  The pecwae shook his head. “The Earth would be angry and that would ruin the magic.”

  “Then how do you obtain it?” Wolfram asked.

  “My grandmother sings it out,” said the pecwae.

  “Eh?” The dwarf thought that perhaps he’d translated the word incorrectly. “Sing? As in yo-yo-yo-heh-heh?”

  “You call that singing?” The pecwae grinned. “It sounds more like the cawing of a crow. My grandmother’s voice is the most beautiful voice in the world. She can imitate the calls of every bird so well that they mistake her for one of their own. She can sing up a wind or sing away rain. She sings to the Earth and the skystone tumbles out into her hand.”

  Wolfram raised an eyebrow. “Just as the words suddenly tumble out of your mouth.”

  A slight flush overspread the pecwae’s cheeks. He grinned, shamefaced.

  “Raven—that’s his uncle”—he jerked a thumb at his friend—“told us not to let on that we understood what people were saying. That way, we’d find out if they were trying to cheat us.”

  Wolfram grunted. “Uncle Raven is wise.”

  Of course, Wolfram didn’t believe a word about the grandmother singing the gemstone out of the earth. Still, he knew that pecwae were extremely lazy and would do anything to avoid working at a task. He wondered idly how Grandma really managed to obtain the skystone.

  “This my friend, Jessan,” said the pecwae in introduction, shifting back to the crude Elderspeak, though his eyes sparkled with fun when they met the gaze of the dwarf. “My name Bashae.”

  “Wolfram,” said the dwarf in Elderspeak. He could have communicated with the two in Tirniv, for he spoke the language of the Trevenici, probably one of the few outsiders on Loerem to do so, almost certainly the only dwarf. Wolfram knew better than to let on that he understood, however. The Trevenici do not like to hear outsiders speak their language, which they consider sacred. Though they make exception for the pecwae, Trevenici will become hostile if they hear an outsider speak the holy words.

  Jessan regarded Wolfram with cool appraisal. He was not friendly, but he was not mean nor distrustful, either. Guarded would be a good word to describe this young man, Wolfram thought. Self-possessed, for one so young. Confident, sure of himself, even in what must be a strange and unfamiliar situation. His face was well-molded, with a strong nose and jawline. His hair was dark red, thick and lank. He wore it twisted into a tail that hung down past the middle of his back. His skin was bronze from having lived most of his life outdoors.

  Though not a warrior, he would be trained for warfare. All Trevenici youth, male and female, are trained warriors. He wore leather breeches. His chest and arms were bare, save for an exquisite necklace of turquoise and silver and a large silver bracelet. His pelts were gone. Tucked into his breeches was a fur bundle, undoubtedly containing the arrowheads his bargaining had won him.

  “We go to Temple now,” Jessan said in pidgin Elderspeak.

  “I know the man at the Temple,” Wolfram offered. “If you like, I could go with you and help you explain what you need.”

  “We do fine,” said Jessan and, with another curt nod, he put a hand that was both protective and commanding on the shoulder of his friend and turned away.

  The pecwae made no demur, but docilely accompanied his friend, obviously accustomed to following where the Trevenici led. Before he left, however, Bashae flashed Wolfram a smile of thanks and waved his hand.

  Wolfram scratched his chin. All in all, a pleasant morning’s diversion. He was about to turn away, planning to go spend his last copper on a mug of tepid ale, when he felt the burning sensation on his arm. He had not felt this sensation in so long that, at first, he mistook it for a bug bite and absent-mindedly scratched it. He was under no illusions the next moment, for the burning sensation grew stronger, as if he brushed his hand through the flame of a candle.

  Wolfram glanced swiftly around. No one was paying him any attention. Reflecting on the fact that no one would have paid him any attention if he’d dropped down dead in the street, Wolfram walked over to stand in the shadow cast by the elf’s wagon. The dwarf rolled up the long sleeve of his homespun shirt and peered down at a bracelet on his wrist.

  The bracelet was made of silver set with five gems: ruby, jade, sapphire, pearl and onyx. Each of the gemstones had started to glow, heating the silver metal that was now starting to grow extremely warm. Wolfram stared at the bracelet in astonishment. This had not happened to him in a long time. Years, in fact. So long that he had begun to think that perhaps he had lost favor with the monks. He was immensely pleased, glad to think he still had the opportunity to turn a nice profit. He touched the stones, one by one, in a certain order and the burning ceased immediately.

  Wolfram looked expectantly at the elf’s wagon, but received no response from the bracelet. Pondering, the dwarf glanced around. As his gaze flicked over the two young men, the bracelet’s warmth increased markedly.

  “Well, well,” said the dwarf and, rolling down his sleeve to cover the bracelet, he started off after them.

  The gaudy gilt painted sign board nailed to the outside of the Temple of Healing was adorned with the symbols marking true Temples of Healing, those run by members of the Church who had received their training in the Temple of the Magi in New Vinnengael. Wolfram guessed that the supposed “Revered Magus,” who was sitting fanning himself on the doorstoop, might have actually been to New Vinnengael and that he might very well have seen the grand Temple of the Magi, but that was as close as he came to being aligned with the Church. The man was a hedge-wizard if ever Wolfram had seen one.

  Thin and unremarkable in appearance, the erstwhile magus watched the two approach with a pathetic interest. Once he determined they were heading his direction, he scrambled to his feet and pounced on them the moment they opened their mouths.

  “My name is Brother Elias and I am a healer of extraordinary skill.” He looked eagerly from one to the other. “Are you feverish? Coughing? Heart palpitations? Vomiting? I have cures for each of those complaints. Let me take your pulse.”

  He reached out his hand to Jessan, who favored the man with a cold stare.

  “Not sick,” he said. Indicating Bashae with a wave, Jessan add
ed, “He buy potions.”

  Bashae produced two of the silver argents he’d received from the elf.

  Although extremely disappointed to find out that they weren’t suffering from some disease that would take lots of time and money to cure, Brother Elias perked up immensely when he saw silver flash in the pecwae’s hand.

  “I recognize a colleague,” he said, his eyes on the coins. With grave dignity, he led his charges inside the tumble-down “temple.”

  Brother Elias gave out that he was a healer, but local opinion held him to be a potion peddler. About the best that could be said for Brother Elias was that he’d not poisoned anyone. Yet.

  Wolfram wandered that direction. Moving around to the side of the Temple, he squatted in the building’s shadow—almost more substantial than the building itself—and settled down comfortably below a hole in the wall that passed for a window.

  Wolfram was now able to hear everything said inside the building. He hoped that the pecwae knew as much about potions as he knew about gemstones, otherwise he was liable to be plucked clean as a cooked goose.

  Brother Elias started off with his best merchandise, offering a love potion guaranteed to make the object of your affection fall swooning into your bed. At this, the pecwae chuckled and the Trevenici took offense. Seeing the way the wind blew, Brother Elias cleverly switched horses in midstream and offered up a salve that was certain to heal any wound received in battle, from an arrow through the throat to a spear taken in the belly, without leaving so much as a scar. This was more kindly received. The Trevenici was interested. At this juncture, the pecwae took charge.

  “Let me smell it,” said Bashae.

  A loud snuffling sound, then Bashae said to Jessan in Tirniv, “It’s nothing but bear grease.”

  There came the sound of shuffling feet, a scrape of metal, and Jessan’s voice, cold with anger, “You are no better than a thief. I should cut off your ears.”

  Brother Elias gave a whimper and, by the sounds of it, fell back against the wall that shook most alarmingly.

  “No, don’t do that, Jessan,” Bashae told his friend. “He does have some potions I want and he’ll need his ears to hear what I say to him.” He then added, sternly, “I think you should wait outside.”

  At the sound of footfalls, Wolfram regained his feet and hastily left the Temple. A glance over his shoulder showed the Trevenici youth, grim and glowering, taking up a stance outside the Temple with as much earnest purpose as if he had been assigned to mount guard on the king’s treasury.

  Wolfram sauntered past, head down, apparently deeply absorbed in his own business. Coming to the crossroads, Wolfram glanced back, saw the Trevenici still standing in front of the Temple. Wolfram, moving fast, dove into the cover of a patch of weeds. Ducking down among long, tasseled grasses and sweet-smelling sage, he settled himself to wait for the two to pass by him on their way out of town.

  About an hour later, the two young men approached the dwarf’s resting place; the pecwae chattering excitedly to his friend, describing the various items he’d purchased from the priest.

  “You acted sensibly, Bashae,” Wolfram said. Rising up out of the grass, the dwarf brushed dust and seeds off his breeches. “Buying the raw ingredients, not the finished product. That man was no true healer.”

  The Trevenici youth glared darkly at the intrusive dwarf.

  “Keep walking, Bashae,” Jessan said to his friend.

  “He wasn’t a healer?” Bashae asked, walking backward in order to speak to Wolfram. “Why would he lie about something like that?”

  “Because people pay good money for healing,” Wolfram said, following along. “He mixes up a few potions, then spends his day squatting on that doorstoop underneath that lying sign. People come up and tell him what ails them. He hands over the potion, takes their argents and goes back to sitting on the doorstoop.”

  “But what happens when they’re not healed?” Bashae questioned sensibly.

  “Oh, sometimes they are, you know,” Wolfram replied. He had caught up to the two by now. “Sometimes they manage to get better on their own. Sometimes, by accident, one of his potions works. And, sometimes, his patients die. But then they can’t very well come back to place blame.”

  “Neither my grandmother nor I would ever ask for anything to heal a person,” Bashae said, thoughtfully scuffing dirt with his bare feet. “She says that healing is in our bones just like magic is in the Earth’s bones and that the Earth gives of her bounty and so we give of ours.”

  “An estimable woman,” Wolfram stated. “I would like very much to meet her.” The dwarf fell into step with the pecwae and the Trevenici. “I’m going your way. Mind if I tag along?”

  “How do you know which way we are going, Dwarf?” Jessan returned shortly.

  “Your way is my way,” Wolfram returned. “My way is any way. All ways are the same way—in the end,” he added reflectively.

  Jessan maintained a dignified silence. The Trevenici do not discuss the afterlife with outsiders, considering that topic too sacred to be bandied about during casual conversation.

  They continued on down the trail that was nothing more than two wagon ruts worn across the prairie. The land in these parts was flat and barren, covered with tall, rustling grass that had dried up and turned brown in the sun’s heat. The trail ran straight and true with never a turn until it reached the Little Blue river. A stand of cottonwood trees, some ways distant, marked a creek or a pond. The Crackerneck Mountains could be seen to the northeast, but they were far away, a smudge on the horizon. The sun was edging its way into the west. This was summer and there were still several more hours of daylight left for travel.

  Bashae showed Wolfram his purchases: apple bark from the north lands for female troubles, feather foil from the south to treat the swelling joints of the elderly, green tea from the elven lands. Wolfram described some herbal treatments used by the dwarves. Bashae listened with interest, making special note of the ingredients. This topic exhausted, Wolfram went on to tell about his people, the pony riders, who live their lives on the backs of their shaggy beasts, roaming the hills far to the east.

  Wolfram knew a great many stories. He knew how to be entertaining. He knew how to win over a sulky audience. His livelihood depended on his charm, something for which dwarves are not particularly noted, but which Wolfram had cultivated over the years. Jessan never said a word, but he listened attentively and, occasionally, during some especially exciting encounter with elven warriors or orken raiders, the Trevenici would either nod his approval or glower his disapproval, depending on circumstance.

  They halted toward nightfall. Jessan produced a packet of venison strips and actually shared them with Wolfram, a mark of favor. Bashae ate dried berries and chewed on the root of some plant, which he also offered to the dwarf. Wolfram politely declined. Dwarves are meat-eaters.

  The night air cooled rapidly in early summer. Following the meal, the two young men lay down on the still-warm ground and both were immediately asleep—the sweet and uncomplicated slumber of youth. Wolfram could not remember a time when he’d slept like that. He lay down, but he remained awake, listening to Jessan’s deep breathing, watching Bashae’s hands and feet twitch in his sleep like a dog on a dream-hunt. Sighing, Wolfram sat up. He peered again at the bracelet on his arm. The burning had ceased. The gems glowed faintly in the darkness. A sign that he was obeying instructions.

  Wolfram had no idea why these two youths were of such importance. He looked forward eagerly to finding out. Rubbing the bracelet, thinking fond thoughts of the silver argents his mission would bring him, Wolfram lay back down. He was on the verge of drifting off when Jessan awoke and announced that it was time they were moving on.

  Wolfram had forgotten this custom of the Trevenici warrior—to sleep only a few hours and then, if possible, continue the journey during the night.

  The dawn was still many hours away, but one could see fairly well by the lambent light of moon and stars, for there were no
trees to cast shadows. The three trudged down the trail. Wolfram had more stories, but was not in the mood to tell them. Perversely, he was sleepy now and that made him grumpy, right when he needed to continue to exude charm. He had noted that Jessan was starting to keep closer watch on landmarks, guessed that soon they were going to leave the trail, strike out across the open prairie.

  About an hour into the march, Jessan came to a halt beside a group of stones that had been sorted into a pile alongside of the trail. The trail ran east and west. Jessan looked to the north. He left it to the pecwae to speak.

  “We turn off here,” Bashae announced. “Thank you for the stories and thank you for helping me with the elf.”

  Jessan muttered something that Wolfram couldn’t catch.

  “A good journey to you, sir,” Bashae added politely.

  Wolfram felt a small twinge of warmth from the bracelet, but he didn’t need the prompting. He knew well enough that he was supposed to stick with these two, though for what earthly reason, he couldn’t tell.

  “Thank you,” he said, equally polite. “I would like very much to continue to travel with you. I hope to consult with your grandmother,” he added, speaking to the pecwae. “A woman of vast wisdom.”

  Bashae looked to Jessan, who shook his head. He did not so much as glance at the dwarf, but continued to gaze to the north. “No,” he said.

  Wolfram could always trail them the next day, but he would need to be accepted by the Trevenici people and he didn’t want to start off by seeming to have sneaked up on their dwelling places like a thief. He was thinking over what arguments he might use when, unexpectedly, the pecwae came to the dwarf’s rescue.

  “Let’s take him with us,” said Bashae, speaking in Tirniv.

  Jessan shook his head.

  “No one in our village has ever seen a dwarf,” Bashae argued. “Not even your uncle Ravenstrike. Think what a sensation it will cause when we bring Wolfram into our village. And he will be our dwarf. No one else can claim him. Bear Paw will be sick with envy, for all his trophies. What’s a puny, shriveled up old head compared to a real, live dwarf!”