Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  The Vrykyl saw her opponent dismounted and bereft of a shield, which the knight’s useless left arm could not hold. She had him now, she thought, and sheathed her sword to take hold of a gigantic mace. She began to swing the mace with an unnaturally powerful stroke.

  The mace made a hideous whirring sound, as of hundreds of devouring locusts, as it sliced the air. The Vrykyl intended to strike a blow that would crack open the knight’s armor. If the blow and the magic did not kill the Dominion Lord, the attack would leave him dazed, wounded, and vulnerable to a second strike.

  Gustav stood poised and calm, his sword raised. The Vrykyl charged straight for the knight, her mace swinging a vicious, cutting stroke. Gustav didn’t move.

  Wolfram wondered if the knight was just going to stand there and die, wondered where that would leave the rest of them.

  Gustav shouted words in Vinnengaelean. “Bittersweet memories,” he called out.

  Silver blue light gleamed from armor and sword. As he swung the blade to defend himself against the mace, the magic of the blessed weapon encountered the cursed magic of the Void. Sparks flared. The air vibrated with the shock. Gustav’s blade sliced through the Vrykyl’s wrist, severing her hand from her arm. The Vrykyl’s weapon and the mailed glove that held it dropped to the ground.

  Gustav staggered backward, stunned. The sword weighed heavily in his grasp, almost too heavy to hold. He raised his head, looked at his opponent, hoping to see the Vrykyl fall.

  The terrible blow would have stopped any mortal. The Vrykyl was briefly amazed by the loss of her weapon, but that did not halt her attack. Reining in her horse, the Vrykyl wheeled, and spurred the beast straight at the knight.

  We’re all dead, thought Wolfram. The Vrykyl will slay him and then kill the rest of us. The dwarf glanced at the young ones. Jessan stood holding the horse’s reins without knowing that he held them. He watched the battle with eyes that were wide and luminous with excitement. Bashae, shivering in terror, peered out from under the horse’s belly.

  Wolfram set his tongue against the back of his teeth and made a sound—a buzzing, clicking sound. Placing his hand to his mouth, he amplified the sound—the buzz of a swarm of insects the dwarves call the horsebane fly.

  The buzzing sound mimicked the strange clicking noise made by the hordes of the tormenting flies right before they strike. The knight’s horse, well-trained though it was, whinnied in alarm, jerked its head, and rolled its eyes wildly, trying to locate the stinging, biting insects that could drive horses mad with pain, send them plunging over cliffs to escape. Jessan and Bashae suddenly had their hands full, both trying to keep control of the panicked steed.

  Wolfram prayed to the Wolf that the Vrykyl’s horse was flesh and blood, mortal, not some nightmare creature of the Void.

  His prayer was answered. The ears of the Vrykyl’s horse pricked. Its eyes swiveled in its head. The horse reared straight up, hooves lashing out in panic. The Vrykyl fought to calm the creature, but could not. The horse reared and bucked. She fell from the saddle, landed on her back on the ground.

  Knowing her danger, the Vrykyl sought immediately to regain her feet. Encased in her armor and missing a hand, she could not move easily or swiftly and floundered on the ground like an overturned turtle.

  Gustav seized his advantage. Grasping his sword, he ran to stand over the Vrykyl. She made a last, desperate attempt to save herself, flailing about with her good hand to try to seize the knight’s leg.

  Gustav shouted out again in Vinnengaelean.

  “Love of Adela,” he cried and drove the point of his blue-flaring sword straight into the Vrykyl’s breast.

  The sword splintered with a shattering crack, its blue light flashed and then went dark. The Vrykyl screamed, a terrible sound that was more fury than pain. Blessed light filled her empty darkness, ending the power of Void magic to sustain her existence. The scream sounded long, a keening wail of rage and rending magic.

  Wolfram gritted his teeth and clasped his hands over his ears. The last sight he saw before he squinched his eyes tight shut in terror was the knight, armor shimmering with fading blue light, slumping to the ground beside his fallen foe.

  Cautiously, amazed that he was still alive, Wolfram opened his eyes. The Portal’s light gleamed bright on the surface of the rippling water. Bashae calmed the knight’s horse, stroking the animal on the neck and speaking soothing words. Jessan, mindful of his duty, ran to the aid of his fallen knight.

  Wolfram regained his feet, grunting and grimacing in pain. His ankle was not broken—he could not hear anything crunch—but he’d sprained it badly. So much for running away. Like it or not, his lot was cast with the young ones for awhile, at least until his ankle healed. Or, if the Vrykyl’s horse were still around, he would take it and return to impart his news and claim his reward.

  He searched for the horse, heard its hooves beating on the ground some distance away. So much for that idea. Wolfram limped over to where Jessan stood beside the fallen knight and his dead foe.

  The hilt of the knight’s sword—all that remained—lay on top of the black breastplate. The Vrykyl’s armor had cracked in two, but there was no sign of blood.

  “The knight will want a trophy,” Jessan said. “If he dies, we will place it in his grave with him.”

  Jessan still held the knight’s battle-ax. Before the horrified Wolfram could stop him, Jessan wielded the ax and with one swift stroke, severed the Vrykyl’s helmeted head from the armor-covered body.

  Wolfram froze, panic-stricken, waiting for the Vrykyl to rise and seize Jessan by the throat, for Void magic to swirl out of the black armor and steal their souls.

  The helmet rolled off through the grass. And then Wolfram saw why there was no blood.

  There was no body.

  Jessan squatted down to take a closer look. “Garlnik!” he swore in Tirniv. “Where…where is it?”

  Well might he ask. Nothing remained of the Vrykyl but a pile of greasy, gray dust.

  The sight frightened Wolfram more than the most hideously mutilated corpse, raised the hair on the dwarf’s arms and neck and prickled the hairs of his mustache on his lip. The taint of Void magic was so thick it made him queasy.

  Jessan was not bothered by it. Trevenici are very literal minded. They believe in what they can see, what they can feel, what they can touch. They know that there are certain things in nature that cannot be explained. What keeps the bird in the air and the man on the ground? No one knows. Does this matter to the bird? Not in the least. Nor does it concern the Trevenici. Thus they view magic—without awe, without even much interest, so long as it has nothing to do with them.

  Down on all fours, Jessan peered into the empty black armor in search of the body. “Where did it go?” His voice echoed hollowly. His breath displaced the greasy dust, sending it into the air in little puffs.

  Wolfram felt a fear-laugh bubbling up in his throat. He choked it back, knowing that once he started, he would not be able to stop.

  His tongue was thick, his mouth dry. “Leave it be, son.”

  He put his hand on the young man’s arm.

  Jessan cast the dwarf a fierce, proud look and Wolfram swiftly withdrew his hand, noted that it trembled visibly.

  “It’s a creature of the Void,” Wolfram tried desperately to explain. “A thing of evil. Best not to come too close or look too hard or ask too many questions.”

  Jessan glowered, eyes dark and accusing. “Pah! You are a coward. You tried to run away. I saw you.”

  “So should you, if you had any sense,” Wolfram returned. “And because of me, you’re still alive, young warrior. But don’t thank me on that account!”

  Favoring his hurt ankle, he limped as far from the black armor as he could manage. “You should tend to the knight now,” he said over his shoulder. “He made you his squire.”

  “That is true.” Jessan left off poking and prodding the black armor—much to Wolfram’s relief.

  Jessan knelt down, searched for some
means to remove the man’s helm. His hands fumbled at the visor, hoping to lift it, but it seemed to be welded shut. There were no visible fastenings, buckles or leather straps.

  “How does this come off?” Jessan asked helplessly.

  Staring in awe-struck confusion at the knight’s intricate armor, he reverently touched the gleaming helm, that was fashioned in the image of a fox’s head. Jessan was not the least impressed by a vanishing corpse, but the beautiful armor of the Dominion Lord brought the young warrior near to tears.

  “I have never seen the like,” he added, awed. “Not even Uncle Raven’s armor is as wonderful as this.”

  Wolfram could well imagine that. Uncle Raven’s helm probably doubled as his stew pot.

  “You won’t find the secret to that armor,” Wolfram advised the young man. “He’s a Dominion Lord. Their armor is magic, given to them by the gods.”

  “Then why does he lie injured?” Jessan demanded, personally affronted. “Surely the gods would protect him.”

  “Not from that evil,” said Wolfram, glancing askance at the empty black armor. “That was a Vrykyl, a creature of the Void, as I keep trying to tell you. Still, you have a point. I did not see the thing hit him. Perhaps the knight has only fainted.”

  “Bashae!” Jessan summoned his companion peremptorily. “Leave the horse. He can look after himself. Come here and see if you can figure out what is wrong with the knight.”

  “The horse grieves for his master,” Bashae reported, approaching their group with wary awe. “The horse spoke to me of their journey. He says that their foe attacked his master almost a fortnight ago. The master battled it and thought he had killed it. But the thing did not die. It has pursued them since. Though they could not see it, both horse and master felt its evil presence trailing them. His master was wounded by the thing the first time it attacked. He has grown weaker since and these last few days he could not eat.”

  “Strange,” said Wolfram, frowning and scratching his chin. “Why would the thing pursue the knight? Usually creatures of the Void kill and have done with it. Odd this is. Very odd.” He rubbed his arm. The bracelet on his arm was warm to the touch.

  Bashae knelt beside the knight. Reaching out, he rested his small hand on the knight’s breastplate. At his touch, the breastplate changed to liquid silver. Bashae squealed in dismay and scrambled backward, took refuge behind the horse. Jessan sucked in a hissing breath. Something had at last impressed the unimpressionable Trevenici.

  The armor flowed over the knight’s body and disappeared, leaving him clad in plainly made, trail-stained breeches and a leather jerkin, such as any traveler might wear.

  “I told you the armor was magic,” Wolfram said irritably. He examined the knight’s face, moved closer. “I’ll be swiggered. Lord Gustav, he said his name was. And I never recognized it. The Whoreson Knight being chased by a thing of the Void. Now I just wonder…” He stared down at the knight, musing, his thoughts a tangle of new and possibly profitable possibilities.

  “What made it do that?” Jessan asked, eyeing the knight warily.

  Looking around, Wolfram located the pecwae, who was crouching behind the horse.

  “Come back, Bashae,” the dwarf called, waving his hand. “It was your gentle touch that lifted the enchantment. See if you can determine what is wrong with him. Come along.” He motioned again. “Nothing will hurt you.”

  But even as he spoke, he looked again at the black-armored figure. He did not like hearing that Gustav had thought he’d killed it, only to have it rise again and pursue him. Albeit, Wolfram reminded himself, that was the horse’s version. Wolfram loved horses as all dwarves love horses, but he had no great faith in the beast’s perspicacity.

  “He’s an old man,” Jessan exclaimed, examining the knight’s lined face, his gray hair and beard. “Old as Grandmother Pecwae. And yet he is a warrior.”

  Small wonder he was astonished. Few Trevenici males or females live to a peaceful old age.

  “Yes, he is old,” said Wolfram. “He is the eldest of the human Dominion Lords and the most honored.” He added that, in case the knight could perhaps hear him. What was truly said was that this knight was the most addled.

  Bashae squatted near Gustav. The pecwae laid his ear on Gustav’s chest, listening for the heartbeat. He opened an eyelid, peered into it. He opened the mouth, examined the tongue. Shaking his head, he looked over at the black armor.

  “You say that thing was evil?” Bashae asked.

  “Most assuredly.” Wolfram was fervent.

  Bashae nodded. He raised up, sniffed the air, very much like a hound on a scent, and then left them, darting into the darkness. He returned after a few moments, bearing a sprig of fragrant smelling leaves in his hand.

  “Sage,” he said, waving it in the air. “Strike a light,” he ordered.

  Jessan brought out tinder and flint, struck off several small sparks. Bashae held the sprig to the flame. The dry leaves soon caught fire. Bashae let the sage burn a moment, then blew out the flame. Murmuring words in his own language, he waved the smoking sprig over Gustav, beginning with his head and working his way down to the feet.

  “This will drive away the evil,” Bashae explained.

  Last, he held the sage to Gustav’s nose, letting the knight inhale the smoke. This had the desired effect of rousing Gustav, whether because the evil had been driven away or because the knight thought he was about to be asphyxiated is open to question.

  Gustav came to his senses, coughing and choking. He stared at them a moment without recognition, then the memory of the battle returned full force. Waving smoke out of his face, he struggled to sit up.

  “Ease yourself, Lord Gustav,” Wolfram said, laying a restraining hand on the knight’s chest. “Your foe is dead.”

  Gustav looked around. His gaze rested on the black armor.

  “Truly? Did I slay it?” He shook his head, frowned. “You must not trust it. I thought I killed it once before.”

  “Unless a pile of dust can reassemble itself, the thing is dead, my lord.”

  “I would not put it past the Vrykyl,” said Gustav quietly. “Destroy the armor. Bury it. Sink it in the river.” He paused, his eyes focused on the dwarf. “I know you…”

  “Wolfram, my lord,” he said with a clumsy nod of the head. “You’ve seen me before, perhaps you’ll recall where.” Jerking his thumb at Jessan and Bashae, Wolfram leaned closer to whisper. “I try to keep myself to myself, if you take my meaning, my lord. I don’t like to brag of my connections.”

  “Yes, I understand.” Gustav smiled slightly, then caught his breath with a sudden gasp as a spasm of pain shuddered through his body.

  Bashae put his thin arm around the knight’s shoulders. “You should lie down, my lord,” he said, taking his cue from Wolfram, probably not at all certain what a lord was. Bashae helped ease the knight to the ground. “Where are you hurt? Can you tell me? I am a healer,” he claimed proudly.

  “I know you are,” Gustav said, drawing in a shivering breath. “Your touch is most gentle.” He lay still a moment, eyes closed, resting. Then he moved his hand to his breast. “I am wounded here.” He opened his eyes, looked full at Bashae. “But there is nothing you can do for me, gentle friend. My wound is mortal. I die by inches every day. Still, I am a tall man.” He smiled again. “The gods will carry me a little farther. Let me rest and then help me to mount my horse—”

  “You cannot ride, my lord,” Bashae protested. “You can barely sit up. We will take you back to our village. My grandmother is the best healer in the world. She will find a way to help you.”

  “I thank you, gentle friend,” Gustav said. “But my time is not my own. I am on urgent business. I cannot rest. The gods…”

  But even as he spoke, the gods took the matter out of his hands. Pain sharper than a sword lanced through him. Clutching his breast, he lost consciousness.

  Quickly, Bashae felt for the heartbeat.

  “He’s alive,” he reported. “But w
e must take him back to our village with all possible speed. Jessan, you lift him onto his horse. I’ll explain to the animal what I want it to do.” He looked at Wolfram. “Can you ride?”

  Could he ride! Wolfram’s thoughts went to the days when he had ridden like the wind across the rolling tundra of his homeland. To the days when he and his horse had been one being, flowing into each other, hearts and minds joined. The image was so vivid and painful that it brought stinging tears to his eyes. Yes, he could ride. But riding was forbidden to him now. It was on the tip of his tongue to say so, when it occurred to him that if he did not ride, they would leave him behind. Leave him behind with the accursed black armor.

  He stumped swiftly over to the horse. The animal was admittedly taller than the short, stocky beasts he was accustomed to riding, but he could manage.

  Wolfram vaulted onto the horse’s back. The animal was restive, but the dwarf took the reins with a strong hand, patted the neck and clucked reassuring words. The horse relaxed, comforted by both the dwarf’s touch and the pecwae’s voice. Jessan lifted Gustav into place onto the horse’s back. The elderly man was not heavy. The flesh had melted from his bones these last few days. Wolfram helped them position the wounded knight in front of him, wrapped his strong arms around him, steadying him on the horse’s back.

  “Go along,” Jessan told Bashae. “I’ll catch up with you.”

  The saddle blanket in his hand, he headed for the dark armor.

  “Ah, good lad!” Wolfram called out. Sink the armor in the lake, Jessan, as the knight said. Hurl it as far as you can into the deepest part.”

  “What?” Jessan stared at him. “Drown good armor? Are you mad?”

  He spread the blanket on the ground. Lifting a piece of the armor, he tossed it onto the blanket and Wolfram realized that the young man meant to carry the armor back to camp. If the dwarf could have climbed down off the horse, he would have raced over there, injured ankle or no, and dumped the accursed armor in the lake himself. As it was, he was so overcome with shock he could only choke and sputter.