The elders were in the midst of the tale of Ale Guzzler, when the blanket over the doorway was thrown aside. Ranessa entered the house of healing.
She was wrapped in her blanket, that she held close around her body. Her legs were bare. For all anyone knew, she might have nothing on beneath it.
The elder who was speaking fell silent. He glared at this intrusion in outrage. Ranessa had no right to be here. She had no reason to be here. She was an insult to them and to the dying knight. One of the elders rose to his feet, placed his hand on her arm.
She jerked away from him. “Leave me be, Graybeard,” she said coldly. “I will not stay. I came to see. That is all.”
“Let her remain,” said the Grandmother suddenly and unexpectedly.
Ranessa stepped forward until she stood over the dying knight. She stared down intently at Gustav for the space of ten heartbeats. She turned on her heel and, just as abruptly as she had come, she departed.
The elders glanced at one another, shook their heads, raised their eyebrows, and picked up the tale of Ale Guzzler where it had been left off.
The knight did not seem to notice the untoward interruption. He did not give any indication that he heard the tales. He was, to all appearances, slipping peacefully away into death, when suddenly his eyes flared open. He gave a hoarse shout of anguish. Spasms twisted his body.
“The evil seeks to take him to the Void,” the Grandmother pronounced.
The elders watched complacently. The Grandmother had warned them to prepare for the battle. It was for this very reason they had summoned the spirits. Legions of dead Trevenici heroes were now surrounding the knight, fighting the Void for his soul.
The battle was swift and hard, but soon over. The knight gave a great, shuddering gasp. His body relaxed. The lines of pain and anguish smoothed from his face. He opened his eyes. He lifted his hands.
“Adela,” he said and the breath that pronounced the word was his last.
The Grandmother closed the eyes that no longer held life’s gleam.
“It is finished,” she said, adding with satisfaction, “We won.”
That night, by the light of the stars, six strong warriors carried Gustav’s body to the site where the Trevenici gave the dead back to the earth. He was laid to rest in the burial mound with other Trevenici, a great honor for the knight.
The entire village turned out next day to bid farewell to the departing travelers. It is not in the nature of the Trevenici to mope or sulk or wail for what cannot be. When Jessan rose early that morning and made ready to leave, he was in a good humor, looking forward to lands unvisited, sights unseen. He traveled lightly, carrying only his bow, that he had made himself, under Raven’s tutelage, the arrows with their new steel tips, some food, a water-skin and the bone knife.
He swept his uncle’s dwelling clean, rolled the blankets neatly and stacked them against the wall. This done, he had one more task to perform before he could join his traveling companions. Gritting his teeth, he went to bid good-bye to his aunt. He had no doubt that she would say something terrible to him, just as she had said to his uncle, and that he would start his journey with the bad taste of her ill-omened words in his mouth. By going to see her in her dwelling, he hoped to spare himself the public humiliation Ravenstrike had suffered at her hands.
“Aunt Ranessa,” Jessan called, standing outside her dwelling.
No answer came from within.
Jessan waited a moment, hope rising in his heart. He called again and still there was only silence. Thrusting aside the blanket, hoping fervently he would see nothing untoward, he poked his head inside the dwelling. The smell of rot and decay nearly made him gag. He glanced swiftly about. Ranessa was not there. He had no idea where she had gone. Probably on one of her rambles. He left hurriedly. He had done his duty. No man could say otherwise.
He was to meet Bashae and the Grandmother near the Sacred Circle. As he drew closer to his destination, he heard such wailing and weeping that he wondered who else had died besides the knight. Quickening his steps, he arrived at the Circle at a run, only to discover that the wailing was from the pecwae, deploring the Grandmother’s departure, begging her to stay.
Only the white crown of the Grandmother’s head could be seen, rising above a puddle of sobbing pecwae, who seemed likely to drown her in grief. The Trevenici elders were there, exchanging amused glances. Bashae was there, too. He stood apart from the crowd, looking embarrassed. His embarrassment deepened at the sight of Jessan, who noted that the dwarf, Wolfram, was also present, watching and grinning.
“What is going on?” Jessan demanded, feeling a warm and unpleasant flush start at the back of his neck and consume his face. “Everyone’s laughing at us.”
“I’m sorry, Jessan,” Bashae said, his face red. “It’s not my fault. The Grandmother said this might happen and we tried to slip away before anyone was awake, except that the Grandmother doesn’t move very quietly. She sewed some little silver bells to her skirt—”
Jessan muttered a curse beneath his breath. “Haul her out of there!” he ordered Bashae in a low tone, with a sidelong glance at the elders. “And let’s get started!”
Bashae waded into the pecwae. He was completely submerged at one point, only to resurface when he reached the Grandmother.
“Jessan’s here, Grandmother,” he said. “We have to go—”
The word brought a wail that raised the hair on Jessan’s head.
“Silence!” shouted the Grandmother, and the wail subsided to a whimper. “I’m not dead. Though I wish I was. Then I’d be spared this caterwauling. Palea, I leave this silly lot in your hands.”
The Grandmother looked very fierce, but she patiently allowed all the pecwae to kiss her cheek or her hand or the hem of her rattling, jingling skirt. When at last she managed to extricate herself, she was red-cheeked and her usually neat hair, which she wore pulled back in a severe bun, straggled about her face.
“Go home,” she told the pecwae and flapped her skirts at them as if they were so many chickens.
Palea kissed Bashae a casual farewell. She held a small child in her arms, who kissed Bashae and addressed him by the name of father. There was nothing in this, however, for every young pecwae addresses all his elders in the same manner. The pecwae departed, with many lamentations, and dignity was restored.
After that scene, the Trevenici kept their farewells short, to Jessan’s relief. They said they expected to see him return with many trophies and his adult name chosen. Never mind that this meant they expected Jessan to go forth to battle and carnage. Other people might wish travelers a peaceful journey. Not the Trevenici.
Jessan accepted their wishes with thanks and made a formal request for one of the tribe’s boats. The request was granted and that was that. The elders turned next to the dwarf, who would be accompanying them as far as Big Blue river.
“No trophies for me,” said Wolfram. “I leave that to the young. A safe journey and a fast one is what I want, for riches galore await me at journey’s end.”
The elders did not quite know how to respond to this. The dwarf’s statement was certainly unlucky, for to count upon blessings not yet received was the surest way to anger the gods and cause those blessings to be withdrawn. Looking pitying, the elders bid Wolfram farewell.
Wolfram shouldered his pack, waved good-bye, and set off walking. Jessan led the way out of the village. Bashae walked behind, carrying food and a rolled blanket for the Grandmother. She brought an iron stew pot that hung by its handle in the fork of a stout walking stick, carved out of an oak branch in which the knot holes had been inlaid with agates to resemble eyes. The agate eyes stared about in all directions, keeping watch. Several pouches also hung from the end of this stick and swung back and forth as she walked. Wolfram brought up the rear, waving and grinning.
The villagers were starting to disperse, to go to the fields or to their other tasks, when the sound of horses’ hooves brought them up short. Jessan turned eagerly. It was in
his mind that his uncle might have had second thoughts and come back for him. Instead, he saw his Aunt Ranessa.
Mounted on his uncle’s horse, she wore leather breeches and a fringed leather shirt, which Jessan recognized as having once belonged to himself, but which he had outgrown.
She rode the horse bareback, and it was clear that neither she nor the horse cared for the situation.
Ranessa passed the villagers without a glance. She rode straight to Jessan’s group and there reined in the horse, pulling too hard on the reins and causing the animal to whinny in protest. Wolfram winced in sympathy.
“I have had a dream,” she said. “I have been told to go with you.”
Jessan decided that he would tie her to a tree before he permitted her to come, when he noticed that her gaze was fixed not on him. She looked at the dwarf.
“Come, Dwarf,” Ranessa said to the astonished Wolfram. “Mount up behind me. Walking is too slow. We must make haste.”
“But…but…I, I, I…” Coughing, Wolfram cleared his throat and finally found words that made sense. “Out of the question,” he began to say tersely, then he suddenly put his hand over his wrist. “What?” he demanded in astonishment. “No.” He groaned. “Don’t ask this of me.”
For long minutes he stood with his head bowed, deep in thought.
“What’s wrong with you?” Ranessa asked, frowning. “Are you mad?”
“Me mad!” Wolfram repeated, his jaw sagging. “Me!” He glowered at her, rubbing his arm and shaking his head. “I must be, to have agreed to this.”
One of the elders seized hold of the horse’s bridle. “We cannot allow this, Ranessa. Your brother left you in our care at his departure. We would be remiss in our duty to Ravenstrike to let you leave—”
“Oh, shut up, you blithering old man,” Ranessa said angrily. There was the flash of steel. “Take your hand off the bridle or leave it there permanently when I sever it from your wrist.”
She held a sword as awkwardly as she rode the horse, but there was no doubt that she intended to use it. At a glance from the elder, the rest of the Trevenici villagers moved to surround the horse.
“Stand clear! I warn you!” Ranessa shouted, panicked as a hare trying to escape the hounds. Her fear translated to the horse. Not liking his rider, not liking the people closing in on him, he rolled his eyes and bared his teeth, appeared ready to bolt.
“Leave her be!” said a voice.
The Grandmother thrust her way forward. She glared around at the Trevenici. “Why should her dreams be honored less than the dreams of another? If it was any of the rest of you”—the Grandmother pinned them all with her sharp eyes—“you would act as the gods commanded. True?”
That was true. The adult name often comes to a warrior in a dream.
“The dream bids her go,” the Grandmother said. “If you prevent her, you will be thwarting the will of the gods.”
“She may go, then,” said the elder, stepping back. “But the dwarf is free to go with her or not as he decides.”
“That’s what you think,” Wolfram muttered. “She can come with me,” he said aloud. He eyed Ranessa grimly. “But I won’t ride behind you like a mewling babe. And put that sword away before you cut your tits off!”
Walking over to the horse, Wolfram rested his head against its head. The horse nuzzled Wolfram gratefully. The dwarf glowered up at Ranessa, who glowered back. The war of wills continued for a moment, then Ranessa lowered her eyes before his. She managed, after several futile tries, to return the sword to its leather sheath. Sullenly, she shifted her position to sit farther back, leaving room for the dwarf in front.
Wolfram removed the bit from the horse’s mouth and tossed away the bridle and reins. Dwarves have the ability to become one with their mount, the two acting in concert out of mutual affection and respect. Wolfram swung himself up onto the horse’s back.
“Dig in with your knees like this, girl,” he instructed her. “Hold onto my vest if you must. If you fall off, I’m not stopping for you.”
He pressed his heels lightly into the horse’s flanks, clucked a certain way with his tongue and the beast cantered off, making for the river. Wolfram sat the horse with ease. Ranessa jounced up and down, doing her best to follow his instructions, holding onto him for dear life.
Jessan heard a collective sigh of relief sweep through the village like a refreshing breeze.
“I wonder what your uncle will say,” Bashae said.
“Not much he can say,” Jessan replied with a shrug. And that was true enough. The gods had spoken.
He noted that a group of pecwae were heading this direction, one shouting that someone in the camp had cut his finger and that the Grandmother must come to tend to it. Fortunately the Grandmother had gone conveniently deaf. Clutching her walking stick, she stared grimly northward.
“Let’s go,” Jessan said and, with that, they left the village.
When they passed by the burial mound, Jessan called a halt.
“Show him,” he ordered.
Bashae wore the knapsack slung over one shoulder. It was so large and he was so small that the knapsack bumped against his knees when he walked. Jessan had offered to carry it, but Bashae had refused, saying that the knight had given it to him and told him to keep it safely in his possession until he placed it into the hands of the Lady Damra.
Bashae lifted the knapsack. “I’m doing as you asked,” he called.
A ripple passed through the long grass that covered the mound and the leaves of the walnut trees that shaded the mound rustled and stirred. But that was the wind.
For good or for ill, they were on their own.
Carry the accursed armor to the Temple of the Magi in Dunkarga. Such was the counsel of Lord Gustav to Ravenstrike and the counsel was wise and good. Yet the Void intervened.
The High Magus of the Temple of Magi in the city of Dunkar was considered to be the most powerful person in the realm, more powerful than the King of Dunkarga. The current king, one Moross, was a deeply religious man. His detractors whispered this was so because he was glad to place the blame for all his woes on the shoulders of the gods. “It is in the lap of the gods,” was his favorite doleful pronouncement, thus freeing himself from any responsibility.
Fortunately for Moross—or unfortunately, as it turned out—the High Magus of the Temple of the Magi in the city of Dunkar was a strong man, wise and intelligent, who was glad to guide his king in all important matters. The High Magus of Dunkar was held in awe by all who knew him. Strict and stern and joyless, he had gained his exalted position through hard work and sacrifice and he saw no reason why others should not do the same. He demanded complete loyalty and total obedience. The novitiates went in healthy fear of him, his people revered him, his magi respected him.
These qualities, as well as his exalted position and the influence he wielded over the weak-willed and weak-minded King Moross of Dunkarga, made the High Magus of the Temple of Magic of Dunkarga an ideal target for the Vrykyl.
And thus, the High Magus had died a year previous at the hands of a Vrykyl named Shakur.
The eldest and most powerful of all the Vrykyl ever brought into hideous being, Shakur had used the blood knife—a knife made of his own bone—to steal the soul of the High Magus. Shakur replaced the image of his real body—that of a rotting, loathsome corpse—with the image of the High Magus. Shakur was now able to use this subterfuge to encompass Dunkarga’s fall.
The battle between Shakur and the High Magus had been hard-fought. To avoid having to fight powerful magicks, Shakur had stabbed the High Magus while he slept. The High Magus had died without a cry, but the man’s soul, standing on the edge of the Void, fought to avoid being drawn into that chasm of eternal darkness. The soul of the High Magus had attempted to cast Shakur into the oblivion that both tempted Shakur and horrified him. Having fought such battles for over two hundred years, Shakur had emerged victorious.
Shakur had considered murdering the king himself. But Moros
s was known to be a man who fluttered with every wind that blew, while the High Magus was held to be the true power behind the throne. Thus Shakur chose the High Magus. His choice had been a good one. Shakur’s poisoned words had so filled the poor king with terror that the man jumped at the sight of his own shadow.
On this night, the night Gustav lay dying, the High Magus walked the halls of the silent Temple. The inmates slumbered peacefully, unaware of the proximity of that which would turn blissful dreams into nightmares.
Shakur entered his own quarters, passed through his private library, his sitting room and solarium, shutting and locking doors as he went. Arriving in his sleeping room, he shut and locked that door. He had little fear of being disturbed. Few liked him, and no one would ever think of dropping by his room for a cozy midnight chat. Shakur did not believe in taking chances, however. Either in life or in death.
Having insured his privacy, Shakur was startled to hear a voice speak to him from out of the darkness.
“It is about time,” the voice said coldly. “I have been waiting these past three hours and you know that I am not a patient man.”
Shakur knew the voice, knew it as well as another knows the sound of the beating of his own heart. Shakur had no heart to beat, but he had the voice.
Shakur turned slowly, taking care to hurriedly order his thoughts, before he confronted the speaker.
“My lord,” he said humbly. “Forgive me, but I did not know of your arrival. Had you informed me—”
“—‘you would have sped to my side on the wings of love,’” said Dagnarus. “Isn’t that what the poet says? Except in your case it would be on the wings of hatred, wouldn’t it, my dear old friend?”
Shakur was silent and he kept his thoughts silent as well. Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, was master and creator of the Vrykyl. He carried upon his person the Dagger of the Vrykyl, a powerful artifact of Void magic. Two hundred years ago, Dagnarus had used that dagger to end Shakur’s life, change him into the dreadful being he was this day. True, Shakur’s life had been a miserable one. There was not a law on the books of any civilized nation that he had not broken, starting with matricide. He had given himself freely to the Void and thus it was that Dagnarus ensnared him.
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