Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  Ulaf glanced around to make certain no one else was out taking a late night stroll. Seeing the courtyard empty, as was only reasonable at this hour, Ulaf bent over the bundle, twitched off the blanket and studied it, smelled it, poked it and prodded.

  When Joseph, looking aggrieved, returned to say that the High Magus was coming and that he was not at all happy about having been wakened at this ungodly hour, he found Brother Ulaf where the porter had left him, his arms folded in the sleeves of his robes, standing a seemly distance from the bundle, regarding it with wary uneasiness. Ulaf had made one change, that he trusted the porter would not notice. Ulaf had not replaced the blanket over the armor, but had left the armor uncovered.

  Lamps were lit. A man appeared at the top of the stairs, a dark, robed figure against the bright light. The High Magus was a man of stately mien, perhaps in his sixtieth year, with white hair and a white-streaked black beard. The man’s face was patrician, with fine-honed features and deep lines that indicated a strong will and an iron disposition. The High Magus frowned slightly at the sight of Ulaf, who pretended not to notice. Ulaf knew very well that he wasn’t liked, wasn’t trusted. The fact that Ulaf was a Vinnengaelean among Dunkargans was enough to account for the distrust, but Ulaf was aware that the ill feelings of the High Magus ran deeper than that.

  “Brother Ulaf,” said the High Magus, his voice crisp and alert. If he had been sleeping, he was quick to wake. “I am told that you need to see me on a matter of urgency that could not wait until morning.”

  He laid an irritable emphasis on the latter words.

  Ulaf bowed, as was proper. Approaching the High Magus, he spoke in a hushed voice properly tinged with horror.

  “I did not know what to do, High Magus. I thought that you should be informed.” Ulaf made his eyes round in the lantern light. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Like what, Brother Ulaf?” the High Magus snapped. He had no use for what he considered the histrionics of a Vinnengaelean.

  Ulaf gestured respectfully. The High Magus turned to look at the bundle on the litter.

  “Joseph, bring the lantern.”

  Joseph hastened to comply, held the lantern light directly over the dark armor that did not shine in the light, but seemed to suck it up, diminish it. The High Magus took a step toward it, then he stiffened. He was expert at controlling his facial expressions, but Ulaf—who was watching closely out of the corner of his eye—saw the swift contortion that passed over his features.

  “Void magic, High Magus,” Ulaf felt called upon to point out.

  “I am aware of that,” the High Magus snapped. “Give Brother Ulaf that lantern before you drop it, Joseph, and return to your post.”

  Ulaf took the lantern from the shaking hand of the porter, who was staring at the dark armor with wide-eyed terror. The porter started to leave, but he couldn’t take his eyes from the horrid bundle, and nearly tripped himself.

  “Wait, Joseph!” said the High Magus. “Where did this come from? How did it get here?”

  “A-An officer brought it, High Magus,” Joseph stammered.

  “What officer?” the High Magus demanded. “What was his name?”

  “I-I don’t know, High Magus. He wanted to come inside and I-I said he couldn’t. And then the brother here—” Joseph looked helplessly at Ulaf.

  “I happened to be passing by, High Magus,” said Ulaf deferentially. “I heard the soldier at the gate. He was most distraught. He threatened to dump this in the street. I thought—”

  “Yes, yes,” said the High Magus. He cast a frowning glance at the armor. “He came inside and left it.” He shifted the frown to Ulaf, who bore it meekly. “I assume you questioned him. Asked him his name, how he came by this…this…”

  “I did, High Magus,” said Ulaf, “but he was not very cooperative. He was a Trevenici,” he added, as if that explained everything.

  “His name?” the High Magus persisted. “There are a thousand Trevenici soldiers in the Dunkargan army.”

  “I regret, High Magus…” Ulaf lowered his eyes. “It didn’t occur to me…The armor was so frightful…”

  The High Magus snorted. “You, Joseph?” he demanded of the porter. “Did you get his name?”

  “I-I-I…” Joseph stuttered.

  “What rank was he then?” The High Magus looked extremely put out.

  Ulaf was chagrined. “I am sorry, High Magus, but I know so little of the ways of the Dunkargan military…”

  Joseph could only shake his head.

  “Go!” the High Magus ordered and Joseph fled thankfully back to his gatehouse.

  The High Magus turned his gaze to Ulaf. “Did you even bother to question this Trevenici about how he came by this accursed armor, Brother Ulaf?”

  “Indeed, I did, High Magus,” Ulaf stated.

  In his enthusiasm, he was waving the lantern about and accidentally shot a beam of light directly into the eyes of the High Magus, who flung his arm over his face and backed away precipitously.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace!” Ulaf gasped and hastily lowered the lantern. “I did not mean to blind you—”

  “Continue,” the High Magus muttered.

  “According to the Trevenici, he came across the armor while he was out hunting. The armor being quite…er…well made and no one being about to claim it, he thought he would appropriate it for his own use. He quickly discovered that the armor was cursed and decided to bring it to the Temple, in order to be rid of it.”

  “And what happened to the knight who wore this armor?” the High Magus asked. Glancing down at it, he pointed to the hole in the breastplate. “Such a wound would be mortal.”

  Ulaf felt that he was under intense scrutiny, though he could not see the High Magus, who remained standing in the dark, careful now to keep his face out of the light.

  “The Trevenici had no idea, Your Grace,” said Ulaf. “He could find no sign of a body. Of course, the man was lying,” he added disdainfully. “He did not want to admit that he had stripped the dead. We all know and deplore the barbaric ways of the Trevenici.”

  The High Magus made no comment, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He remained silent, staring down at the armor. Ulaf was respectful of his superior’s musings for a moment, then he said, tentatively, “I find it appalling to think that there may be knights—paladins, if you will—dedicated to the evil practice of Void magic, Your Grace. Where do you suppose such a knight might have hailed from? What was his objective? What killed him? For certainly he must have been very powerful.”

  Again, Ulaf was aware that he was being scrutinized.

  “I, too, would be interested in answers to these questions,” said the High Magus. “One reason I deem it imperative to speak to that Trevenici. Could you recognize him again, if we find him, Brother Ulaf?”

  “Oh, yes, I am certain of it, Your Grace,” said Ulaf without hesitation. “I can even give you a description of him.”

  He proceeded to do just that. The High Magus listened with interest at first, then shook his head.

  “You have described a Trevenici male, Brother Ulaf. Did you notice nothing more specific about this man? Scars? Body paint? Adornments?”

  Ulaf lowered his eyes. “The night was dark…I was excited…One of these barbarians looks the same as another to me…Perhaps Joseph…”

  The High Magus grunted and made a dismissive gesture, well aware of the limited scope of Joseph’s power of observation. “If you can tell me nothing more of importance, Brother Ulaf—”

  “I am sorry, High Magus—”

  “Then you should go to your bed. Please say nothing of this matter to your fellow brethren. I would not want to start a panic. The armor is antiquated and archaic and Vinnengaelean in design.” He emphasized the latter. “Nothing like this has ever been seen in Dunkarga. I think therefore that this is a Vinnengaelean problem.”

  Ulaf bowed, but said nothing.

  “Since the armor is Vinnengaelean, a report of this matter s
hould be immediately carried to the Temple in New Vinnengael. You had not intended to leave us quite this soon, Brother Ulaf, but you are the logical choice as messenger—”

  “I would be only too happy to carry news of this to the Temple, Your Grace. I can be ready to depart in the morning or at Your Grace’s pleasure.”

  “Excellent. I will write the report this night. I know this means that you will have only a few hours sleep, but you should be ready to ride at first light.”

  Ulaf bowed again.

  The High Magus bent down and began to wrap up the armor in the folds of the blanket.

  Ulaf knelt to help, but the High Magus waved him away. “The fewer who have contact with this, the better. I will deal with it. Go to your bed, Brother Ulaf. You will need your rest.”

  Ulaf returned dutifully to the Temple. He walked the narrow corridors to his own cell, but only to fetch and light a dark lantern. Making sparing use of the light, Ulaf hastened through the main living quarters of the Temple until he came to the kitchen. He exited through the kitchen door that led outside to the cook’s herb garden.

  Once outdoors, Ulaf dared make no more use of the dark lantern, for fear even a quick glimmer of light would be noticed. His eyes soon grew accustomed to the darkness. Treading softly, he took his place behind a trellis supporting bean vines and waited.

  Within a few moments, he saw a bulky figure in the darkness—the High Magus, carrying the armor wrapped in its blanket, walking around to the back of the Temple.

  “I was right,” said Ulaf softly to himself. “He’s going to hide it in the wine cellar.”

  Ulaf had considered where the High Magus might hide the cursed armor on the Temple environs. Ulaf had no idea if such armor could be immediately destroyed, but he doubted it. Yet it had to be placed where it would not be discovered and where it could do no harm. Ulaf had been forced to touch the armor during his investigation and although he had wiped his hands numerous times on his robes, he still had the sensation that the terrible ooze was on his fingers.

  The wine cellar contained bottles of wines served only at the table of the High Magus and thus it was always kept locked. The High Magus was the only person who had keys. The wine cellar was located below ground, to keep the wines at a constant temperature all year round, and was accessible only by a door located in the back of the kitchen gardens. The wine cellar was the logical place.

  Ulaf watched the High Magus squat down to unlock the cellar door. Suddenly, the High Magus lifted his head, stood up straight.

  “Is that you?” the High Magus said quietly.

  Something approached through the garden. Ulaf stared.

  “A Vrykyl,” he breathed.

  It was as if night had taken on the form and shape of a man, could walk like a man and use arms and hands like a man. Night wore armor as a man wore armor. Armor of darkness. Armor that was darker than the dark. Armor that was hideous in aspect, with spikes of darkness that stuck out of it like the pincers of a poisonous insect. The armor was very like the armor wrapped in the blanket held by the High Magus.

  The Vrykyl walked up to the High Magus. The two conferred in low voices; Ulaf could not understand them. But it seemed to him by the tone and the fact that the Vrykyl occasionally bowed that the High Magus was issuing instructions.

  The Vrykyl appeared about to depart, then it stopped. It turned its insectoid helmed head this way and that, as if searching for something. Ulaf held his breath and froze as still as the rabbit when the hounds are near.

  “What the devil are you waiting for, Jedash?” the High Magus demanded. “I told you to leave. We have no time to waste. You must intercept and destroy this wretched spy.”

  “I thought I heard something.” The voice from the helm was horrible, cold, hollow.

  “Owls. Wolves. Rats.” The High Magus waved his hand. “Go find someone to deal with the Trevenici. Have him search their barracks, search everywhere. It is probable that he will be tainted with Void. Let that guide the person you send.”

  “I was thinking of letting Commander Drossel deal with this, Shakur.”

  “Drossel.” The High Magus frowned. “There was some question, once, as to his loyalty.”

  “Only to Dunkarga, Shakur. His loyalty to us is assured. He will, however, expect a reward.”

  “He has the favor of Dagnarus, Lord of the Void. That should be reward enough.” The High Magus sounded irritated. “What more does he want?”

  “Elevation in rank. A private meeting with Lord Dagnarus.”

  “The fool!” the High Magus muttered. “He doesn’t know when he is well off. Promise Drossel that, then, Jedash, if nothing else will satisfy him. Report back to me when it is done. I will have further instructions for you.”

  “Yes, Shakur.”

  The darkness bowed and departed. The High Magus, lugging his bundle, descended into the wine cellar. He pulled the door in place after him and Ulaf heard the key grate in the lock.

  Ulaf breathed again. He had seen many strange and terrible things in his life and he had imagined himself inured to anything. He had never before seen a Vrykyl in its true form, however. His hands trembled, cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and he had to wait a moment to calm the wild gyrations of his heart. Moving silently and stealthily, he made his way back to the kitchen, where he crouched in the dark shadows of the pantry and held consultation with himself and the lord he served, a lord who was far away in location but always close in thought.

  “You were right, Shadamehr,” he murmured to his unseen liege. “The High Magus is a Vrykyl and he has Vrykyl serving him. I knew the moment I flashed the light into those dead eyes and now this more than confirms your suspicions. He speaks of Lord Dagnarus, Lord of the Void.” Ulaf sighed deeply and shook his head and added softly, “The gods help us, my lord, you were right.

  “My life is not worth tuppence. I know too much. This false High Magus rids himself of me by sending me to New Vinnengael in the morning. I’ll wager that the instructions he has given that creature of his have to do with me, for the Vrykyl must make certain I never reach New Vinnengael to tell what I have seen. I am ‘the wretched spy.’ I am to be waylaid on the road, my body shoved into a ditch. Or worse.”

  Ulaf considered a moment more, weighing his options. “It is time for Brother Ulaf to disappear. He will vanish in the night and no one the wiser. The High Magus will know or guess that I have discovered his secret, but that cannot be helped. My work here is done. I have confirmed my lord’s worst fears. It is my duty to return to report to Shadamehr as fast as possible. Already, we may be too late…”

  Ulaf had long had his escape planned—his first objective whenever he began any assignment. Within thirty minutes time, Brother Ulaf would be gone from the Temple and Ulaf the mendicant or Ulaf the mercenary or Ulaf the itinerant merchant would be traveling the roads that led from Dunkarga back to New Vinnengael and from thence to the lands of his liege lord and master, Baron Shadamehr.

  “He said the name Shakur. Shakur,” Ulaf muttered to himself, leaving his robes neatly folded in the pantry, for the cook’s helper to discover and exclaim over in amazement the next morning. “Where have I heard that name before? Some old legend, I fancy. Never mind. My lord will know.”

  He remained in hiding until he saw the High Magus returning from the wine cellar. When his steps faded away, Ulaf made ready to depart, taking only the dark lantern and his new identity with him. Yet, as he was about to leave the Temple of Dunkarga forever, he paused and looked into the night.

  “The gods go with you, Captain Raven. I wish you had told me the truth. It is possible I could have helped you. As it was, I did what I could to shield you, but I fear that will not avail you much. What evil fate brought this upon you and why, I cannot explain. The ways of the gods are a mystery to mortals and that is as it should be or else we would go mad. I pray for your sake some good comes of it.”

  With this prayer, Brother Ulaf departed and was seen no more in this world.r />
  Raven’s sleep was not restful slumber. It was a staggering run through a hellish landscape of endless burning sands. He was chased, hunted, and there was no tree to hide behind, no water to slack his torturing thirst. The eyes searched for him and if he stopped, even for a moment, they would find him…

  He could not wake from this nightmare. His body was too tired, he was sunk too deep in sleep to be able to drag himself out of it. When, after almost twelve hours, he did manage to rouse himself, he felt worse than when he’d collapsed on his blankets. He woke with a shudder to find that his blankets were soaked with sweat. Shivering, he roused himself and went to the privies, where he was sick as a poisoned pup.

  He felt better afterward, for it is always good to purge the body of ill humors. Going to the well that was in the barracks, he drank almost an entire bucketful of water. This water was the first Raven had drunk in many days that did not have the oily taste of that accursed armor and it was sweet as sun-ripened pears to him.

  He was still groggy and fuddle-headed, but he thought he could eat something now and keep it down. The smell of garlic pervaded the barracks and made Raven’s stomach rumble. The Dunkargans are passionately fond of garlic, use it in almost all their cooking. He had never eaten garlic before coming to Dunkarga, but he had quickly developed a taste for the pungent bulb. The Dunkargans not only enjoyed the taste, but maintained that it warded off illness. Certainly, the Dunkargans appeared to be unusually healthy, rarely succumbing to the more virulent diseases that often struck those living in cities. His mouth watering, Raven headed for the Trevenici cook fire. He was intercepted by one of his comrades.

  “Commander wants to see you right away,” said Scalplock, thus called because of his impressive array of enemy scalps that hung from his belt. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the Dunkargan barracks, near where the Trevenici mercenaries made their camp. “Drossel.”

  “Which one is he?” Raven growled. There were so many Dunkargan commanders in this army, he could never keep them straight.

  “Short, dark-skinned, bandy-legged, squints,” said Scalplock succinctly.