Raven thought this over. “Your mother, Dur-zor? What happened to her? Is she still alive?”
“No, but she lived longer than most.” The girl spoke with pride. “She was strong and bore many half-taan, when most females die after the first. She was slain when I was eight for not speaking respectfully to a warrior. He crushed her skull.”
A voice from the camp shouted something unintelligible. Dur-zor glanced back. A spasm of fear crossed her face, as she twisted to her feet. Without a word to Raven, she raced away. When she reached camp, she abased herself before one of the taan warriors, cringing and shrinking. Raven recognized the warrior as Qu-tok, the one who had taken him prisoner. Qu-tok cuffed the girl across the face, apparently for not responding to him quickly enough. She took the blow without a whimper, accepted it as her due.
Qu-tok jerked a thumb in Raven’s direction. Whatever the girl answered, Qu-tok appeared satisfied, for he looked at Raven and smirked, lips parting in a tooth-filled grin. Qu-tok walked off, returned to his tent. Raven lost sight of the girl in the crowd of taan and half-taan. He had noticed, as she left, the scars of lash marks on her back.
One of the Dunkargan soldiers began shouting something at Raven, but the Trevenici paid the soldier no heed. Raven could do nothing to help them. He was sorry for them, but they were on their own. He lay down on the ground, squirming to find a comfortable position, which was not easy with the iron collar around his neck.
His belly was full and his thirst slaked. Now he needed rest. He had one goal in mind and that was to kill this Qu-tok, the taan who had brought this disgrace upon him. To accomplish that, Raven had to survive and that was what he was now putting his mind to—survival.
Raven was under no illusions. He had seen enough of the taan to guess that if he killed a warrior, his own death would follow and it wasn’t likely to be an easy one. Once Qu-tok was dead, Raven would be content to die, ready to die. He only hoped that, if the taan ate him, they would get a raging belly-ache.
Shakur’s orders were to find the village from which the Trevenici came, hopefully to find some clue about the Sovereign Stone. He had headed northward toward Trevenici lands immediately after leaving Dunkar. He had hoped to arrive before the mercenaries he had sent, or at least at about the same time, but two weeks had passed and he was still not anywhere near the village.
The fault was not Shakur’s. He had dispatched the mercenaries, under the leadership of Captain Grisgel, northward within a few hours of his meeting with Dagnarus. Shakur provided Grisgel with what information the drugged Trevenici had given in regard to the village’s location. The village was within a couple day’s walk of Wild Town and there was a lake nearby. Not an ordinary lake, a lake concealing one of the magical Portals. Given that information and the fact that the bahk accompanying the mercenaries would be drawn to the magic of the Portal, the village should not be hard to find.
Grisgel and his trained bahk worked as a team. He’d been a highly successful highwayman until Shakur had run across him five years earlier. Shakur convinced Grisgel that he could provide him with a more secure way of life than robbing caravans. Grisgel and his bahk had undertaken several important jobs for Shakur and had more than fulfilled the Vrykyl’s expectations. Shakur’s last orders on this occasion had been emphatic.
“Do not kill all the inhabitants. Save several for me to question, preferably tribal elders.”
Grisgel had promised he would do as ordered and he and his handpicked squad of sell-swords had departed Dunkar just as the forces of Dagnarus were approaching the city. Grisgel carried a safe-conduct pass, but there was always the possibility that someone might shoot an arrow first and read his pass later, so he and his squad went out of their way to the east to avoid running into Dagnarus’s army. Grisgel had told Shakur he expected to reach the Trevenici lands within twenty days’ time.
Shakur had anticipated following shortly afterward. He had to make certain King Moross was suitably impressed, terrified and confused at the sight of Dagnarus’s army and he had to lay the groundwork for his leaving the Temple, provide a plausible reason. There was not much possibility that he would ever be returning to Dunkar, but Shakur had learned over his brief lifetime and his longer death time that it was prudent not to burn your bridges behind you. He had given orders for the murder of Onaset, as being the one man in Dunkar who might conceivably be able to thwart the downfall of the city, and he had given Lessereti and her Void wizards their instructions on how to betray the city. This done, he had departed.
Although Shakur had gotten off to a late start, he could have still arrived at the camp well ahead of the mercenaries, who were human and therefore subject to the weakness of the flesh. The Vrykyl have no flesh, thus they have no need for rest. They can travel day and night without stop, hampered only by the mortality of their horses. The Vrykyl must first find a horse that will carry him, which is no small feat, for animals can sense the taint of Void and will flee as quickly as possible. A Vrykyl must exert his dominance over the horse and then cast a spell that will turn the animal into a shadow steed. The shadow steeds proved inadequate for Shakur’s needs. He required a living horse, a trained war-horse. The shadow steeds were mere beasts of burden. He had developed the means to overcome the problem.
With the help of the powerful Void shamans of the taan, Shakur had created a caparison imbued with Void magic. He had only to fling the caparison over the horse and the animal would instantly obey the Vrykyl. In addition, the caparison would actually increase the beast’s stamina and extend its period of usefulness, so that Shakur could ride for days before the beast foundered.
The only drawback was that the caparison always killed the horse, so Shakur had to take care to have another mount available when the one he was riding collapsed. Either that, or he must rest his horse, for with rest it could regain its strength. His horse would continue to survive until the caparison was removed, at which point it would die.
The caparison was beautiful to look at. Woven of silk by half-taan slaves, the caparison was red with golden trim around the edges that were cut to resemble flames.
Shakur made good time the first two weeks, covering far more territory than Grisgel’s force could have in the same time span. But then Shakur arrived in the disputed no man’s land north of Dunkarga and slowed his pace, for he was not likely to be able to find another horse in this unpopulated area. He was forced to halt to rest his mount. He hated the night, hated the long, boring hours when he could do nothing but pace back and forth beneath the trees, listening to the breathing of the sleeping animal, tormented by thoughts of the restful slumber Shakur had not known in over two hundred years.
This night, Shakur was further tormented by hunger pangs. This angered him. The need to feed would further slow his journey. Worse than the pain of the pangs of hunger were the pangs of fear. Dagnarus had promised Shakur that, as a Vrykyl, he would live forever. He would, only not as he expected.
Shakur noted that his strength waned more quickly. What remained of his corpse had started to deteriorate more rapidly. He was forced to feed more and more often to sustain the death that was his life. If he did not feed, and soon, he feared his power would wane to the point where he lacked the strength to feed and then he would sink into the Void, sink into nothingness, where he would know eternal hunger. For—or so he had come to realize—he would never truly die. When his body perished, his soul would live on in torment and he would have no way to feed it. And now here he was, in the middle of a deserted region, with the terrible hunger on him and not so much as a lonely farm house anywhere near.
The next morning, Shakur rode on. He had a bitter choice to make. He could ride swiftly and hope to reach the Trevenici camp before his strength waned. Once there, he could feed at his leisure. The camp was still days away, however, and the hunger pangs were growing more intense with each passing moment. If he rode slowly, he could search the plains for signs of life, a Karnuan patrol, perhaps, or a Trevenici hunting party.
/> Shakur was yet in the thralls of his dilemma when a thrill warmed his dead flesh. Somewhere another Vrykyl had taken a life. He felt the pleasure of drinking a soul through the bone knife. Whenever any Vrykyl uses the blood knife to kill and feed, all other Vrykyl feel and revel in the sensation. For an instant, all are bound together in a gruesome bond.
Shakur’s delight changed to wonder and then exultation, for in that moment of pleasure he saw in his mind the image of Svetlana. Shakur saw her face clearly, as he had seen it the day the Dagger of the Vrykyl found her a suitable candidate and claimed her life.
Yet, Svetlana was gone to the Void. She was not the one using the blood knife, the knife she had made of her own bone.
Someone had found it. Someone had just used that knife to take life. Shakur reached out with his Void essence to gain an image of the person using Svetlana’s knife. But he was slow to react. The sensation faded too quickly and he lost the image.
Halting his horse, Shakur considered the ramifications of this occurrence, what it meant to him and to his search for the Sovereign Stone. Shakur could not sense the Sovereign Stone. He had never seen it or touched it. But he could sense the blood knife.
And now Shakur had a way to track the thief who had stolen the knife from Svetlana. The next time the blood knife was used, Shakur would be ready to seize hold of it. Through the power of the Void, he would reestablish a connection with Svetlana’s knife. Once that happened, he would be able to enter the dreams of the person bearing the knife.
Dreams—the stuff of shadow, the perfect tool for a wielder of Void magic. One had to know how to sift through dreams, how to crack the shell of ever-shifting images and the wild illogic to find the kernel of truth that lay at the dream’s heart. Once inside the dream, Shakur would come to know a great deal about the bearer of the knife. If the bearer had nothing to do with the Stone, Shakur would find that out and stop wasting his time in pursuit. If, on the other hand, the bearer proved to be a Trevenici who had something to do with a dead Dominion Lord, then Shakur would follow him to the ends of Loerem.
Shakur’s hunger returned, but he no longer had to choose what to do. He could slow his pace, assuage his hunger, for it was not now critical that he reach the Trevenici village. He had only to wait for the bearer of the blood knife to use it again.
Shakur slowed his horse’s mad gallop and proceeded at a less reckless pace. His patience was rewarded. Shakur came across hoof-prints. The horses were shod with iron shoes and he recognized a Karnuan patrol. The prints were fresh. The patrol was not far away. Shakur relaxed, pleased. Not only would he have a chance to feed, but he would find a fresh horse, as well.
The next morning, when the members of the Karnuan patrol woke with the dawn, they found one of their number had been murdered during the night. They were astonished, for they had heard nothing. Yet the man was dead of a single stab wound. The blade had pierced his heart, leaving only a small hole and little blood. He must have died instantly. He had seen his death coming, for his face was so contorted by terror that his fellows could not recognize the well-known features of their comrade in the twisted features of the corpse. Such was the fear this silent attack engendered among them that the Karnuans buried the man in haste and did not mark his grave. They rode all day and well into the night, fearful of halting. It would be many, many nights before any of them could sleep again.
Having fed well and taken on the illusion of the Karnuan soldier, Shakur passed through Wild Town. In the guise of the Karnuan soldier, he discovered that a mercenary band of soldiers had been here two days previous. A dealer in potions pointed out to Shakur the road they had taken. He followed the road, found the tracks where the band had turned off the trail. The bahk’s enormous feet left behind clear imprints.
Shakur followed the tracks to the lake. He paused a moment, staring intently into the water, trying to see some sign of the Portal that lay beneath. He could see nothing, and might have doubted it, but that he could tell by the footprints on the bank that the bahk had entered the water, drawn to the magic within.
It was then Shakur saw the smoke.
Several gray-black tendrils spiraled up into the still summer air. Too much smoke for a cook fire. Shakur marked this as the smoke of destruction, the smoke of death.
Shakur spurred his horse forward and rode into the Trevenici camp at a gallop.
He reined in his horse sharply and looked around. Everything was as it should be, or so he thought at first. All the wooden hovels the barbarians called home had been destroyed. Here and there, a few still smoldered, creating the smoke. Most were burned out husks and charred thatch.
The village was empty. There was no one about.
“Grisgel?” Shakur shouted, rising up in the saddle to get a better look. “The Void take you, man! Where have you got to?”
No one answered. A breath of wind stirred, caused the smoke to drift through the empty village. Shakur turned his horse so that he could see in all directions. Nothing moved in that village except the smoke. He heard nothing, no sound at all.
Baffled, Shakur rode into the village. He looked left and he looked right and saw nothing. Then he came to a circle of white stones. Shakur halted, stared. Living and dead, he had been in this world almost two hundred and fifty years and he’d never seen a sight like this.
Shakur had found Captain Grisgel. He had found Grisgel’s men and he had found the bahk. All dead.
Grisgel’s body lay on the ground. The Trevenici had tied down his arms and legs, then driven a stake into his gut and left him to die. He’d been a long time at it, by the looks of it. His men lay around him, some with their throats cut, others with arrows through their eyeballs. In the very center of the circle, the head of the bahk stood mounted on a pole. The bahk’s headless corpse was a bloody mass of wounds. Blood covered the ground, had splashed onto the stones.
The battle had been hard-fought. Many Trevenici must have died, but there was no sign of their bodies. There was no sign, either, of the pecwae, those strange beings who lived in proximity with the Trevenici. Shakur rode into the pecwae camp and found it deserted, as well.
The Trevenici had defeated Grisgel and his men and the bahk. Then the Trevenici had torched their homes, destroyed their village and fled, taking the pecwae with them. First, though, the Trevenici must have buried the bodies of their dead.
At least, thought Shakur, all may not be lost.
Familiar with the ways of the Trevenici, Shakur searched until he found the burial mound. As he had hoped and expected, the earth that sealed up the entrance was fresh packed. Shakur was not interested in the bodies of the Trevenici. Unless Shakur was very much mistaken, inside the burial mound he would find the body of the knight who had been the bearer of the Sovereign Stone. And while Shakur knew better than to think that he would find the Stone hanging about the corpse’s neck, he did hope to discover who had the Stone and where it had been sent.
By the power of the Void, Shakur had the ability to raise the dead. He could not restore life to the dead, but he could animate a corpse, drag back the soul that had already traveled onward, be that soul with the gods or in the Void. Shakur was somewhat concerned about how effective such a spell might be. Generally the Void wizard who cast this must do so on a corpse that has not been dead over one or two days, whereas this knight must have been dead for weeks. No Void wizard and no other Vrykyl possessed the immense power of Shakur. He would wrestle with the gods themselves to seize this knight’s soul.
Shakur approached the burial mound. He prepared to start digging.
A violent tremor shook the ground beneath the Vrykyl’s feet. Shakur tried to remain standing, but the ground rocked and heaved and he lost his footing. The quake lasted for a good minute. At length, the tremors ceased. Shakur regained his feet and looked darkly at the burial mound.
Coincidence? Perhaps.
Shakur walked forward, placed his hand again on the mound—or tried to.
The quake was far more violent t
his time. The earth cracked open at his feet. Only a hasty backward leap saved him from plummeting into a chasm. The ground rolled and rippled beneath him. Shakur knew when he was beaten.
Shakur eyed the mound grimly. The chasm was wide and it was deep, yet the mound itself had not been harmed. Not a single clod of dirt had been dislodged. Shakur took the hint. He left the Trevenici and the knight to their rest. He hoped they were all eaten by rats.
Shakur returned to his horse. The beast was wild-eyed and terrified, but Shakur ignored it. What was he to do now? His search had come, quite literally, to a dead end. Shakur was thankful that his lord was busy with the occupation of Dunkar and the pursuit of his war. Dagnarus would think of Shakur eventually, however, for the Sovereign Stone was never far from his lord’s mind. And when he did, Shakur would have no choice but to admit the truth, that he had failed.
Dagnarus did not take kindly to failure.
Then the person in possession of Svetlana’s knife, the blood knife, used it.
Shakur was waiting. Suffused with the power of Void, Shakur reached mentally across the Void and laid firm hold on the hand whose fingers were wrapped around the hilt of the blood knife. For a fleeting instant, Shakur saw the person who wielded the knife. He saw a Trevenici youth use the blood knife to slit the throat of a rabbit.
The link established, Shakur kept tight hold so that he could invade the youth’s slumbers. The memory of the Trevenici’s face burned in his mind.
A great distance lay between them, hundreds of miles. Shakur could travel day and night, whereas the youth must rest. Shakur would easily close the gap.
He stood so long in thought that darkness crept over him and he did not notice. Shakur remounted his horse and started out on his journey, the face of the youth hanging before him. He would follow that face as orken sailors followed the star that shines in the north, the star they called the guiding star.
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