Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  Bashae turned to his friend. “Arim was about to tell me the story of how the first elf flew on a kite.” He turned eagerly back. “Go ahead, Arim.”

  Arim formed the fish into small balls, then rolled them in ground meal laced with various leaves and spices that gave off a savory, pungent aroma. A pot holding some sort of liquid had been suspended over the fire and was starting to bubble.

  Arim smiled over his shoulder at Bashae. “First you must know something about the elves. The elven land of Tromek is divided up among seven major noble houses. These houses are often at war with each other and the story I am about to tell took place many centuries ago during one of these wars. No one knows or remembers why the war started. House Sithmara had gone to battle against House Wyval. House Wyval proved victorious, defeated their enemies in a victory so stunning that they managed to capture the noble lord who was the leader of House Sithmara, and his wife and his son.

  “The noble lord requested death, for he was dishonored, and this was granted him. Before his death, he asked to bid farewell to his wife and son. He said the customary words of good-bye aloud to his son, but he whispered in the young man’s ear that he was to do all he could to survive and return one day to lead their House in vengeance against their enemies. The son promised he would do so.

  “The nobles of House Wyval debated long what to do with the son and heir of House Sithmara. The young man was eighteen and full grown, but in the land of the elves, that is still considered to be a child and there is no crime more heinous among the elves than to slay a child, even the child of your enemy.”

  Jessan looked shocked at the idea of someone at age eighteen—his own age—being considered a child.

  “You must remember that the elven lifespan is two hundred years or longer,” said Arim by way of explanation. “An elf is not considered to come to manhood until he reaches the age of twenty-five years. Until then, he or she is dependent upon the parents and may not fight in battle or marry or have any say in politics.”

  “Tell about the kite,” Bashae said, brushing aside the strange ways of elves.

  “The nobles of House Wyval could not put the son to death, but they could exile him and that is what they did. They sent the young man and his mother to a small house on a small island in the middle of a vast lake. They were given a year’s supply of food and firewood and then left alone to fend for themselves. The nobles of House Wyval were very proud of having thought of this idea, for it saved them from having to go to the expense of locking the two in some fortress prison where they would have to pay guards to keep watch. The water of the lake was the guard, for it was icy cold and perilously deep and the shore was far, far distant, so far away that they could not see it. Once every year, the nobles of House Wyval sent another year’s supply of food and firewood, for they had left the prisoners no axes, for fear they would cut timber and build a boat. House Wyval meant to keep them captive for the rest of their lives.

  “Now, the mother and son had not been given axes, but they had been given knives to cut their food. To while away the hours of boredom that hung so heavily on her hands, the mother cut sticks from the trees and made herself a kite out of some of the paper used to wrap their food. She wrote prayers to the gods on the paper of the kite and, using string from the sacks of rice, she sent the kite with the prayers skyward, hoping that the wind would carry them to the ears of the gods. The gods heeded her prayers, for one day while she was flying the kite, her son was given the idea of building a kite big enough to carry one of them to freedom.”

  The Grandmother woke up and joined them in listening to the tale. Arim took the fish balls and dropped them one by one into the bubbling pot, taking care not to splash any of the hot oil.

  “They set to work the next day to build a gigantic kite, the likes of which had never been seen or imagined. They had to spoil some of the food in order to have enough paper and rope and they knew that, if this failed, they would starve. So certain were they that the gods were with them in this endeavor that they carried on.

  “The day came when the giant kite was finished. They had decided that the mother would travel with the kite, for she was lighter in weight than the son and they would need his strength to guide the kite and keep fast hold of the rope. He lashed his mother to the wooden cross-bars of the kite and the two bade each other the farewells of those who go to their deaths.

  “Then the mother and son cried out to the gods to hear them and answer their prayers. The gods did so, sending a great wind over the lake, a wind that blew strong and lifted the kite carrying the noble mother up into the air. The son guided the rope in his strong hands and soon the kite was nothing more than a speck in the air. He held on until his arms trembled with weariness and his hands were raw and bleeding. He lost sight of the kite and then, suddenly, the rope went slack. The kite had come down, but whether over land or over water, he had no way of knowing. For all he knew, his noble mother was dead and he would be alone on this island till the end of his days.

  “He kept track of time by cutting notches in a tree. The notches were many, went up and down the bark several times. Months passed and his hope began to wane. Then, one day, he was looking out over the water when he saw a boat. His heart beat fast, for this was not the time that his enemies were accustomed to bring them supplies. To make a long story short,” Arim said, “for the fish balls are cooked and should be eaten while they are hot, in the boat was his noble mother and soldiers loyal to House Sithmara. Led by his mother, the army had fought a great battle against House Wyval and were victorious. The son was freed and went on to become a gallant leader of his people, while his mother is still honored as the Lady of the Kite, the first elf to be given the gift of flight.”

  The Grandmother squatted on the floor, spread her bead skirt carefully around her.

  “Liars,” was her pronouncement. “But they mean well.”

  Arim ladled out the steaming fish balls, placing them in lacquered bowls decorated with pictures of flowers and beasts and filled with rice. Accustomed to roasted meat for every meal, Jessan had been dubious about eating this strange dish, but either he was extremely hungry or the fish balls were delicious, for he devoured several of them and when those were finished he was pleased to see Arim make more. He did not eat the rice, which he found gooey and tasteless.

  Jessan tried once again, in between fish balls, to tell Arim the story of Lord Gustav, the reason they had come. But Arim said that business was never discussed during meals, for it was harmful to the digestion. After he had cleaned up, he brewed tea made of rose hips and hibiscus. This he drank from a cup made of porcelain so thin that Bashae could see the firelight through it. He offered the tea to his guests. The Grandmother and Bashae accepted. Jessan declined, said he would drink nothing but water.

  “Now please tell me about Lord Gustav,” Arim said, “and why he has sent you to visit me.”

  Bashae told his tale. He would have started immediately with the fight by the lake, but Jessan, who liked things orderly, made him back up and tell how they had met the dwarf and to start from that point. Arim was a good listener. He kept his eyes fixed on Bashae and if he interrupted, it was only to ask for clarification of a detail.

  Bashae came to his favorite part of the tale. “The lake water bubbled and boiled. Lord Gustav stared into the lake, his sword drawn. He warned us that something evil was coming right behind him, and that he must fight it and we were to keep well away. Then there came out of the water a knight wearing black armor that was terrible to look upon. It was so horrible that I was more afraid than I’d ever been in my life. Even Jessan was afraid, weren’t you?”

  Jessan said defensively, “The knight told us we were wise to be afraid for the thing was a creature of the Void, a Vrykyl—”

  Arim sprang to his feet. His tea cup fell from his hand, landed on the carpet, so that it did not break, but the tea splashed over the Grandmother.

  “A Vrykyl,” Arim said in hollow tones. “Are you certain?”


  “Yes. We did not know that was the name of the Void warrior at the time, but the dwarf told us later.”

  “A Vrykyl following Gustav,” Arim said to himself. He bent down, picked up the empty tea cup and returned it to the counter. His hand was shaking. “Forgive my weakness. Please continue with your tale.”

  Bashae cast an uncertain look at Jessan, who shrugged, not knowing what to make of this. Bashae described Gustav’s battle with the Vrykyl and their own roles in it. Arim smiled to hear that they had helped the Dominion Lord to kill the vile creature, but his smile was tremulous and he sighed deeply.

  When Bashae came to the part about Jessan taking the Vrykyl’s armor, Arim looked at Jessan and the Nimorean no longer smiled. His face was serious and grave.

  “That was foolish,” he said quietly.

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?” Jessan demanded irritably. “It was good armor, the best I had ever seen. My uncle Raven said so.”

  “Where is the armor now?” Arim asked.

  Jessan was not going to answer. It wasn’t any of this man’s business.

  “Where is the armor now, Jessan?” Arim asked and the gravity in his voice compelled Jessan to reply.

  “My uncle Raven has it,” Jessan said. “He took it with him to Dunkar.”

  Arim said something in Nimorean.

  “What does that mean?” Jessan demanded.

  “I said, ‘May the gods be with him,’” Arim replied, his voice somber.

  Jessan flinched. He had discounted all notion that the armor could be evil. But now, after waking morning after morning from the debilitating nightmares, he was not so certain. Fear for his uncle chilled him, twisted his stomach so that the food he had eaten was suddenly cold, hard rock.

  “I didn’t know!” Jessan cried, jumping to his feet and pacing about the small room that seemed to be closing in on him. “It was just armor. Nothing more.” He yanked open the front door, took in breaths of air that was not fresh, for it smelled of the city, but at least relieved his feelings of being trapped and caged. “Nothing more.”

  He stood a while longer in the open doorway, then turned slowly to look back inside. The Grandmother stared into the flames. Bashae regarded him with pity and understanding. Arim’s face revealed nothing of what he was thinking. Jessan licked dry lips.

  “What could the armor do? How can armor be evil? It’s just armor, isn’t it?” he repeated.

  Arim sighed deeply. Rising to his feet, he walked over to where Jessan stood and laid his hand upon the young man’s arm. Ordinarily, Jessan did not like to be touched by anyone, especially a stranger. But the man’s hand was warm against Jessan’s chill skin, the man’s touch comforting.

  “What a heavy burden to lay upon one so young,” Arim said. “Still, the gods must have their reasons. Do not blame yourself, Jessan. You had no way of knowing. No, the armor of a Vrykyl is not merely armor. It is…their flesh, their bone, their skin. When the Vrykyl was slain, what happened? Inside the armor was nothing but dust, right?”

  “Yes,” said Jessan, amazed. “But how—”

  “How do I know? I know about Vrykyl. To my sorrow, I know about them. A Vrykyl is not a living being, Jessan. It is dead and has been dead for perhaps a hundred years or more. A Vrykyl is a corpse that has been given the semblance of life by the evil magic of the Void, magic that is embodied in its black armor. The armor and the Vrykyl can never be separated, any more than you could be separated from your own flesh. When the Vrykyl is destroyed, the corpse crumbles to dust. The armor retains the essence of the Vrykyl, the magic of the Void.”

  Jessan was appalled. “What would it do to my uncle?” he asked fearfully.

  “I don’t know,” Arim admitted. “I’ve never heard of anyone taking the armor of a Vrykyl, of anyone daring to do so.”

  Seeing Jessan’s distress, Arim said, more cheerfully, “Your uncle is a strong warrior, a man of sense. Let us believe that he found a way to rid himself of the accursed armor.”

  “But if he didn’t,” Jessan demanded, jerking free of Arim’s attempt to soothe him. “What could it do?”

  Jessan’s complexion was pale beneath his tan, his eyes were shadowed, haunted. He was afraid, and Arim realized suddenly that the fear was not all for the uncle. A suspicion came to Arim’s mind.

  “The armor is an artifact of the Void. It could draw another Vrykyl to your uncle. Or lure your uncle to one of them.”

  Jessan closed his eyes, leaned weakly against the door frame.

  “What have I done?” he muttered.

  Arim was alarmed, but he kept his voice calm. “What have you done, Jessan? Did”—he paused, thinking how best to phrase this— “did you take something else from the Vrykyl? Something you kept?”

  “Tell me,” Jessan said at last with a deep, shuddering sigh, “do the Vrykyl have…eyes of fire?”

  “Show me, Jessan,” Arim said softly.

  Jessan’s fingers wouldn’t seem to work properly. He fumbled at the sheath, fumbled to open it. His hand shook. He clenched his fist and, with a great effort, regained mastery over himself. He drew forth the bone knife and held it in his palm. He had once thought it sleek and delicate. Now it looked hideous.

  Bashae gasped and shrank back, as far from the knife as he could manage. Arim made no move to touch the knife. He looked down at it, looked back up at Jessan, whispered a blessing in Nimorean, then jerked Jessan back into the room. Leaning out the door, Arim searched intently up and down the street. He shut the door and bolted it and placed his back against it.

  “Do you know what you hold, Jessan?” Arim asked and realized the moment he asked the question that, of course, the young man did not. To him, it was a knife, nothing more. The Void exploited such innocence. “The Vrykyl maintain their unhallowed existence by feeding on the souls of living beings. The knife you hold is called a ‘blood’ knife. When the victim has been claimed by the Void and transformed into a Vrykyl, the first action of the Vrykyl is to make a knife…out of his own bone.”

  Jessan stared, horrified. But did he truly understand?

  “They use the knife to murder their victims,” Arim said relentlessly. “To steal their souls.”

  Arim did not want to inflict more harm on this young man, yet he must understand the truth of what he had done. “In addition, the Vrykyl use this knife to communicate with each other, to keep in contact. They can speak to each other through the knife. Jessan, has this knife drawn blood?”

  “Not human blood,” Jessan said in a shaken voice. Sweat soaked his leather tunic. He wiped his forehead with his hand. “I didn’t know. How could I?”

  “But it has tasted blood?” Arim persisted.

  “I killed a rabbit…” Jessan gasped for air, glanced around as if he could claw his way through a wall. “Maybe a couple. I don’t know. That’s when the eyes started looking for me. Eyes of fire. And the hoofbeats. I can’t sleep. The ground shakes with them. Don’t you hear…”

  Jessan lunged forward and tossed the knife into the fire. Shrinking back, he grasped his right hand with his left, stared down at the palm. “It moved!” he gasped, panting. “I felt it twist in my hand like it was alive. It is evil. Cursed. Let it burn.”

  “I am afraid—” Arim began.

  “Silence!” the Grandmother said sharply and, at her command, all of them were quiet, even Jessan, though his harsh breathing echoed loudly in the small house.

  The Grandmother had taken no part in the conversation. She sat at her ease on the carpet, staring intently into the flames of the fire.

  The bone knife lay on the glowing embers in the hottest part of the fire. The flames licked it, but could not consume it. The fire did the knife no damage. Staring at the knife, the Grandmother began to sing.

  The song was in Twithil, the language of the pecwae, that usually had a merry, carefree sound, reminding the listener of the twittering of birds. But Twithil had its dark side, too, for the pecwae live close to nature and know that nature can
be cruel, without compassion for weakness or care for innocence. The owl’s sharp beak tears apart the mouse; the blue jay cracks the shells of the robin, devours the unborn; spiders build webs to trap butterflies. The Grandmother’s song was eerie—the hooting of the owl, the harsh caw of the jay, the frantic beating of the butterfly’s wings. As she sang, she pointed.

  The others gathered near, stared into the flames.

  A figure of darkness rode on horseback. Black armor reflected the light of the flames. Orange fire burned in the eye slits of the helm. The horse’s hoofbeats were soft, muffled, but the hoofbeats were constant, did not stop.

  “The Vrykyl!” said Bashae, awed. “The one the knight killed.”

  “No,” said Arim. “This is another. He has tasted blood through the blood knife.”

  “He’s coming after me, isn’t he?” Jessan whispered. “He’s coming to get the knife.”

  “So it would seem,” Arim said. Reaching for the tongs, he gingerly lifted the blood knife, took it out of the fire, and dropped it into the coal scuttle. “These flames will not harm it. I doubt if even the sacred fires of Mount Sa ’Gra could destroy it.” He looked with new respect at the Grandmother.

  “I did not know pecwae magic was so strong,” he said, bowing in apology in case he offended.

  “The stick saw him coming,” the Grandmother said, placing her hand reverently upon the stick decorated with the agate eyes. “They saw the evil, but they did not know what to make of it.”

  She gestured at the knife in the coal scuttle. “If this Warrior of Darkness wants the knife, give it to him. Then he will go away and leave Jessan in peace.”

  “I agree, Grandmother,” said Arim politely. “Unfortunately, the matter is not that simple. Now that we know the worst, we can prepare for it. The knife must never taste blood again. The knife itself draws him. When it kills, it speaks to him, cries out to him. It is as if your friend, Bashae, were lost in a cave. You know he went into the cave and you have a general idea where to find him, but the search is easier if he shouts to you and you can follow the sound of his voice. That is what the knife does when it tastes blood. It shouts loudly for any Vrykyl to hear.”