Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  “You seem to know a lot about these creatures,” Jessan said accusingly. He was starting to recover from his shock, the horror and the fright. Shamed by his weakness, he felt the need to regain ground that had been lost.

  “Yes, I do,” said Arim coolly. “But that is another story. Now I would like to hear the rest of your story, Bashae. Lord Gustav sent you to me. Why? Where is he? Why could he not come himself?”

  “He is dead,” said the Grandmother. “There was a great battle for his soul, but do not worry. The Trevenici fought at his side and his soul was saved. The Void did not take him.”

  “I thank your people for that, Jessan,” said Arim. Hands clasped, he lowered his eyes, said a prayer in his heart. “Lord Gustav was my friend. A brave and true knight. He had one lifelong quest—”

  Arim halted what he had been about to say. Could that be true? Could that be the reason? It made sense, but, if so, the gods help them. The gods help him!

  “Please, Bashae, continue your story,” Arim said, trying to still the sudden rapid beating of his heart. He blessed his dark complexion for he could feel the hot blood mount to his face and he did not want to show his agitation.

  “Before Lord Gustav died, he asked me if I would take a love token to give to his sweetheart, an elf he called Lady Damra.”

  Bashae drew forth the knapsack as he spoke. Opening the knapsack, he brought out the silver ring set with the purple stone. “It’s an amethyst.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Arim, examining the ring. He recognized it, knew it to be Gustav’s. But the ring was a family heirloom, of little value. Gustav would not have sent a messenger on a long and perilous journey to deliver an amethyst ring. Nor would a Vrykyl chase after a family heirloom. “Is there anything else in the knapsack?”

  “No,” said Bashae, and Arim’s disappointment was acute.

  “Did Lord Gustav give you nothing else? Tell you nothing else?” Arim asked.

  “No-o-o…” Bashae drew out the word, squirmed beneath Arim’s dark-eyed gaze.

  “Ah!” Arim drew breath, understanding. “There is something more, but Lord Gustav said you were not to tell anyone except the Lady Damra. I won’t ask you to reveal his secret. I would not have you break your vow.”

  “Lord Gustav said you could take us to the elf lady. He said that the elves would not let us into their country, but that you could make them let us in.”

  “Yes, I can gain you entry and I will serve as your guide. I have traveled much in elven lands. The Lady Damra is a friend of mine.” Arim understood everything, or so he imagined. “You have done well, Bashae. Lord Gustav chose a brave and faithful messenger.”

  “The gods chose the messengers,” said the Grandmother. “Both of them. Him.” She gave a bird-like nod at Bashae. “And him.” She gave another nod at Jessan. “They are meant to travel together.”

  Arim cast her a sharp glance. She had read his thoughts apparently, for at that very moment, he had been thinking how to separate the two. He intended to proceed into Tromek with Bashae and the Grandmother, leave Jessan among his warrior friends. Arim would warn them that the young man was in danger and that he should be guarded day and night. Jessan would never be safe so long as he carried the blood knife and Arim knew of no way Jessan could rid himself of the cursed Void artifact.

  Arim owed his knowledge of the Vrykyl to Damra’s husband Griffith, who was one of the Wyred, an elven sorcerer. The Wyred are required to be knowledgeable about all forms of magic and the last time Arim had visited the Lady Damra and her husband, two years previous, Griffith had been deeply involved in the study of Vrykyl.

  The elves had extensive records on these Void knights, better than even those held by the Temple of the Magi in New Vinnengael, for the elves had gleaned their information from a first-hand source, one who had witnessed the creation of the Vrykyl, whereas all the others took their accounts from stories of those who had survived the destruction of Old Vinnengael.

  Arim recalled the conversation as clearly now as if Griffith were seated beside him. He had thought little of it then, but it came back to him with dark foreboding.

  Why do you study these Vrykyl when no one has paid attention to them for two hundred years? Arim had asked.

  Because we have been warned to do so, Griffith had replied.

  “We should sleep now,” said the Grandmother. “I take it we’ll make an early start in the morning, Kite Maker?” She cocked an eye at him, looking very much like an inquisitive sparrow.

  Arim ceased his wool gathering, came back to the present. “Start where? For what? Oh…you mean that we will start for Tromek tomorrow.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid that is impossible. I must speak to the elven ministers. We must obtain documents permitting us to travel in elven lands. Without them, we would be subject to arrest.”

  “A waste of time,” Jessan exclaimed. “We have the ring. We have Lord Gustav’s instructions. He told us to take this to this elf lady. Why do we need these—whatever you call them?”

  “Documents. The elves are very careful about those they permit to enter their country. Especially humans. They think that all humans are there to spy on them. I have to convince them otherwise. The elves trust my people, as much as they can trust those of another race. Believe me,” said Arim, guessing what was in Jessan’s mind, “if you went to the border and attempted to enter on your own, they would stop you and probably imprison you.”

  “How long then?” Jessan demanded.

  Weeks, Arim was about to say, but then he remembered the Vrykyl. “I will do what I can to convince them of the urgency,” he replied, wondering despairingly just how he was going to do that without revealing the truth. Elven bureaucrats were not noted for their quickness of thought or the depth of their perception. They actually went out of their way to be obtuse.

  “Days, perhaps. Maybe three or four. I have a friend in the ministry, but he may not be there or he may be busy. I will have to see. You can sleep in my room in the back,” Arim added, rising to go prepare for their rest. “Make yourselves comfortable. Do not be alarmed if you hear me wandering about, for I am often up late. And I will probably be gone when you wake in the morning.” He looked intently at Jessan. “For your own safety and that of your friends, I advise you not to leave my dwelling place.”

  Jessan muttered something and Arim had the feeling that his warning had fallen on deaf ears. He could do no more, short of locking them in the house, and he doubted if that would stop the Trevenici.

  Jessan and Bashae went to the sleeping room, Bashae lugging the knapsack with him. Before she left, the Grandmother placed the stick with the agate eyes over the top of the coal scuttle.

  “There,” she said. “The eyes will keep watch. The Warrior of Darkness is still far away.”

  “But getting closer,” said Arim.

  “Yes.” The Grandmother sighed. “That is true. Is there no way to stop him?”

  “None that I know of. Perhaps the elves might. They loathe the Void and all things pertaining to it. We might be safer in elven lands, but I do not even know that for certain.”

  The Grandmother beckoned him with a finger. Arim stood almost six feet tall, the Grandmother was nearer four. He bent down, his face near to hers.

  “The Warrior of Darkness is not after the amethyst, is he?” she asked in a hissing whisper.

  “No,” Arim confirmed softly, unable to lie to her. “He is not.”

  “He follows us for the bone knife?”

  “I don’t think so. I believe there is something more. The secret Lord Gustav shared only with Bashae.” Arim spoke hesitantly. “Jessan places you and Bashae in peril.”

  “Don’t tell me,” said the Grandmother caustically. She pointed toward the heavens. “Tell the gods. They are the ones who chose him. Why do you think I decided to come along? Someone had to keep an eye on them.”

  Bidding Arim good-night, she gave the agate stick a final pat and an admonition to keep close watch and clicked and jingled her
way to the sleeping chamber.

  Arim doused the fire, so that the light would not disturb them, and poured himself a cup of honey wine from a flagon. He sat long, sipping the wine and staring at the dying embers, pondering what to say to the elven ministers, what to do about Jessan and the blood knife.

  He reached a decision with the end of the wine. Rinsing out the cup so that the residue would not attract ants, he put away the cup and the flagon and went to check on his guests.

  They were all asleep, deeply asleep. Bashae slept curled in a ball, one arm looped through the strap of the knapsack. Jessan slept fitfully, jerking and tossing on his mat. The Grandmother snored and snuffled. The little silver bells rang softly every time she moved.

  Returning to the main room, Arim spread out his sleeping mat in front of the door. Opening an ornate chest decorated in ivory that stood in one corner, he removed a curved-bladed sword. He lay down in front of the door, the naked blade near his hand.

  He lay awake, stared into the darkness. If he was correct, the most valuable artifact in all of Loerem had just come into his possession, his care. Arim fell asleep at last, but he did not sleep well.

  Bashae awoke to darkness. For long moments, he was disoriented, couldn’t recall where he was or why he was here. Memory returned and with it a knowledge of his surroundings and with that the fear he’d felt last night. He lay on his pallet, staring into the darkness, wondering if it was the middle of the night or somewhere near dawn. He had just decided it must be night when he heard a bird chirp, reminding potential rivals that this was her nesting site and to keep away. She received a sleepy sounding response and then it seemed that the entire bird community was awake, their voices blending so that Bashae lost track of the various conversations.

  The darkness in the room faded to gray. He glanced over at Jessan’s mat and was not surprised to see it was empty. Hearing soft footsteps, Bashae swiftly closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Jessan would be astonished to find his usually late-sleeping friend already awake. He would ask questions and Bashae didn’t want to provide answers, mainly because he didn’t have answers.

  Bashae gave what he considered a very realistic start and grumble when Jessan shook him. Rolling over, blinking his eyes, Bashae yawned and said sleepily, “What time is it?”

  “Dawn.”

  “Dawn! Go away.” Bashae rolled back over. He truly hoped Jessan would leave. Not that Bashae wanted to go back to sleep. He couldn’t do that. He wanted time to himself, time to think.

  Jessan was persistent, however. Once he got an idea in his head, he never let go.

  “Get up, you sloth!” he said. “I need your help.”

  Bashae sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Help? Help to do what?”

  Jessan cast a glance at the slumbering Grandmother. “Not here.”

  Sighing deeply, Bashae rose to his feet and followed Jessan out to the main room. The fire had gone out, leaving only a pile of feathery ashes.

  Bashae looked around. “Arim?” he called out softly.

  “He’s not here,” said Jessan and his voice was grim.

  “Why do you say it like that?” Bashae asked. He liked the Nimorean, liked his soft voice and his gentle demeanor, liked to watch him move. “He said he’d be gone before we were awake.”

  “I don’t trust him,” Jessan muttered.

  “You Trevenici don’t trust anyone,” Bashae pointed out. “You’re just angry because…”

  Jessan rounded on him. “Because of what?”

  “Nothing,” said Bashae. Sometimes words have points sharp as knives. Such words can draw heart’s blood and leave scars that will never heal. “What is it you woke me up to do?”

  Jessan walked over to the coal scuttle, pointed down at it. “I want you to pick up that stick.”

  “Why?” Bashae wondered, coming over to join his friend.

  “I want the knife,” Jessan said. “That is—I don’t want it,” he added, answering Bashae’s look of astonishment. “But I have to have it. If you must know, I’m going to get rid of it.”

  Bashae’s spirits lifted. “Are you? What will you do with it?”

  “I thought about it last night. I’m going to take it to the Temple our friends told us about.”

  “I think it’s a good idea, Jessan,” said Bashae, adding hesitantly, “But the Trevenici said only the Nimoreans are allowed in the Temple—”

  “The gods chose me,” said Jessan. “They can deal with it. I’ve staked my soul.”

  At this juncture, Bashae knew better than to argue. Once a Trevenici “stakes his soul,” he will do what he says or die in the attempt.

  “Do you know how to find the Temple? All these streets—” Bashae made a helpless gesture.

  “Sharp Sword told me that there is one street called Queen’s Row that runs through the center of Myanmin. The street leads from the wharves to the south to the temple in the north and goes past the military barracks. He told me about it in case I wanted to join them later. That street is only six streets west of Kite Makers Street. All we have to do is to find it and follow it north to the temple.”

  “Won’t Arim be worried when he comes back and sees that we’re gone?”

  “The Grandmother will be here,” Jessan said shortly. “He knows we wouldn’t go off and leave her.”

  Bashae thought this over and decided it sounded logical. He picked up the stick with the eyes. Jessan started to reach into the scuttle, to take the knife. He paused, straightened up, glared at the stick.

  “Move it away,” he ordered.

  “But, Jessan—”

  “I don’t like it watching me.”

  Hiding his smile, Bashae carried the stick into the room where the Grandmother lay sleeping. He laid the stick down beside her hand. Mumbling to herself, she reached out, rested her hand on the stick and smiled in her sleep.

  “There,” Bashae said, returning. “It can’t see you.”

  Jessan reached into the coal scuttle and, after a moment’s hesitation, snatched up the knife. Grimacing, he thrust the knife swiftly into a leather pouch that he used to hold flints for making fires. His forehead was covered with sweat. He was pale around the lips.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Intent on not losing their way, both looked at the road ahead. Neither thought to look behind.

  * * *

  A devout people, the Nimoreans regularly consult the gods before almost any undertaking that is likely to have an effect on their lives. The gods are seen by the Nimoreans to take an active role in all aspects of life, from family affairs to business matters. The Nimorean Queen is also High Priestess, both political leader and spiritual.

  The Myanmin Temple was located in the northern part of the city and was one of the oldest structures in the city, having been among the first to be built when the exiled Nimrans made their way north some three hundred years ago.

  The street Jessan and Bashae followed ended at the city wall. A gate led through the wall into a pine forest. As they were about to enter beneath the tall trees, Bashae halted.

  “What?” Jessan demanded.

  “This forest is old,” Bashae said, awed. “Old and magical. Can’t you feel it? It makes my fingertips tingle.”

  “It’s dark enough, that’s for sure,” said Jessan, eyeing the forest uneasily. “Does it seem angry?”

  Bashae considered. “No, not at the moment. But I think it could be angry, if it wanted to be.”

  Jessan heaved a great sigh. “We’ve come this far…” His face dark, he plunged into the forest. Bashae followed, after nearly breaking his neck in an attempt to see to the very tops of the tall pines.

  All along their route, people cast curious glances at the pair, some even pausing involuntarily to stare at the pecwae. The Nimoreans are a polite people, however, and no one interfered with them.

  The two walked beneath the pine trees. Jessan ranged far ahead and kept gesturing impatiently to Bashae, who meandered along beneath the thick shadows, inhaling
the sharp scent and running his hands through the pine boughs.

  They emerged from the pine trees to see a wondrous sight, a sight that few others besides Nimoreans ever beheld. An area of green grass soft and smooth as silk encircled a vast canyon carved of magic and loving hands. The temple structure, built entirely below ground, was a half mile across and a half-mile deep. The top rim of the temple wall was made of granite that was carved in the shapes of animals, done in relief. It was said that every animal known to walk Loerem was represented in the carvings, all many times larger than life and so realistic that the lion seemed ready to pounce and the fawn ready to toddle off on unsteady legs.

  Below the border of animals was a border done all of birds and winged creatures and below that were the fish and the animals who live in the sea. Interspersed among all the animals were the plants of the world and the sea.

  At each of the four cardinal points was a dragon, one for each of the elements: earth, air, fire and water. The stone dragons kept watch over the stairs that led down into the Temple.

  Nimorean males stood guard. Chosen for their height and stature and courage in battle, every one of them stood well over six feet five inches tall, with powerful arms and broad chests. They wore immense helmets, decorated with black feathers, that made them appear even taller. Each was clad in shining bronze armor of ancient design, but modern make. Each held a painted shield as big as he was and an enormous spear, also decorated with feathers. They held the spears together, tip-to-tip, to form an entryway through which every person seeking admittance into the temple had to pass. The guards said no word to anyone approaching the stairs, but looked over each with keen, glittering eyes.

  The guards spotted Jessan and Bashae the moment the two walked out of the tree line. The guards’ eyes flicked back to them constantly, never letting them out of their sight.

  Jessan knew that if the gods did not dwell here, they were frequent guests. His steps slowed. The knowledge of his terrible burden weighted him down so that it seemed he wore shoes of iron.